darrionjwrites

He had no idea where the story was going. Or what it was going to be about. Or whether it was going to be good. Or readable. But he was going to write it before he reached work.  He needed to write it. 

He entered crowded train. Took first available seat. Drew his notebook.

No pre-planned characters or plots. No direction in mind. He was just gonna make up shit as he went along. Should be interesting, he thought. 

He penned his first words.

Train pulled into station. Dozens squeezed themselves into packed train. A dozen stops until work.

He looked forward to reading whatever literary chaos ended up on his notepad.

Five hundred words or less, he thought. Here we go….

She mashed her heel into its chest. Used the leverage to remove her devine spear from the Demon’s belly.

She could hear the Scale Lord’s breaths. Shallow but still in existence. Gargantuan body rising and falling beneath her heel. Long, shattered wings flapping wildly as if trying to escape the demon’s expiring body.

She exhaled.

Cold smoky breath.

Her childhood spent preparing to avert the prophecy. One more strike to the heart and she will defeat fate. She can return home to her love. One more strike and she’s free of her cosmic shackles.

“Prophecy’s false,” She said. “I’m alive.”

The Scale Lord cackled. Coughed. Spat a purple oily substance at her feet.

“The battle’s won,” The Scale Lord replied. “Long ago.. its won.”

She drew her sickle. Beheaded Scale Lord before it could further speak.

She staggered off the Scale Lord’s corpse. Collapsed to her knees.

“Thank you, Ele’ees,” She said, praising her goddess.

The Scale Lord’s body quickly deteriorated to dust.

Its done.

Daylight through the window. Warmth of the sunrise through the prison bars and cracks in the stone walls. Birds chirping.

Ele’ees gave her strength. Weapons. The will to defeat the prophecy. Proof that divine power existed. That the universe was fair. That mortals like her can shed their cosmic shackles. Live the way they choose. She would spend the rest of her days praising her Goddess. Spreading her gospel. Loving Alex.

She walked to the shattered stain-glass window.

She  bathed in spreading sunlight. Inhaled the smell of grass. Goosebumps from the clean air breeze on her skin.

I’m going home, she thought. There was plenty of sunlight and grass home.  I’m going home to see him, she thought. To murder him… and everyone in my vil-… 

She felt rage. Felt joy. Felt bloodlust.

None were her thoughts. Her feelings.

“Isn’t me,” She tried to convince herself.

“But it is,” Scale Lord replied.

Power… she thought. Tried to chase the evil thoughts away but couldn’t. Felt like her own mind being silenced. Crushed. Replaced by another voice. Kill them all, she thought. Fuck the gods…

Skin tingling.

She rolled up her sleeve.

“I told you,” The Scale Lord said. “The battle was already won.”

She drew her spear. Twirled around the room looking for the owner of the voice.

She checked her arm.

Black scales. Up her arms and across her collar bone. She felt organs shifting. Expanding. Transforming.

“No… Alex,” She cried.

She cried so hard she was blind.

“Alex… I failed” She said as she released her spear. “I’m sor-”

She jerked forward. Landed on all fours.

They tore through her flesh. Her shoulder blades. Large black wings.

Such pain.

She cried. Tears of pain. Tears of sadness. Tears of laughter.

No escaping fate, she thought. Prophecy prevailed as it should. She embraced what she’s meant to become… The Queen of Scale. World devourer. Her true self.

“Alex… I’m coming home,” She said with a smirk.

Odd story, he thought.

He reached his stop.

He wondered why all of his endings were tragic and hopeless. Was that him? Was that a reflection of his soul? Was he the Scale Lord of his own lore? Or was he just a strange, odd, awkward son of a bitch?

He put his notebook away and exited the train car.

Probably the latter, he concluded. Strange, odd, awkward… Maybe a little broody.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. Took a seat at the table opposite Marcey.

“Talked to my cousin the other day,” He said as he sipped his coffee. “Insightful conversation.”

“What you talk about?” Marcey asked.

“Well… insightful shit of course,” He replied.

The other day…. 

“Got that new Creature Hunters game,” He said.

“Squad based game where you capture and kill monsters?” I asked. 

“No capture,” He replied. “Just kill” 

“Oh…dude,” I said. “That’s some savage shit.”

“Huh?” He asked.

“Imagine you having date night with ya girl. Eating a dinner box and watching a flick. Just chillin,” I said. “Suddenly a squad rolls up. Shoots you in the face with a freaking crossbow. Then deep fries ya lady with a flamethrower.”

“What?” He replied.  

“Creature hunters… from the perspective of the creature,” I said.

“Oh… shit,” He said. “I see.” 

“Catch’a’mons worse!” I said.

“How worse?” He asked.

“Imagine… You playing an intense game of handball with the homeys,” I said. 

“I like handball,” He said.

“Me too!” I said. “You on the court racking up aces. Setting records. Speed and accuracy is at a whole ‘nother level.”

“Okay…” He said.

“You at point game. Some dude rolls up and zaps you with something.” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching me. “You open your eyes. You’re in a white void. Alone and no place to go.”

“Trapped?” He asked.

“Inside a cage no bigger than a bocce ball,” I replied. 

“Damn,” He said. “Crazy ass pocket dimensions.”

“Word,” I said. “That’s not even the worst part.”

“No?” He asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “Crazy part’s when they let you out.”

“That’s crazy?” He said.   

“Crazy like cat shit,” I said. “You come out looking around confused as hell. Realize quickly you’re a ways from home.”

“On some transantlatic slave trade shit,” He said. 

“Indeed. And they only let you out to fight other abductees,” I said. “Your opponents leave their catch’em balls looking lost like you. But you have to fight. Its fight or return to the void.”

“Tragic,” He said.  

“Word… Then they force y’all to scrap til someone’s unconscious… And win, lose, or draw,” I leaned in to whisper. “Yo ass end up right back in that pocket dimension.”

“Bruh,” He said.  

“I know,” I said. “I’m buggin.”

“Nah you good,” He said. “Shit’s kinda funny.”

“Nothing funny about kidnapping, slavery and exploitation, bruh,” I said. ”Nothing funny at all.” 

He sighed.

He stirred his coffee while returning Marcey’s befuddled stare.

“What?” He asked.

“Ummm…” Marcey replied. “Where and when did this conversation take place?”

“Yesterday,” He replied. “Earth… Not sure which earth or which version of me. But the conversation took place yesterday.”

“I see,” Marcey said.

He wasn’t special. Never was. Likely never will be special. If he had known he was an infinitesimal, insignificant speck in the universe he would have worked harder in High School. Taken more risks. Focused more on refining a skill rather than relying on a superpower he never really had.

He pinched himself.

Had to stay awake. Had to finish another chapter. He wasn’t special. He didn’t have the ability to warp reality or bend it to his will. Didn’t have telepathic or mind possession powers to make someone else finish his work for him.

“One more chapter,” He willed himself.

He saw a gift in realizing he wasn’t special. That the world nor people on his social media friends list weren’t looking for him. Weren’t waiting for him. That people weren’t aware he existed.

He went upstairs looking for Marcey.

Marcey was in her room. In her bed. Taking a practice exam.

“Hey,” He said to Marcey. “About to sleep?”

“Yeah,” She replied. “A little tired.”

Marcey’s big test was tomorrow. He understood if she chose to sleep an hour earlier than she said she would. He was -selfishly- disappointed. But he understood. Sleeping was the responsible thing to do the night before an important exam. Not drinking wine and watching superhero shows.

“Alright, cool,” He said. “Sleep well.”

“Have any tape?” Marcey asked.

“Sadly… no,” He replied.

“There’s a draft coming from the window,” Marcey said.

“I feel it,” He replied.

Marcey sighed. Looked disappointed.

“I’ll check my room,” He said, though certain he didn’t own any tape.

“Thanks,” Marcey said. “Well, good night.”

“Night,” He said before leaving Marcey’s room.

He wasn’t special. If he was, he’d have the superpower to regulate the weather and temperature in her room. Or… At least own a roll of tape.

He scoffed.

Marcey thought he had a problem. A big problem. He agreed with her assessment. Just not her solution.

The coffee warmed his belly and gave him an instant jolt of energy.

“I love you too,” He said to Marcey. “And I understand your concerns.”

He would probably need another cup after his conversation with Marcey, he thought. Another cup would make sense especially since he had a full eight hours of packing old files and office junk into boxes. And checking his official statement of work to see if mover and janitor was included in his job description.

“I just want you to have money,” Marcey said.

He cut his eyes.

There she goes again, he thought. If only she had to deal with what he had to deal with for eight hours a day. On a daily basis.

“They’re gonna fire you,” Marcey said.

“You’re more anxious than I am,” He said.

“And that’s the problem,” Marcel said.

“Sorry, I just don’t care,” He replied. “I can’t anymore. Just too tired to care.”

He was truly sorry. Just being honest with her. He didn’t care nearly as much about his job as she did. Marcey was afraid he would end up broke and unhappy. Funny… He worked a full nine to five gig and he was still broke and unhappy. He was more afraid and sad about the time he was losing working a meaningless job. Photocopying and mailing packages wasn’t exactly worth his precious time on the earth. He thought Marcey  was only concerned over whether he would pay bills and that concerned him the most. It concerned him even more than getting fired for being late. Yet again.

“You’re always late to work,” Marcey said. “If you were my employee I’d fire you.”

“Bet you would,” He replied.

“Try to be on time,” Marcey replied. “Please?”

“Okay,” He said.

“Force yourself to care,” Marcey insisted.

“Fine,” He replied. “I’ll do better next week.”

Doing better at a place -his nine to five- he couldn’t possibly care less about was a lot in which to ask. A insurmountable request to fulfill.

But Marcey was giving him those sad eyes. Not bossy or threatening eyes like when he forgot to clean egg of the stove or refill the water jug. Genuinely sad, concerned, caring eyes. Those eyes were trouble. The most damning of all the eyes.

The eyes he could neither ignore or defy.

He cut his eyes. Again.

That time he cut his eyes at himself for submitting to her sad eyes yet again.

“I’ll set my alarm earlier,” He said.

“Good,” Marcey said.

“Good,” He said.

And he set his alarm at that very moment.

He would set the alarm an hour early before he forgot or lost interest, he thought.