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waffen:

So, I just finished writing 48 pages (doubled spaced because RULES) of a novel for the national Scholastic writing competition. This is my FIRST time ever writing a story in this format, so it’s probably shit and all, but that’s life. Anyway, the story isn’t completed (although I have the entire thing outlined) because you’re only supposed to submit the first 50 pages of the manuscript. I’d LOVE it if any of you guys would be willing to give me feedback! Thanks!

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Give Triton a shot. It deserves a chance, yo. 

“B-but the words just wouldn’t fill the empty space,” she wailed, “they were mocking me, I-I…I just know they were.” She had no one to blame but herself. She had sold away her mind to the devil, and her soul to the world that would never love her. “I know them…I know the words, yes, b-but I can’t…” she choked out. Was there really anything for me to do? Difficult, perhaps, to watch the event unfold, but I did nonetheless. I struggled to keep from letting words slip from my lips—a person of my stature must never lose their composure. She brought her fists down upon my chest over and over again, begging for just one more chance. Was I supposed to help? I knew it wouldn’t make a difference, but was it really righteous to stand here, emotionless, and watch this helpless woman choke on her own, self-induced guilt and despair? I can’t see reason anymore for I have long since lost sight of humanity. Whatever remains is slowly conditioned away through pain. The pain that had started as but the slightest of heartaches became a cancer that engulfs the whole of my being; my soul. I have become barren and inhumane, for I have lost every fragment of my former self.

There, look, she breathes the last of her breaths; screams the last of her screams, and cries the final, heartbreaking tear before drifting off into an eternal slumber of which I may never know. She has embarked on the final journey of life and, like most, goes alone. As sad as it may be, I find it impossible to cry; to cringe. To even lift a finger, or bat an eye in sympathy. Humanity, any and every trace of it, has indeed left me. The World awaits, though, and her suffering was neither the first, nor the last. She is a victim of this violent, unforgiving chain of events which, in fact, I believe myself to be the cause. 

I take my leave now, unflinching, for nothing more could have ever been done. Does the world hate me? I wonder. I’m beginning to question as to why this whole endevour, from the get-go, is of such surreal nature that I feel as if the next blinking of my own eyes will bring me back to a warm, friendly room, and leave me staring at an innocent child’s ceiling. What an odd time to start questioning the reality of it all, for it is indeed late in the game, and her corpse is just another in the long line. I aknowledge that fact, however, and I realize how much of a tragedy it will be. Yet, I can’t seem to comprehend, for the life of me, as to why. I can’t even shed a tear for anything less than physical pain. 

Pitter, pitter, patter…

Rain, now, of all times? Soaked with water now, the gravel path crunches underfoot, and the trees begin, once again, to sway in their ominous manner. Is my whole life a joke to the universe? Does it enjoy toying with my being, molding it in its hands however it pleases? What is it to me, though, I have so much more to attend to. For these events hold not the divine significance as with others. I am a lost child, unfazed by the horrors lurking in the dark—innocent and pure. But that is hardly the truth; hardly anywhere near the truth.

The world passes by as a slur of colors in my eyes. The tunnel of my life only ever shows me the next destination. It’s as if I’m hallucinating for my world is, as usual, distorted beyond comprehension and as surreal as reality can be. 

“L..lift me higher, please.” She whispered in his ear, hoping that she would be close enough to touch the rippling waves of the clouds. He obeyed without hesitation, a warm smile still apparent on his lips. As he lifted her delicate body, she outstretched her good arm towards the sky, and then, blinking away reality, she saw her arm stretch beyond the heavens. She passed through soft, vaporous wisps of what used to be those fluffy white clouds she gazed upon day after day. Her eyes widened as she felt it all: the cold of space to the warmth of his touch. She blinked again back out of the surreal and found her hand still stretched towards the sky, grasping the air as if she could feel it. Emotion washed over her as she looked back down at herself. Tears, held back for years, began to run down her cheeks as they flushed red with embarrassment and disappointment. Then he noticed.

“Shhh, it’s all right,” he told her soothingly in an attempt to calm her, “look, see, the sky is closer than you think.” And as he said that he brang her close and let her smother her face in his chest. “Oh, don’t cry,” he said once again, “please, open your eyes and look.” And so she did, and when her eyes met his, he took her hand and brought it up to the sky once more. “See, the sky was in reach after all…” his voice trailed off as her eyes lit up in surprise, the clouds flowed over her hand like before. Stunned, she looked back to him, expecting reality to come flooding back, but nothing happened. He simply stared at her with that same warm, loving smile and she started blushing even harder.

“B-but…h..how!?” She exclaimed at him, almost accusingly. “Shhh,” he whispered softly as he motioned downwards. Her heart began to race as she saw what was below her, and her eyes widened in surprise once more. Nothing but air directly beneath their feet, and what land there was seemed impossibly far away. She was speechless. All that she could do was look at him with wide eyes and the most cheerful expression he had ever seen her put on. “T..thank you,” she said, crying, yet smiling the biggest of smiles, “thank you. So. Very. Much.” To which he replied:

“You are very welcome. So. Very. Welcome.“ 

If those people are to ever be as unforgiving as those dogs were, perhaps then they would see what they have feared all these years; perhaps they would finally open their eyes to the harsh reality that faces them every day they live. For that reality is the only true fate they will ever face: it brings to light the worst in humanity—yet at the same time it brings them together in impossible ways. The banded heroes—rather, villains—of this world are nothing more than the product of the greatest collaboration of humanity since the great World Wars. Only the rich, bastardized monsters of the Higher see different. They see the criminals, the pheasants, and the dogs. Never do they even recognize how civilized; how strong a community has risen up to shine into the heavens from nothing more than dust and scraps.

“Even if he wanted me to tell you, I would have to refuse. You, sir, have broken my heart enough times to be worth absolutely nothing—perhaps less than nothing, in my eyes. Bring me good reason; good reason, I say! I have never dealt with the likes of you before, and it is in my best interest to do so never again. Please, I beg you, please, do not pester me further.”

She said what was needed to be said, sure enough, and, as harsh as it was, I cannot bring myself to be angry at her. She is a beauty not worthy of some bum like myself. She deserved—and deserves—better. Thank god she has the boldness to tell me off, for were it not for that outburst, I may have continued breaking her heart—till death, even. 

- J.V.

          “Oh,” he says, “oh, do not forget; do not ever forget.” But what ought we not forget? That which looms in front of our faces every moment—every day? No, no, something different. A devil among devils; thou carrier, nay, harbinger of The End storm! A messenger from the gods indeed: but which gods—who? That single question: who? ‘Who’ indeed, for no mortal knows. Yet, here is the warning for which there must be a deeper reason.

          “Do not forget, young one, do not forget the Angels. Remember them, praise them, worship them; but remember. Remember not to forget, for your repentance for a crime of forgetfulness will cost more than your life; these are not the saviors once spoken of in Myth. These Angels are the harbingers of the End Time, and you do best not to forget. Never forget, for their master will burn you; their master will break you. Their master…” And so it came—the ultimate warning—and one really does best not to forget—not to forget indeed.

“Hear me out!” the criminal cries. A fitting—albeit, typical—scene for his last moments. “I do not question the fact that I am guilty, for that I am certain of without a doubt. However, regardless of what I have done, I must give you all my last words: a final warning of what is to come.” His preamble irritates me. A dead man should not waste those precious moments of time he retains before death with such garbled, unnecessary statements. Time is a premium, not a righteous luxury for him right now, yet still he continues to droll in the most vexing manner.

But now he takes a deep breath; a long, torturous gasp of his last breaths. Though, it is odd, for why should a criminal—nay, a dead man—fear and tremble about what he wishes these common people to hear? He has lost all respect, and, again, he is short on time. There shouldn’t be a hint of hesitation in a dead man’s voice, only one of two things: regret, for those who do not take pride in themselves, or confidence, for those who knew their actions were just. In retrospect, I must admit that I probably should’ve paid more attention to his actions; gestures, rather. The words that he spoke mattered far less than that of his real warning. A warning of what was to come, indeed, for he showed me—he showed everyone—just what exactly they were to expect. Though, no sooner had I tried to amend my mistake was the worst already upon me. They shot like arrows from a bow, so to speak.

One after another, shout after shout, his words decimated the crowd, and the city. His power was one to be reckoned, for he did not hesitate; did not falter, not once, as he tore the city apart. There were no flames, no sign of the great destruction that would follow his dying breaths. Only a single warning was given, and that was all that was needed: a spark in his eyes; a spark so commanding, so confident and righteous that it was beyond mortal comprehension. There was only a single word that could even begin to describe the concept. Only one word; one word to begin a speech of thousands:

“Die.”

Die, you fools; you traitors. Die, with me.

And so it brang upon the Apocalypse.

Those foolish words that he spoke.

He knew not of the meaning, and so they were his last.

Messiah turned End-Bringer,

oh how woe are we.

There were five days of fire, as they scorched the Sea.

Four days of torture, as they struck down the innocent from the heavens.

Three Days of hell when the Protecters turned mad.

Then a signle day of reckoning,

as an impossible choice was made.

Thirteen days, thirteen days, oh, The End has come.

Oh, The End has come.

It sat, very still-like, nestled within the protective arms of the underbrush. Like a mother to her child, it protected and nurtured it. Though, it was all but alone in this new world; this unknown territory. One could describe it as contained—suppressed, even—in this state, but at the same time, it had all the freedom in the world, for it was alone. All alone, yet safe from dangers; all alone, yet cared for. A child, nurtured by its very existence, and safe from anything and everything, is growing here. A child that does not know its potential, but is given all the freedom in the world only to be kept contained.

Its existence is a mystery, but there it is, growing, living, thriving, dying, and existing. Not a single being can question it, for it simply is. To question something of its magnitude is to question the act of questioning; to question one’s own existence. A curiosity, it is, to everyone and everything. The child named All is everything but free; everything but finite.

It is itself, and everything it knows, sees, feels, hears, tastes, and smells. The whole of reality is but a child—the child named All.

“There the World grows,” a man once said, ignorant of its real meaning. He only considered his world—The World—the one that he could see, touch, feel, hear, and smell, to be the one that grows. Though, he never could comprehend the whole of reality, and so his vision was limited, ignorant. For there, where the World grows, is nestled between the protective arms of nothing, and it grows to become anything and everything. What was, what is, and what will be is all but a growing child; an egg of life in the most impossible of places.

However, understand that there is a reason why it is safe; a reason why it has all the freedom in the world, yet none at all, for to be the whole of reality is an odd thing. It is safe, for it is surrounded in the underbrush of Nothing. The whole of ‘everything that is not’ protects this child, and the only real danger is itself, but so is the only real safety. To say it is free is to say there is no such finite limit to its size, and that the void cannot be described in measures, yet, in reality it is contained, suppressed by this nothingness, it has all the freedom that is itself, and suppressed by all that is not.

The child named All exists only to exist, for the concepts of Reason and Purpose were devised; created; imagined—not set forth from the get go. It grew for it only knew to grow, and it still grows because the void demands to be filled. Nothingness, infinite in all aspects, desires to be filled, and so the child responds as any child would to their parent. It grows by their command, with no other goal, hoping to please them in their endeavor.

Here it happens, and here it will continue; this is where it started, this is where it will end. There is where the child named All exists; there is where the world grows.

The clouds of sand billowed up once again over the Dunes, slowly making their way towards the City. It tears up all and leaves nothing in its wake, yet the land remains indifferent to its horror. Great men and women have been lost, and yet it continues, completely, and utterly, unfazed.

For years this plague has traveled over the land, and for years the men, women and children of the City have struggled with its presence. For them, it was nothing new, but that didn’t make it any less deadly. The “Cloud of Demons,” it has been called, holding within it terrors unknown to the minds of men. Since the Beginning, many have speculated about what it hides. Yet not once have They cared to find out. They sit and watch our daily life from the comfort of the Castle and somehow, despite the reality of it all, They manage not show any sign of pity—what disgusting creatures They are, not helping their fellow man. It’s sickening to even think for a moment that They are human like us; absolutely sickening. 

So here the people must make their stand; here they must be subject to being treated as lab rats. They must endure more than anyone before them. They cannot falter, for they are the last hope—the creatures that watch them have all but given up on life, you see; immortal, they have become—and even now, when they become weary, they continue to muster up the strength to continue. 

Yet, as strong as they might be, the Sea of Dunes will always be stronger; much more powerful than any mortal—or immortal—being can comprehend. The cloud is simply the fringe of the aura; the shadow that envelops this world. It should be considered gracious for not descending the whole of its being upon humanity, allowing it to live, but even nature cannot control itself forever. Soon it will engulf the whole of their reality, leaving only those creatures to suffer in their lonely immortality. 

However, unbeknownst to anyone, there lies a lone light of hope within this unforgiving night. There, in the midst of the chaos lies the hope that humanity has yet to find: a child. A child born of the Sea, cared for by the sands—this will be the savior. 

Come now, young Revion, and make the journey into the Sea. For the Child of the Dunes is our savior—our last and only hope.

…there he sits, alone and afraid, in the confinement—and protection—of his room. The tears stream down his face as he recollects on the events of these past few days; on how that twisted, surreal world, which only existed in the worst of nightmares, has become reality. The bombing, however, has moved into the distance—though he has become indifferent to the sound. His sanity is lost in the depths of his mind, so lost, in fact, one might even consider him dead. Now, as he reaches the point of no return—to lose his mind forever in the forgotten world of the past—a single knock is heard at his door. A knock so commanding, so distinctive that it shook his very soul—he, who is indifferent to the sound of a thousand bombs, shaken by something so simple, now turns towards the door. His heart, for the first time since the Raid, is pounding within his chest. Sweat, in place of tears, now pours down his face; fear engulfs him. Again the knock comes, and again he quivers, the whole of his body now paralyzed. A third knock sounds and, as impossible as it might seem, resounds throughout the whole of the house; the city, even. Then, after a silence that seems to last an eternity, a final knock breaks down the door and sends it flying towards the opposite wall. He stares wide-eyed now, unable to comprehend the figure that appears before him. The man in the door way, however, casts a dramatic shadow upon the boy. A shadow that gives the aura of age and an ominous sense of strength. His stature is that of a military man, perhaps a general, and yet his face is without a single scar. His skin is smooth and young, yet he is obviously aged far more than any one human could. The boy still stares, unable to speak and unable to think; the man, after much consideration, decides to speak first—10 minutes.

He speaks with a voice that commands respect, a tone so pronounced that, despite how young it may have sounded, sent chills up his spine. He asked for one thing, and one thing only: the boy’s power to conquer the world. The boy now stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, not a single thought running through his head could explain what was happening. What happened next, however, was not expected in any dream, for the man kneeled to this small, frightened boy—15 minutes.

The boy keeps silent—not knowing how to respond—and yet the man still kneels. The man, now without a single answer, pulls an enormous axe off his back and holds it to the boy’s throat. Again, he asks the boy, and again the boy cannot answer. The man now sees the paralyzing fear in his eyes, and with that he asks one last time, slowly, for the boy’s power. This time—although, perhaps unconsciously—he begins to nod. Slowly at first, as to avoid cutting himself on the blade, but then faster as the man pulls it away. The man now stands—impressively, one might add—above the boy and extends a single hand to the child. The child, still nodding, takes the hand and is lifted up into the blinding light of day— 20 minutes.

These twenty-some minutes will forever be known as the prologue to a New Age; the start to the most impossible companionship, and the well deserved end to his surreal, nightmare of a reality—this is the Genesis of the New Era.

Again, she got off of work. Again, she walked toward the small, quaint coffee shop. Again, she sat down at the table in the windowed corner. Again, she ordered the usual coffee. Again, she thought about the previous times she’d been here, and again she waited for him.

Again, and again, and again. Days upon days; weeks upon weeks—for months on end—her inability to let go of the past kept her hoping, but her guilt is what kept her coming back. Never again, she thought, never again will I let that tragedy occur.

Never again…

Her thoughts trailed off into oblivion, and again, she found herself the last to leave before closing. Again, she came home to an empty house. Again, she made dinner for two. Again, she had to refrigerate the second portion. Again, she cried herself to sleep, and again she experienced the nightmares of the past. 

Those events that haunted her so, those events that she could not let go of, lest she let go of part of herself; those memories; those feelings, everything that made her, her. The images of his still, lifeless face. The images of herself, arriving literally seconds too late. The images of each and every face that cried for him, and every face that stared angrily at her. The images of every single day since, and every single day to come. 

Then she woke up…

Again, she showered. Again, she ate breakfast. Again, she made her daily commute to work. Again, she did her job, and again she got off work…