This Isn't The End (Original Short)

He didn't remember the shell exploding. Didn't feel the explosion take his arm and legs below the knee. He didn't remember the trip to the hospital. He did remember the ride, the cold beach, the sounds of the machine guns like drums in the air.

He remembered his rifle kicking in his hands, the clip's 'Ping' as it flew out before his eyes, telling him he'd spent that one dry. He didn't know if he'd hit anything or anyone, but he was trying. The training they gave him only took him so far and the fear was heavy in his veins, fueling him to run through the foamy surf turning more and more red with each passing moment. The giant steel crosses on the beach meant to overturn tanks provided him with minimal cover from the enemies heavy fire blanketing the beach. He adjusted his helmet to take a look at how far he was from the bunkers that had been created from the shells falling periodically on the black sand. He was far and his uniform was heavy from the water he had to wade through. Although he was grateful for the opportunity, most of his squad had been hit heavy and the back of the transport was red with their remains.

With the decision fresh and pulsing in his mind he ignored the steel behind him's constant ringing from rounds and ran, towards his captain and the remainder of his squad. The leather strap under his chin bit and chaffed his skin, but he ignored it. Bullets flew through the air and at him, some bright orange, like lethal fireflies screaming at speeds too fast for him to comprehend. His boot caught something and he fell face first, tasting the black sand mixed with blood and salt water. He looked down at what could've tripped him up. What he saw would forever change him: Another soldier, ripped open, his entrails spilled. Thick, red blood ran down the beach towards the ocean. The man was no older than 18, the age of his brother, but where life should have been in those baby blue was nothing but pale death. The boy's skin was now pale and lacked pigment, his eyes were sunken and mouth hung open. Eyes stared at nothing, through the man that had tripped on his body, and into the sky and beyond.

Still shaking from the shock he stood up and ran again, trying to make it to the rest of his squad. That's when the shell hit. Percussive and heavy, right next to him. There was a moment of silence and clarity as he waited for what he knew was the next thing to come. Then it did. He was blinded and deafened. He knew pain should have ran through his body and driven insane by the intensity of it. But it never came. Nothing came. Nothing at all. Blackness and silence. Then his eyes opened. And hovering before his face was a blonde beauty with a big smile and gorgeous blue eyes. He could barely feel the gauze that was keeping him together. Then she noticed his eyes had opened and gave him a beaming smile, "Hi, there, my name is Nurse Nightingale. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."

An Immortals Tale: Part 6

The Man In The Black Suit
Part 6
"It's Only Stupid If It Doesn't Work"

Jon's body was slow to move, taking it's time to react to the giant sword coming down on him. Even his mind seemed to have taken a small break at this more than crucial moment, not bringing forth anything that was of any use at all. In fact he had to remind himself later why he was thinking of recipes for potato salad later, but now he had to act fast. He did the only thing he figured he could do: Work a hunch. Many years ago Jon heard that even a holy man could control the most demonic of creatures with a gesture of a hand and the right incantation. He dismissed it as stupid. Now he racked his brain to figure out what the incantation was. The whole idea seemed ubsurd but he thought after a second, 'It's only stupid if it doesn't work."

His hand shot out, missing the descending blade by a breath and he made the sign of the cross, backwards. Down to up, right to left, then he shouted as quickly as he could while still being understandable, "Creature of the inferno in the name of The Lord I hereby command thee!" His hand was still pointing at the creature, his eyes wide, muscles tense as rocks, and a heavy sword resting it's razor sharp edge against the crown of his head, just above his hair. The world was paused. Then the sword lifted and the demon before him began to take a knee, begrudgingly as it was, but it complied. Jon laughed like a madman while he scrambled to his feet, trying to get the chalky, white dust off his suit. He squatted before the creature and adjusted his hair, his grey eyes focused intensely.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those sand grains out of a suit like this? We're going to have a little chat now. Depending on your answers you could either walk away from this or your people can come collect you with a sponge." The demon's eyes were filled with hate and ire, staring at the imoortal as it had to obey every word it was told. "Y....Y-yes....Master..." Jon nodded and let the conversation between two things that should not be begin.

"Who sent you?"
"My clan."
"For revenge?"
"For the honor of justice."
"Because I killed your brother, was it?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Did you know your brother along with five others were at a place with a copy of the Devil's bible and the Spear of Tristen?"
The creature hit it's first wall, "......No. But he was doing his duty to-"
"To the one who abandoned your kind here? To the one that cast you out to be slaughtered on the end of the swords of people like me?"
"........There are things you do not understand..."
"Oh? Like the fact that your kind gets promised a thousand times a day to be sent hom in exchange for your servitude? Or that the Templars still hunt you?"
"Like you know anything, puny human!"
"I'm not human. Far from it. I'm older than your entire race. And I know the promises and the subjugation that your kind has suffered, as well. What's your name?"
"....Krevwath....."
"Okay, Krevwath. Here's the sixty thousand dollar question: What do you know about the ones buying up all the realty the old graveyards stand on?"
"Only one thing...."
"Go on."
"They're human."

Jon stood up and nodded his head, his hand coming up to rub his smoothly shaved chin, deep in thought. Humans mean more trouble than misguided demons and their silly, ancient beliefs. And now he had a solid clue to stand upon as well as the addresses of the graveyards. Money had to be flowing as well as the land moving. He needed to speak to a banker. Usually there'd be some odd nomenclenture that came with the entire banker premise, but this time it was just a banker. Then the issue of the giant, horned, revenge seeking demon at his feet came back around.

Again he squatted before Krevwath and looked deep into the burnt brown eyes of the demon, "You'll not get your revenge today. Or any day. For that matter you no longer serve the one below. You serve me. Now. Go back to your normal life before this quest and I'll summon you when I need you, Krevwath. This is not a mercy. This is my way of showing you the truth of what it is you're claiming to want. Stand and go forth." Jon stood up as did the demon. It stared at Jon for a while then sneered and snorted it's disapproval for all the things Jon had just said. Then it turned, sheathed the giant sword, and walked away.

'Zealots.' Jon thought. 'They make the world blind.' Jon restarted his inturrupted walk to the curb again and his phone chimed, alerting him of new messages. Fingers now wide awake with adrenaline and a mind working a million miles an hour pulled the phone out and checked the newly received news. It was an email from Ricky, the vampiric bartender, with the subject line "Brutal Murder On Capital Street". Jon's face twisted into a puzzled expression as he opened the message and read the first line. Then he froze. The line was plain and easy to read and Jon knew what it meant
.
"Michael Larotche, private banker, gunned down in front of business on capital street."
For once the immortal was behind the line, the enemy a step ahead. And that's never a good way to start a fight. If humanity stood a chance Jon needed to even the odds, and quick. He'd need more than a vial of holy water to do it, so he closed the email and switched to his contact list, scrolled down and hit dial. "Hey there, Peter. I'm going to need some stuff. Be there tonight." He flagged down a passing cab and hung up on the contact named 'Armory'.

The Lady or The Rifle? (Original Short)

She remembered watching them as they entered, guns ready, masks drawn down, voices powerful. Watched as her workers ignored her, she was just an innocent bystander which they'd take hostage, after they'd robbed the bank, of course. All according to plan. The four of them all pushed and bullied the rest of the bank tenants to the floor and her as well, gathering money and getting ready for the final phase: Escape. She remembered the bags so heavy, the M-16 rifles they had, unfired, the entire crowd terse and cooperative.

Then she remembered HIM. He rose from his knees, like a shadow rising during sunset, clad all in black, hands still above his head. She remembers her worker grabbing her and forcing her to her feet, but she couldn't take her eyes off HIM. Then one of the other men approached him and told him to stay down. Or he would have if he had been able to finish the second word. She remembered the speed, the veracity, the power which the man in black moved with. One second her four guys are in control and the next He is attacking like a well trained warrior, wise to the chase. 

The first of her men went down in a flurry of limbs as the magazine from his rifle struck the man holding her in the face, she swears she remembers bones cracking before he slumped to the floor, screaming. The third took aim, but didn't have a chance to fire, the man in black whipped his hand out and with a flash of metal there was a knife stuck through her third man's hand, which gave Him the opportunity to close the gap and put her third down and retrieve his knife. Her fourth man rushed over and grabbed her arm hard, she didn't notice because she couldn't stop looking at Him, he made threatening remarks and brandished his rifle every which way. 

She remembered the tip of the rifle being pushed against her ribs, then she remembers the warm spray of blood across her face. His long arm gently and swiftly lifting and turning her away from the grizzly sight he had just created as the body of her man fell to the ground. It was then and only then she was able to look into his eyes, light blue, sad yet jovial, gentle and fierce all at the same time, aged years beyond his youthful face. She plopped down on her bottom when he ever so gently set her down, right before he smiled and rendered the last of her men unconscious. Weeks later she'd found out everything about him. He was a no one. In the bank that day by accident, he disarmed the whole situation and killed one of the masked robbers, essentially saving her life. Not knowing that she was their ring leader all along. And not knowing He'd just cost her hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Still. She couldn't stop thinking about Him. The way he moved, the violence he wrought with the same gentle hands he used to cradle her away from the horror. She was a professional thief and Violence was a regular part of her life, but He was different. Then the weight of the money came into mind, a single job with a very large payout all gone in His swift actions. Her men demanded freedom and pay. So now she sits in her office staring at a text message, unsure of her answer, "Do we kill him or bring him to you?" She tried so hard to figure out why she kept thinking of Him, why her mind kept returning to that moment when she was in his arms, why she could remember the way he smelled. She looked at the screen and typed an answer then hit send. She gently put her phone on her desk and sat back, deep in thought and waited.

An Immortals Tale: Part 5

The man in the black suit

Part 5 

"Sword Fights Are For Romans"

He Waited a long time, the man in the black suit, longer than he thinks he should have. Another sunless day with grey clouds greeted him as he walked out his door, the seven automatic locks clicking shut behind him. With something as big as trying to merge the three kingdoms people behind this would be looking to do a few things and real estate was number one. Can't raise an army of they have somewhere to stand. 

Although he didn't need to Jon enjoyed eating and drinking all the flavors of the world, so on such a big discovery and the possibilities of a lot of people dying he decided to spoil himself a little bit. On a crowded corner of his city there was a very special place for him: Jim's Hot Dog Stand. "A special with everything on it, my good sir." Jon's smile made the very tall and skinny man smile in return, "Jon! Oh this must be a special day if your here. One special with everything coming right up." Jon waited patiently, hoping for rain, for some reason. Jim handed the paper wrapped confection to his customer and refused the money Jon was trying to hand him. 

Jon smiled and sighed, "Really?" Jim's smile was almost child like in innocence. "Okay." Jon thought for a minute then snapped his fingers, "Ah. Okay. There was no second gunner. Oswald acted alone." Jim iclapped once and laughed out loud. "I knew it! Thanks, Jon!" The two men smiled and shook hands and parted ways. 

The tasty treat was quickly devoured and he kept walking. He took out his phone and sent several emails and text messages, some purposefully sent to the wrong recipients to provoke the right reactions. As soon as the mobile device slipped back into his pocket it started chiming and sounding alerts of emails and text messages being received. Jons grey eyes sparkled with mischief and a sly smile crept across his face. Today would be eventful. 

He had to buy time to let the pot stir so he stopped by a local coffee shop. As he stood in line to get his third favorite beverage of choice he checked the contents of his pockets to make sure that he had all he needed. Vial of holy water? Check. Rosary made of the bones of saints? Check. Pocket bible? Check. Gloves of the great alchemist Mikhael? Check. Double mocha coffee with extra espresso? Check. Time to see the messages he's gotten. 

Two denials, three 'have no idea', and five with fingers pointing to one name: Scud. Jon didn't answer the messages, just to keep the pressure up. But. He had a destination and a name. He polished off his coffee and left a generous tip as he walked out. Luckily one of the messages had an address providing a door to knock on. Or kick down. Either way he'd be doing it with a smile. And depending on his reception an apology. 

Outside in the cold air Jon stood still and let the wind wash over him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the chill atmosphere of the city around him fill his lungs. He let it out slow and hailed a cab, enjoying it all. Inside the cab he gave the address and sat still for the 45 minute ride, his body still slightly chilled from the outside. Grey eyes watched the city change from behind the window of the back seat, the cabbie not wanting to make conversation and Jon more than fine with that. 

The streets changed from the crowded and bustling city to that of warehouses and empty bays of half destroyed buildings. He tried hard not to let his mind wander to memories of his life, instead saying small prayers and going through all the ways to defend himself from demons and all the beasties that could be waiting for him. 

47 minutes after he stepped into the cab it slowed to a stop at his destination. Jon handed the man his fare and again tipped heavily. His expensive shoes landed on a gravel road in front of that seemed to be an old garage. The large door and the skeletons of old cars around the premise giving reason to believe garage. The immortal took a moment to gather himself and steady his nerves then approached the door. The handle gave way and the door swung in. 

Inside there stood a single counter with car parts scattered across it, the walls decorates with nails holding various belt loops and fans, and a single person behind the wooden barrier with car signs all over it. He was a tall man, taller than Jon, with a thin and bony frame, an almost shaved head and a prominent nose between two bright purple eyes. The man held up his hands in a surrendering pose and spoke first, "Look, man, I know who you are and I don't want nothing to do with you!" Jon smiled suspiciously and closed the door behind him, walking towards the counter and letting the nervous man do all the talking. 

The man with the name "Scud" sewn on his mechanics shirt backed up hurriedly and nearly tripped over a chair. "I'm serious man, I don't know anything." Jon let his grey eyes lock on the man and kept a stern look on his face. "Come on, man! I'm just a mechanic, here! I got nothing!" The immortal didn't budge. "Alright! Alright! I'll tell you what I know! Just don't...melt me or anything." Jon gestured for the man to sit down at the counter and the man obliged, albeit very nervously. 

"Start singing, Scud." And he did. "Okay. There's some weird stuff going on in the underworld. Like, a lot of new faces trying to buy old relics. And a group of...demons, not like me, man, but real bad dudes, trying to buy up old graveyards." As he spoke he dry-washed his grimy hands over and over, "My garage here is on top of this old....miners graveyard or something and they came here and tried to buy it. I couldn't sell it cause it's the only place my kind can live, and they got mean with me. They started threatening and smashing stuff and so I compromised with them." Jon leaned in and put a bit of authority in his voice, "Compromised how?" 

Scud was taken aback a little bit, nervousness pouring off him in waves, "I told them a list of old graveyards they could probably buy up. That's it, man! I swear!" Jon nodded, seemingly half satisfied with the information, "Okay, Scud, because you're going to write down that same list for me I won't have to subject you to the old method of getting cooperation: A sword duel. And I must warn you. I'm an expert." The mechanic nodded enthusiastically and brought a piece of paper around and started writing quickly. After he was done he handed the information over and quickly backed away from Jon's hand reaching for it. 

The list was folded up and Jon started walking towards the door, ready to exit when Scud's voice came from behind, "Hey...were you really gonna hack me up in a sword fight or something?" Jon paused at the door and turned back, a big smile on his face, "Of course not. Sword fights are for Romans." He stepped out and slammed the door behind himself, proud of not having to resort to violence. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and began answering all those messages he received, sending an 'All clear' to the recipients. 

As he hit 'Send' on the last message and tucked the phone back into his pocket movement ahead of him caught his eye. He looked up just in time to receive a heavy fist to his left cheek so powerful it lifted him off his feet and sent him back a few feet. After Jon coughed out the white dirt from his lungs that the impact sent flying he tried to focus his vision and looked down his body at the owner of the big hand. 

There stood a hooded demon, horns and a flat, pig face barely visible under the heavy robes. Pain radiated slowly from Jon's now bruised cheek to other parts of his face and he struggled to listen to the words that came from the creature. "For my brother fallen under your hand I will eat your soul, immortal." Jon's face twisted with pain as he tried to recover himself, trying to focus his blurred vision on the method of the next attack. 

Metal sung as the beast drew a scimitar from underneath the heavy robes and started closing the distance between itself and the immortal on the ground. Jon's body was still swimming with pain when the demon lifted the heavy blade above its head. 

The Boy, The Girl, and The Wall (Short Original)

Once there were a boy and a girl. They never knew of each other because they lived on opposite sides of a giant wall. Both of them were lonely and hurt, seeking comfort. And each night they would both walk along this great wall looking for something, anything that would take their minds off the pain of being at home and dealing with the tragedies they lived through daily. It was a while, many, many months that they would walk the wall and listen for something.

One night in the middle of the endless and infinite wall the boy found a hole in the giant and so did the girl. The same hole. They could look across and see the other. Each stared wide eyed and smiling at the other, not believing that they'd found each other. They said their names and talked for hours and hours, the sun setting and rising with them still smiling at each other. With a sad smile they said goodbye for the day and went back to their lives, but promising to come back to the hole in the wall to talk to each other.

Suddenly the days didn't feel so long, their problems not so huge, their lives not so empty. And so it went. Each night the boy and the girl would meet at their hole and discus everything they could until as late as they could stand. And every time they said goodbye they would promise to see the other the next day. So bewildered they were by each other they would share all they were, all their secrets, their fears. She would write pretty poems for him and he'd sing to her, their relationship growing by the day.

Then one day, while not saying a thing and simply enjoying the company they gave each other the boy confessed he loved her. The girl cried tears of joy and said she loved him, too. And for a time they lived as much as they could at that little hole in that incredible wall as high as the sky and as long as the horizon, telling each other how much they loved the other.

Then the girl had to stop coming to their hole everyday. Although the boy would wait as long as he physically could sometimes she wouldn't come for days, her life had changed, her time was needed elsewhere. He vowed to never let her forget that he loved her. He wrote love notes and left them for her, every day as they had before. Sometimes the notes would pile up to a few at a time, other times they were gone. Once or so a week they'd be able to see each other, tell each other their lives and discuss the future and the past. But more often than not the boy would leave a note, making her feel beautiful with his words.

Then one day the notes stopped disappearing. She hadn't come for them in days. Slowly days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Then one day the boy was sitting by the hole when he heard two voices on the other side talking about the girl that was just married by the same name as the one he had loved. The boy stood silently and wiped his eyes of the tears and walked away from the wall, from his notes, and from the girl. He was alone once more. 

An Immortals Tale: Part 4

The Man in the Black Suit
Part 4
"This world is old and so am I"

The wall between the three kingdoms had been breached, artifacts that shouldn't be in the hands of amateurs were, and the devils Bible was here. This was a situation that was bleak at best. So Jon sat in his chair in the middle of his apartment, amongst his books, thinking on the past, trying to remember the last time this sort of thing happened.

Like an encyclopedia he ran through all his encounters in the order they happened, cataloguing anew all the information and events from his past. But nothing connected thoroughly, just bits and pieces, faces and names, parts of Scripture. The farther he went back the harder it was to find anything of relevance. Three days passed as he sat, the world outside moving as usual, the thousands of people unaware of the dangers that possibly lurked in the shadows with plans of....That was it. Jon remembered.

It was right before King Arthur took power in England. Somewhere around 470 A.D. It had been a harsh winter, the snow had killed many and many more sick, England was in dismay and seeking salvation. Twelve men rode horses a few miles outside of London, the countryside still cold although the cities had begun to warm. The night was cold, but it wasn't biting, and the moon hung full overhead.Heavy brown burlap robes cloaked ten of the men and the other two wore peasents clothing. One was young and had blonde hair, the other a man in his thirties with close cropped brown hair and grey eyes. They rode at the front of the two columned train of men and beast.

The young blonde spoke with curiosity and wonder, "Father Jon? How am I to save England?" Jon smiled at the boy and sighed deeply, preparing an explanation. "Well, young ward, there's a sword in an anvil atop a stone, ran through like a Knight ill suited at his job." He smiled and the blonde boy laughed a little, then Jon further explained, "The local folk and even some of the royal court believe that the bearer of that sword is the one and true King of England, chosen by God, himself. And you, my boy, are going to retrieve that sword." The young lad thought a moment then turned back to the Father. "But Father you didn't answer my question."

Jon laughed out loud and hard, "You are a clever boy, aren't you?" The boy beamed with pride. "Okay, okay. Like me, young ward, you've been in the care of the church and we have raised you with the love of God in your heart. With that sword in your hands and a crown upon your head you will help restore faith in God back into the people of this land. That's how, my boy." The ward sat contemplative upon his horse. Jon smiled and nodded, having sated the boys curiosity for now. But before the silence could last the boy asked another question. "Father Jon. Does heaven really exist and if it does...will I have a name there?" Jon expressed his appreciation for the question. He looked back at the ten men behind them, the only visible under the heavy burlap was a silver cross that reflected the moonlight. Then he turned back to the boy. "Yes it does. And though we cannot see it we live in Eden every day. God is all around us and so is the eternal heaven that he lives in. And you have a name, my boy. Your name is Arthur." Young Arthur chuckled and stifled his laughter, checking that the monks behind him didn't hear. "My name...is Arthur!" The young man was so happy silent tears ran down his rosy cheeks and into his wide smile. Jons spirits rose in seeing the delight that gave his young ward, something everyone took for granted so often: A name.

Arthur let the silence finally longer, the weight of his name settling in. The crisp night would hold some new and interesting things yet, Jon thought to himself. Arthur and his smile turned back to Jon, "Please, Father, tell me more about heaven. Why do you say we walk in Eden every day?" Jon nodded his agreement and chose a path of an easy to understand story for the boy, "This world is old, young Arthur, and so am I. Already I've existed for more than 300 years, living as a man, passing the word of God and the world we live in much, much older than even I can fathom. And I'm quite clever. Once. Far before you were born. There was a man who tried to unite heaven and earth. It ended very badly. But. In that very bad act we learned good knowledge: The kingdom of heaven is around us." Arthur didn't seem to understand, so Jon went further into explanation.

"The world is not what you think, Arthur. Heaven and earth and the inferno all exist. And they exist here, all at the very same time we do. But. There's a wall between the three kingdoms." The blonde haired boy looked at Jon with wide eyes, "Kingdoms?" Jon nodded and continued, "Yes, kingdoms. And as long as they are separate we can live in peace. Any breach of that wall and bad things will happen." Arthur drank the whole thing in, the horse beneath him walking a steady pace, then he asked, "Father Jon...If heaven falls to earth what happens to us?" Jon took a moment and decided the best answer was the truth. His tone was cold and hard, "We burn."

The words sent a shiver through the young lad. And he spoke with determination and courage in his juvenile voice. "If I'm to be king...I'll be sure to keep the three kingdoms separate and ensure that heaven remain standing. And I'll guard the gates of heaven and earth alike and make certain no one tries to combine them again." Jon offered the boy a sincere smile and a nod of approval. "Well said, Arthur. But first. Let's get you that blasted sword, yeah?" Arthur nodded and faced forward. "Father, you're very old." Jon winked and from then on the twelve men rode in silence.

Back in his apartment Jon smiled a sad smile for his long lost ward, and said a small prayer that heaven received their protector well. But. Arthur reminded him then and now what was afoot: Someone was trying to unite the three kingdoms.

A Friend To The End (Short Original)

He sat on the rooftop, staring over the edge of the stones before him. The sun was making its final descent towards the sea and its bed, the moon moving slow to take its place. Clouds lazily passed over the purple and pinks in the sky.

He'd tried so hard to make it work in his mind. Tried to rationalize. Tried to explain. Tried to see the world through the tears in his eyes, making the world dance like a water color sprung to life.
She said she loved him. Said they'd be together forever. And she lied. Her eyes were cold as ice as she turned away from him and walked out the door for the last time. Her words had cut deeper than anything he'd ever experienced.

Another wave of sadness washed over him. His muscles ached from the crying. Hot tears ran down his chilled cheeks. Even breathing was starting to hurt. Even as the city seventy stories below him sang its never ending song he barely heard it. His ears flooded with her voice.
He barely felt the dawn come, the night passing without incident. He hadnt moved. Hadn't tried.

Soon his muscles drove him. Aches and soreness ran through him as his legs lifted his weight onto the edge of the building, the street below beckoning.
The wind seemed to push at him, wanting him to jump. Then. He heard it. A voice as clear as the dawn rising before him. "What the hell are you doing?" He didn't answer. It was obvious. "Gonna jump? Over her, huh?" The smell of cigarette danced with the bittersweet wind that glided past him.
He drew a deep breath.

"Now that will not be an open casket." The voice continued, "The fall will just make you mush. They'll put your remains in a mashed potato bucket." He tried not to smile at the image. "Hey. Maybe we can get KFC to sponsor the whole thing. Your epitaph will be 'Loved food so much he became it.'" The smile finally cracked and more tears came. "Shut up, man. You don't understand." He tried to argue. "Don't understand? Pfft. There's a million girls just like her. Waiting to tap dance on your heart."

He spread his arms, trying to steel himself for the fall. "I give it four days and a bottle of schnapps. You'll be right as rain." Another waft of cigarette smoke ran up his nose. "I don't drink schnapps." It was useless to argue but he tried. "Well you never drank like a man. Always buying those fruity drinks." Both he and the voice chuckled. "One time." "A man can build a million bridges and suck one cock. He will not be known as a bridge builder. He'll be known as a cocksucker." The laughter made him drop his arms.

He wiped the tears from his eyes. His face hurt from the smile. Suddenly memories flooded him, bars and noisy parties. "Besides. You can't kill yourself." The smile faded away. "Why is that?" Another plume of smoke wafted by. "Oh I'm not doubting your ability to simply take a step forward. You've been walking since you were eight." Again the two chuckled together. "Then what?"

The voice laughed. It was a voice he'd known for almost all his life. It's the voice of his best friend. The two of them cavorted and drank and genuinely made each others lives miserable and impossible to live without the other. "Then what? Did you forget? You made me a promise." He took a deep breath, reeling back the tears that tried to start anew. "Yeah. Yeah I did." The words ran through his mind at a pace. Like they had since the day he'd said them.
"You can't break that promise. You said so yourself. Remind me. What did you promise me?"

It was a sad smile as the words came forth. Both he and the voice of his best friend spoke them together. "If you can't walk, brother, You crawl. If you can't crawl, man, you find someone to carry you. And if you can't do that them you get someone to carry your memory. I'll never let you die, man. Never." He nodded, remembering those words. Remembering what they meant.
He stepped off the ledge, knowing his best friend was right.

"I can't honor that if I die." "No. You can't." He wiped the new tears away, smiling the best he could. "You've always known what to say. Always, man." He turned, expecting that big bright smile, pale hands holding a cigarette. But he wasn't there. Then the last memory he wanted came back. His best friend died two years ago. An accidental shooting in a bar he was in. He had gotten there just in time to promise his best friend that and hold him as he breathed his last breath through a smile.

The day was new and bright. And he decided: "I'll carry on. Until the end, I'll carry on. Thanks, brother."

An Immortals Tale: Part 3

The Man in the Black Suit
Part 3
“Nobody Gets It”

Jon’s gray eyes watched as the massive hand arched at him, the thick claws long as kitchen knives and thick as three fingers at the end of each digit, the grotesque and overgrown muscle on the arm that drove the entire thing at him, all of it, moved like it was in slow motion. Options ran through his mind, drawing out different conclusions and possibilities. Each option drew its own line of reasoning and consequences. None looked good for the preacher in the midst of half a dozen demons and a satanic priest with a really high pitched voice. Each conclusion saw itself finish and each time there was bad at the end of it, nothing complex to a being of his age at this point. It was like math to him, simple addition and as elementary as he made it he didn’t seem to like the outcomes. He was running out of time to devise a good one that he could use and live at the end of it. The beasts before him were almost a foot taller than him and near twice as thick as him, all muscle, piss and vinegar. Vinegar. A smile crept onto the face of the immortal in the three piece suit. He found it.
Near his face the arm of the demon before him stopped. Hard. Like it had struck concrete and stone. Suddenly as the stop a silent and invisible explosion sent the heavy, clawed hand spiraling into the darkness out of reach of the candle light, purple blood painting circles on the ceiling and floor as it flew through the air. The heavily muscled demon clutched at its bleeding stump where a hand used to be and howled in pain, dropping to its knees and staring at the man in the black suit with a small smile on his face. The five heavy feet behind the first pair stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the small and confusing incident, their eyes collectively going from the leader of their pack to the outsider. The thick blood dripping freely from the wound could be heard clearly, every being in the room silent as the grave. Jon’s gray eyes came down and met with the demons at his feet, he lifted his hand as if to brush away dust from a counter top, his left bicep the peak of the fore swing. The demon gasped as it finally realized what was about to happen. Jon swept his hand across the beast.
Purple blood and dark flesh were violently torn apart in a torment of violence, all of it sweeping in the same direction as the preacher had moved his hand. The powerful, muscular demon was no more but a stain and collective pieces of skin and internal organs lying to the right of the man in black. Jon looked back at the other five and the skinny guy holding the spear of Tristen and let venom and menace crawl into his voice as he spoke this time, the friendly, kidding nature gone and vanished, “I’ll give you one last chance to do this quietly and without further incident. Give me the spear and you all walk out of here.” Jon advanced forward on that bitter note of threat, his power demonstrated and one of them felled with a simple gesture took the fight out of them, reduced them from brooding beasts to cowed servants the master of the house is angry at. The sea of muscle parted and he stepped through them, untouched, unchallenged and at his own pace.
He reached the altar, the girl exposed from the waist up, the rest wrapped in white linen, and snatched the spear from the conductor of this Ludacris symphony. Jon stared the young man down until he, too, cowed away from the man in the suit, and then spoke in the same menacing voice, “Next time you get the idea to have monsters guard you whilst you play with toys that you don’t understand think about the consequences that are imposed upon others.” Jon motioned to the purple mess on the concrete floor that was a guard, and the young man could only nod his agreement. Jon considered leaving the girl behind, but instead took the book that was being read and wrapped the girl in his coat, carrying her past the guards, their flat, broad; pig-looking faces staring daggers at the preacher. The walk down to the street was longer than he remembered, his nice shoes clopping along at a nice pace until the thin girl with the small frame became too much the package. He went to his own knee and laid her on the floor gently, shaking her to wake her.
After a few minutes of trying to wake her his efforts paid off and she came to, her big brown eyes matched her hair that traveled down to the small of her back, her skin soft and lily white with freckles here and there, “Where am I?” Jon did his best not to frighten her and not to look creepy, “Well. You’re in an abandoned warehouse on the Southside and were about to become part of a very unsuccessful ritual that would have probably ended with you dead.” He did his best to smile to try and soften the impact of the blow. She looked at him for a moment and then looked around at her surroundings before responding, “Uh. Okay. Can I go?” Nothing prepared Jon for that shock and he nodded before taking his coat back. As she reached the exit, wrapping her top half with the linen that the rest of her was wrapped in Jon couldn’t help but ask, “You do get that you almost died up there right?” She looked back and answered as a cab stopped to pick her up, “Uh. No. But…bye.” She climbed in and the cab sped off.
Jon shook his head and put his coat on muttering under his breath, “They never get it.” The afternoon was here now, sun pounding through the clouds and infecting the rest of the earth with its rays. The world was alive and unaware that they dodged a huge bullet today, and because all of this happened in the shadows there will be no parade, no celebration, no names added to the list of heroes, no, this day will simply be another day in the week. With his new additions to the long growing list of stupid things that can do bad things in stupid hands he decided to take a cab home. An hour later his door swung in and he was welcomed by the musty and dusty smell of a thousand or so books, over head lights clicked on, the large studio apartment with one chair in the middle of it and a table next to it sat still and waited for its only resident to interact with either. A bookshelf was set aside for items collected and so the book the kid had and the spear of Tristen took up new residency for now. A single door sat in the back of the apartment and that was his closet, filled to the brim with suits and their matching ties and shoes.
The immortal sat down and sighed long and hard, remembering the simpler days of the church and its enemies. He let the day go, melting it away into the steno pool with all the others. As he relaxed he looked over at his new pieces and knew there was something bothering him about them, the spear of Tristen and a black bible. But that didn’t look like a black bible. Jon got up and walked over to the shelf that held the two newly collected items and flipped open the cover to the book. Blank first page. To be expected, it’s a book after all, he shrugged and then with a ginger finger flipped the next page. The words on the page flowed into his eyes, each letter leading to the next, building words that were as heavy as bricks, the paragraph a solid ton and the bold title at the top was the rope that was waiting to be cut to let it all come down. Jon closed the black leather cover and stepped back, running his hand from his chin up his face and through his hair, mussing it, his hand lading on the back of his neck and staying there, as if to contain the news he’d just come across.
Jon’s legs carried him numbly back to his leather chair and table that sat still and idle for him as he shakily came down into the seat. He took a deep breath and let it out again, trying to process the information more slowly, but it kept coming back the same. That book should not exist on this planet. It should only exist in hell. As God has the holy bible and other such scripture, so does the Devil. This was the Devils bible. The barrier between the three kingdoms has been breached.

An End To An Eternity (Highlander Fan Fiction)

167 years had passed since he had seen his brother. Time was measured differently for him, it passed quickly and without event. Most of the time. He'd had his challenges and for the most part had come out unscathed. A few scars decorated his well built frame where he had let his opponent get too close. From what he had heard his brother had become a plague upon their immortal race, but he knew the truth. His brother was an incredible fighter and an even better swordsman, and others sought him out to prove their metal. They always lost. Jessie looked around the plane and took in the people around him. Families, salesmen, business people of every walk in life, not a single one of them would live what he'd lived. Not in their own lifetimes. The things he'd seen and done would sicken some and disturb others. But now there were only two left that had a chance at the prize. Him and one other: Miguel.

Some would ask him what made him so sure that Miguel was still alive and he had an answer. "Nobody beats my brother. Nobody." He couldn't help but smile a little at some of the answers he'd gotten from some of his peers and opponents alike, the mockery, the questions, and in the end, their quickening. Jessie understood the rules like the rest. No woman could become immortal. Only two of them per fight. They could not fight on hollowed ground. And most importantly: There can be only one. Below the belly of the plane London passed silently, his final destination close by. It was the gathering. Every one of them felt it, a pull that summoned them to others of their kind to do battle on the stage of earth before God himself. Jessie had resisted the call for as long as he could, but he finally went, knowing others would be there before him. If they faced Miguel, they would lose. Oh well. Means less competition for him to take care of.

His newly sharpened sword was in the overhead compartment and it made him nervous to be talked to or questioned, but he remained cool. Soon the highlands would be under his feet again. For some reason it just felt like home. He decided to sleep the last two hours of the flight. It was dreamless, just the way he liked his rest, and he woke when the pilot announced the entire landing principalities. Jessie had been in a plane crash. He survived, of course. It didn't really matter how much you prepared, it was utter chaos. Now the plane was safe on the ground and he collected his only piece of luggage and left the airport. It was Miguel's style to pic a place so dramatic to end this all, the highlands of Scotland and the hill of the McLeouds. Now the last leg of his journey had begun as he stepped into the car he had paid to pick him up and take him to the final showdown. There was no music, no dramatic speeches, no cinematic montage to commemorate the occasion. No. This end would go unnoticed to mortal man, unknown to those outside. He smiled solemnly to himself, remembering what his master said they were all doomed to: A swing of a sword, a fall of a head, and there we end. Parts of him wanted the drive to end with his brother already dead, to avoid the fight that would inevitably happen. Another part wanted to see him. To give him the death he deserved: A warrior's death.

The dawn was barely breaking the horizon as he neared the spot of drop off, the day would be beautiful and overcast. Jessie wore his best suit, navy blue with a black shirt and tie, and a long black trench coat. It was the beginning of spring and the foliage was green, the weather was chilly and crisp. The car slowed and his ride was over. After handing the driver his fee Jessie began walking to the hill, taking in the remarkable scenery that had never failed to take his breath. And before he could finish taking it in he came upon them: The last of the immortals. They were standing in a circle, facing one another, and only turned their heads to acknowledge him as he approached. Familiar faces were there, faces he'd met over the years, and some strangers. Then he spotted him.

He sat on a rock with a cigarette between his long, pale fingers. Jessie took his spot amongst the others, taking his sword from its travel cylinder. The broadsword felt familiar and good in his grip, the weight was welcomed, and the bright steel gleamed as he drew it from its ancient leather sheath. Miguel stood and faced them for the first time. Jessie was happy to see his brother's face, but when the light passed his long hair and illuminated his features, Jessie's heart nearly stopped. It was not the face he remembered. Miguel was now ashen, pale as bleached bone, a long scar ran down the right side of his face, making his eye a cross of sorts. Another scar in the shape of a crescent moon highlighted his left cheek. And he could see another beneath the shemagh wrapped loosely around his neck, the black and gray scarf standing out in stark comparison to the skin below. Miguel stood and Jessie saw him in full. He wore a black button up shirt, black slacks, a long black trench coat, and the scarf. Under the coat Jessie spotted three sword handles slung from his belt. One standard katana, one medium broadsword, and one wooden handled katana. "Welcome, little brother. We've been waiting for you to start. You look great. I'm glad to see your healthy." He meant it, Jessie knew. Miguel's voice had become gravel, due to the scar, Jessie guessed. "Younger brother." Jessie said without thinking. Miguel smiled widely at him, as the others exchanged confused looks, before he continued.

"Somethings never change. Gentlemen. The gathering has called us here. Now it ends. The twelve of us, the last desciples, must fight until we are but one. So. Issue your challenges. And remember. Two men per fight." A few chuckled, but instantly a man to Jessie's right drew his sword. "I want you, ya blaggard." British by the accent, he leveled his blade right at Miguel. Miguel bowed a bit and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, a taunt to the challenger, to which the man spit to the side and marched forward. He was dead, Jessie thought. Then his name was called. A smiling man greeted him and walked forward. It was a familiar face. "My old friend. It would be an honor to fight you. Would you accept my challenge?" He was an African man that Jessie had done business with a number of years ago. They had become fast friends and kept in touch, but this was the end, and friendship no longer mattered. Others around the circle issued their challenges and moved off. Jessie smiled at his own  challenger, and bowed slightly. "It would be an honor to cross swords with you again." As they bowed to each other a sound Jessie was more than familiar with rang out. A sword was drawn, a body hit the soft grass, and soon after a head joined it. He didn't have to look to know the would-be tough guy fell to Miguel. The quickening was started and soon ended, not a sound came from the pale spaniard as the enormous amount of energy joined him. There was no surprise on Jessie's part, but the others marveled as his brother resumed his spot on the rock and smoked a cigarette.

Jessie's opponent muttered, "My god. How many has he killed to be able to do that?" More than Jessie cared to know. The man's attention returned and he drew his own scimitar, preparing for the duel. Swords began clashing around them and with a deep breath and a lunge Jessie joined the cacophony. One by one bodies fell and the quickening electrified the air. Jessie was on one knee, panting from the event that had just passed, sweat on his brow, muscles screaming in pain, but he felt rejuvinated at the same time. Soon after twelve became six and they resumed the circle, resting for now. This was a sacred ritual, but it looked like a macbre sideshow to Jessie, and his brother was their ringmaster. A funeral pyre was built and the six fallen were placed upon it, kind words said in respect. Noon was upon them and the remaining six faced each other once more.

The largest man there faced Miguel and issued his challenge, expecting to be turned away, but was accepted with a smile and a bow. The large man held an equally large claymore and crude armor under his long coat. A man to Jessie's left challenged him and smirked as if he knew something no one else did. Jessie accepted and ran down the various reasons he would. A hidden weapon, armor under his clothes, some trick to distract, or a gun. Yes, they were immortal, but those things still hurt. The man was of Asian decent and had loose clothes on, his blades Chinese broadswords, his style would be fancy, but not built to withstand power like Jessie's. The symphony of clashing steel began again, and soon his opponent's swords were broken, unable to stand up to a broadsword. They were tossed aside and another pair were drawn from under the loose clothing. There's the reason for the smile. A body dropped, and the quickening began to join his skinny brother off to his right somewhere. Soon his Asian opponent fell and the quickening began to join him, as well, making Jessie scream for the second time today. Six were now three. Another funeral pyre was built and the three were burned, their swords put aside to commemorate their graves.

It was high noon, no shadows cast across the green grassy field, no sun shone brightly through the thick clouds. There were three immortals left in the world. Jessie, his brother Miguel, and this third man. He was tall with short black hair slicked back, black military pants and sweater, and his blade shone bright as a thick rapier. Miguel flicked away his cigarette and regarded the man with an indifferent look. "So, my friend. We are but three. Choose your opponent." The answered with a confused look and questioned the spaniard. "Why must I choose? Why don't you two fight?" Miguel smiled and hooked his long hair behind his ears before continuing, "Because. He's my brother. And you know the code." Jessie closed his eyes and knew it was true. The code forbade brothers from battling unless there were no others. And before the two stood an opponent.

The man looked from one face to the other and laughed openly. "You mean to tell me that you two are brothers?!? A spic and a black?!? And I'm Santa Claus!" The smile fell from his brother's face and he stood quickly, a scowl of disgust engraved on his ashen features. "So you've chosen. I will be your opponent. And you've chosen poorly. Because you will suffer before you surrender your quickening to me." Jessie tried to intervine on behalf of the poor bastard. "Miguel, come on, man you don't need-" Withought looking at him Miguel drew his sword and silenced his brother. The man scoffed and advanced. His ordeal lasted hours, Miguel's cruelty knew no bounds as he slowly butchered the man, piece by piece and cut by cut he wore the man down until he begged for death. Then he cut out his tongue. Night had began to fall and was darkening the sky. It was then when it ended for the man that mocked the brothers, the last of the immortals. Jessie felt sick from the ordeal, but could not intervene if the man was still alive. Miguel dragged the body and its pieces away to the still burning pyre and tossed them in.

When he returned he lit a cigarette and sat on his rock, leaning the last of the blades against his impromptu throne. "So. What do you say, little brother? We can have ourselves a little midnight duel or we can wait til dawn and do it samurai style. Whatcha say?" Jessie was tired and collecting from others had drained him. He nodded and resigned himself, "Dawn." Miguel smiled wickedly, "I thought so. So I set up some tents for us over there. I'll see you at dawn." It was obvious he didn't want to talk or reminisce about their lives before. Jessie didn't blame him, at dawn they would cross swords and one of them would die. It broke his heart, either way, as he walked he thought about what would happen when this was done. Even if they were separated by thousands of miles they both still felt that connection, that feeling that they weren't really alone, and sometimes it was all that kept Jessie going sometimes. And knowing Miguel and his penchant for pushing people away, he would be totally alone if he won, and that was in itself a form of punishment that he wouldn't wish upon anyone. Yet if he lost he would be pushing it upon his brother. But could he murder his own brother? No. Not murder. Not kill. End. He would feel him in his soul forever through the quickening. But that wasn't his brother. No matter how it felt. He'd sleep for now and let fate decide at dawn.

He dreamt for the first time in a very long time, memories of the past, of his long life. And of his time with Miguel, long past and tragically too short. He couldn't remember why they separated from each other in the first place, but he wished they hadn't, wished that they were friends like always. Dawn broke, but it was the hot tear running down Jessie's cheek that tickled him awake to witness the purple give way to orange, then pink, and blue. Once Miguel had said that it was like watching the world be reborn. And as he watched the clouds, here in the highlands, paint themselves with a pallet of colors he couldn't help but agree. He got his clothes back in order and his shoes back on before he left the tent, feeling the chilly air as he unzipped the opening. He looked out and stepped back onto the soft grass and looked back up towards where the fighting grounds were. There sat his brother on a throne of rock, staring off into the sunrise and smoking a cigarette.

"Been a long, funny, long ride, eh brother?" Jessie stretched his muscles and nodded, "Yeah it has. Yeah it has." Another drag of the smoke and gray plume gave pause to the conversation. "Who would have thought, huh? Us two as the last of the immortal race that somehow decides the fate of mankind." He laughed a dark and bitter laugh, his gravel voice lending a menacing tone to it. "Miguel, we-" Jessie started, but was cut off. "Yeah, we do." The last of the cigarette was flicked away and Miguel stood, waiting. Jessie felt his heart sink. Slowly he assumed his position and drew his sword. One way or another this was the last time he would use it.

He took a deep breath of the clean air and let it out slowly as he brought his sword up in a salute, feeling the weight of it, the balance of the perfect steel, the red reflection of the dawn. Steel sang as Miguel drew his blade and saluted as well, his dark brown eyes mournful and yet full of fire. The world ceased to exist anymore. It was just him and his brother. Silence enveloped them. They both stepped forward and moments later steel bit flesh. Jessie lay on his side, holding the several deep cuts his brother had given him, still bleeding and hurting. The fight was so long and so painful, but it was over now. Soon the quickening would come. Jessie's eyes slid closed, bracing for the pain that he knew was coming, but knowing it would be over quickly. Then it came, sharp, quick, and sudden. His vision went white. As the quickening joined him.