Week 8 - Midweek Post

So I have now edited my previous story, and put it into first person action verbs.  I like it a lot better now, and I'll probably work on a sequel later.  I have several ideas for it and I like them all.  Right now however, I have inspiration for a cool story that's not so different from this one so I think I'll go ahead and write it.  But here's the edited and better version of my previous post.

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    Heated bodies push me from behind.  Fevered shouts of anger fill the air.  I stumble as the crowd surges forward.  I try to back away.  The furious mob crowds me toward their front.  I pull away, struggling against the mass of surging people.  Shouts echo from megaphones, frantically urging the crowd to disperse.  

    The volume of yelling increases at the demands.  I struggle harder.  Hands shove me forward.  Another panicked warning.  The front line of the crowd hesitates momentarily.  Then they break.  Not away, but forwards.  Time stands still as I’m crushed between protesters.  I’m thrown forward against my will.  The shouting and chants reach a crescendo.  Momentarily the sounds drop in volume.  Pounding feet are the only noise heard.  Then those in the front scream again.  

    A concussion grenade blasts over the noise of the crowd.  Two more in quick succession.  The rapid firing of government assault rifles.  Smoke pluming in the air.  The screaming turns from anger to fear.  The mob of rebels slow to a halt.  I claw my way backwards.  My fight isn’t here.  Mobs are common, but this was the worst.  Men and women younger than me lay dead and dying.  The livid anger and fear is tangible, filling the sky like a flock of vultures.  Panic reigns among those around me.

    And still they don’t stop.  The crowd hesitates again.  Than several hollow shots.  Stove guns.  Homemade by rebel’s who weren’t waiting for a leader.  The relative silence around me is much too short.  A roar rises up and the mob is sprinting again.  The street is bottlenecked.  Sweaty men and women pile around riot vans.  The fallen are trampled underfoot by crazed civilians.  The policemen fire into the crowd.  More grenades.  More smoke.  Confusion mounts.  

    A foot kicks my gut as I fight for freedom.  I gag and fall forward.  My feet churn the air.  Falling is a death wish.  My hands hit the pavement.  I push, tumbling forward.  My foot catches on a grate in the roadway.  I pull and yank, screaming in frustration.  My bare foot slips out of my shoe.  Boots and heavy feet stomp my back.  My face hits the concrete.  I curl, rolling with the crowd.  

    A body passes beneath me.  Gore sticks to my clothes.  The smell of blood and smoke permeates the air.  A bullet slices through my pant leg.  Another kick.  Another dying boy.  Adrenaline drowns out all pain.  I start to lose focus.  My kid needs me.  So does my sister.  I wasn’t going to join the dead.  This isn’t my fight.  I shouldn’t be here.

    A foot crushes my neck.  My windpipe constricts.  I retch and heave, trying to stand against the sea of humanity.  I lurch forward.  Cold metal smashes into my head.  I clutch at the object.  A police van.  I grope for support.  My fingers curl around a handle.

    I rise, pressed against the metal plate.  The surging crowd floats past me.  I taste blood and my mind focuses.  I have to survive for my son.  His blonde hair.  His green eyes.  Memories hit me.  My fingers tighten their hold.  The sounds of fighting dims.  Smoke burns my eyes.  I squeeze them shut.  

    Tears stream from my face as a noxious gas hisses it's release into the air.  The crowd fades from my perception.  A sharp blow to my head.  I stand straighter, freeing my hands and swinging my fists.  Another blow.  I fall against the grey side of the van, struggling to remain conscious.  I whip my head around toward my attacker.  He strikes again and I fall.  My skull smacks the uneven concrete.  Sudden darkness sweeps away the pain.

    A knock sounds at the door.  I open my eyes from my attempted nap.  My hands shake.  I stand, walking the short distance to the door.  I grip the knob tightly and pull.  After a moment,  I sigh in relief.  My son stands in twilight, smiling.  His blonde hair hangs in his dark eyes.  I rush forward to embrace him.  

    I stop a moment before I touch him.  I can see a homeless man gripping my son tightly.  He smiles slowly.  In an offhand manner, he pulls a stove gun from his leg.  Fear catches in my throat.  I leap toward them both, but strong hands hold my arms.  The gun climbs lazily toward the green eyed angel’s head.  I curse and struggle.  The gun rests on my sons temple and they both smile knowingly.  The killer shrugs his shoulders and pulls the trigger.

    I shred my vocal cords as I sit up, bludgeoning my head against a plastic board.  It was a dream.  We are all okay.  It wouldn’t happen.  I could still protect them.  I take deep breaths, relaxing my stomach.  I focus.  A mild headache pounds a steady beat in my mind.  

    I feel around me.  Soft plastic squishes beneath my fingers.  The occasional soft or wet item lies on the surface.  I move my hands above my head.  I feel the plastic give.  I push it slowly.  It rises, exposing tall brick walls and a cloudy sky.  I lie on the edge of a dumpster, peering through a narrow slit.  I watch for several minutes, but no one appears.  I edge closer, heaving the cover higher.

    “Don’t leave yet.”

   I start, falling back and slamming the lid.  My eyes adjust after a moment.  My heart seems to falter.  I try to speak, my voice catching in my throat.  I gulp and try again.

    “Why.  Why shouldn’t I leave.”  I shouldn’t have been so demanding.  A soft apple flies into my head and explodes in worms and warm matter.  I hastily wipe at it, shaking my head until the voice speaks again.

    “Ask politely.  I’m only doing you a favor freak.”

    The voice sounds younger this time.  Maybe a teenager.  Or younger.  I lay my head on my knees and try to speak calmly.  

    “Why shouldn’t I leave?"

    “Their watching the alley.  Motion sensors.  They’ll clear out soon.”

    Now the voice sounds like an older woman.  I peer into the darkness of the dumpster.  Rain starts falling, making more conversation nearly impossible.  Water leaks from the edges of the lid.  Loud sounds of skin scraping plastic echo as the speakers move from the edge.  I slip sideways as water streamed onto my clothing.  

    After a few minutes of hushed deliberation, a flashlight lights up the dumpster.  It hits my eyes first.  I jerk away from the light as someone laughs and gets told to shut up.  The light dances over my head for a moment, before someone gives an angry scream.  

    “I know you!  You left me to die three days ago.  You looked at me and ran.  I know we're all trying to survive here, but we help each other."  The light flickers and shuts off.  The sounds of struggling overcome the rain.  A gunshot.  The sulfuric smell of a stove gun.  A cry of pain.  I don’t remember where I was three days ago, but I’m not sticking around to find out.  

    I throw off the lid and leap the twelve feet to the ground.  As my feet touch the pavement, I roll.  Simultaneously, a screeching alarm rings out overhead.  I pull my legs under me and sprint toward the nearest street.  

    Moments later, riot vans speed into the alley.  They race behind, and ahead of me.  A ladder hangs from the fire escape of an old building.  I run at the wall, kicking off.  My palms smack the metal bar and I pull myself up.  The vans roll closer.  I climb higher.  Then stairs.  I take them three at a time.  A megaphone shouts for me to hold still.  I didn’t listen.  My fight isn't with them, but they didn’t know that.  Taser wires hit the metal stairway.  

    I pull my hands from the electric rails and keep running.  I climb onto the roof.  Water pools on the flat, broken expanse.  Still running, I make for the opposite edge.  I leap around blackened pieces of once white marble.  I reach it, readying to climb down to the street below.  I glance up and hesitate.  Less than a two hundred yards away, lies the White House.  Or what’s left of it.  The country has finally gotten its wish.  The structure has been blown away.  Craters fill the beautiful park.  Rubble lies on the nearby roofs and streets..    

    Whomever was in the the riot vans couldn’t be the government.  Those left had been guarding the president.  It didn’t matter if I didn’t like it, or if it wasn’t the best turn of events.  I still have to find my son

Week 7 - Downfall

I'm writing this with the idea that I am going to re-write it as my midweek post.  I want to try first person for it and see how it works out.  It will also be good to compare the two, one edited and one not, and see the differences.  I also like this idea a lot, and I believe that when I switch to first person and try a sequel, it'll turn out better than this.  Wrote this in about two hours last night, so theirs probably some typos and such.  Glad I'm staying on pace though, haven't had post later than Monday morning so I'm feeling accomplished.  Here's week 7.

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    Heated bodies pushed at me from behind.  Fevered shouts of anger filled the air.  I stumbled as the crowd surged forward.  I tried to back away.  The furious mob crowded me toward their front.  I pulled away, struggling against the mass of surging people.  Shouts echoed from megaphones and giant speakers, urging the crowd to disperse.  

    The volume of yelling increased at the demands.  I struggled harder.  Hands shoved me forward.  Another warning from the megaphone.  The front line of the crowd hesitated momentarily.  Then they ran.  Not away, but forwards.  Time seemed to stand still as I was crushed and thrown forward.  The shouting and chants reached a crescendo.  Momentarily the sounds dropped and pounding feet were heard as those in the front screamed again.  

    A concussion grenade blasted over the noise of the crowd.  Two more in quick succession.  The rapid firing of government assault rifles.  Smoke plumed in the air.  Screaming turned from anger to fear.  The mob of rebels slowed to a halt.  I fought my way back.  My fight wasn’t here.  Flash mobs like this were common now.  But this was the worst.  Men and women younger than me were dead and dying.  The livid anger and fear were tangible, filling the sky like a flock of vultures.  

    They weren’t going to stop.  The hesitation was momentary.  Than several shots.  Stove guns.  Homemade rebel’s who weren’t waiting for a leader.  The relative silence around me was short lived.  A roar rose up and the mob sprinted again.  The street clogged in the middle.  Sweaty men and women piled around riot vans.  The dead and dying were trampled underfoot.  The policemen fired into the crowd.  More grenades.  More smoke.  Confusion reigned.  

    A foot kicked my gut.  I gagged and fell forward.  My feet churned.  Falling was a death wish in this crowd.  My hands hit the ground.  I pushed off, tumbling forward.  My foot caught on a grate in the roadway.  I pulled and yanked, my bare foot slipping out of my shoe.  Boots and heavy feet hit my back.  My face hit the concrete.  I curled, rolling with the crowd.  

    A body passed beneath me.  The smell of blood and smoke permeated the air.  A bullet hit my pant leg.  Another kick.  Another dying boy.  Adrenaline drowned out all pain.  I wasn’t going to join the dead.  My kid needed me.  So did my sister.  They wouldn’t survive if I died.  This wasn’t my fight.  I shouldn’t be here.

    A foot crushed my neck.  My windpipe constricted.  I retched and heaved, trying to stand against the sea of humanity.  Cold metal smashed into my head.  I clutched at the object.  A police van.  Anything to hold onto in the angry tide.  I felt a handle and braced my arms.

    I pulled up, pressing against the metal plate.  The surging crowd passed around me.  I tasted blood and my mind focused.  I had to survive for my son.  His blonde hair.  His green eyes.  Memories hit me.  I gripped the handle tighter.  The sounds of fighting dimmed.  Smoke burned my eyes.  I squeezed them shut.  

    Tears streamed from my face as a noxious gas was released into the air.  The crowd faded from my perception.  A sharp blow to my head.  I stood straighter, swinging my fists.  Another blow.  I fell against the grey side of the van, struggling to remain conscious.  I whipped my head around toward my attacker.  Another blow and I fell.  My skull smacked the uneven pavement.  Sudden darkness swept away the pain.

    A knock sounded at the door.  I opened my eyes from my attempted nap.  My hands shook.  I stood, walking the short distance to the door.  I gripped the knob tightly and pulled.  I sighed in relief.  My son stood in twilight, smiling.  His blonde hair hung in his dark eyes.  I rushed forward to embrace him.  

    I stopped a moment before I touched him.  I hadn’t seen the homeless man gripping him tightly.  He smiled slowly.  In an offhand manner, he pulled a stove gun from his leg.  Fear caught in my throat.  I leaped toward them both, but strong hands held my arms.  The gun lazily climbed toward the green eyed angel’s head.  I cursed and kicked, trying to break free.  The gun rested on my sons temple and they both smiled.  The killer shrugged his shoulders and pulled the trigger.

    I shredded my vocal cords as I sat up, bludgeoning my head against a plastic board.  It was a dream.  We were all okay.  It wouldn’t happen.  I could still protect them.  I took deep breaths, relaxing my stomach.  The mild headache pounded a steady beat in my mind.  

    I felt around me.  Soft plastic squished beneath my fingers.  The occasional soft or wet item lay on the surface.  I moved my hands toward the top.  I pushed slowly.  It rose, exposing tall brick walls and a cloudy sky.  I lay on the edge of a dumpster, peering through the cracked lid.  I watched for several minutes, but no one appeared.  I edged closer, heaving the cover higher.

    “Don’t leave yet.”

   I started, falling back and slamming the plastic.  My eyes adjusted after a moment.  My heart seemed to falter.  I tried to speak, my voice catching in my throat.  I gulped and tried again.

    “Why.  Why shouldn’t I leave.”  I shouldn’t have been so demanding.  A soft apple flew into my head and exploded in worms and warm matter.  I hastily wiped at it, shaking my head until the voice spoke again.

    “Ask politely.  I’m only doing you a favor you freak.”

    The voice sounded younger this time.  Maybe a teenager.  Or younger.  I bowed my head over my legs and tried to speak calmly.  

    “Why shouldn’t I leave?”

    “Their watching the alley.  Motion sensors.  They’ll clear out soon.”

    Now the voice sounded like an older woman.  I peered into the darkness.  The rain started falling, making more conversation nearly impossible.  Water leaked from the edges of the lid.  Loud sounds of skin on plastic echoed as the speakers moved from the edge.  I slipped sideways as water streamed onto my clothing.  

    After a few minutes, someone turned on a flashlight.  It hit my eyes first.  I jerked away from the light as someone laughed and was told to shut up.  The light danced over my head for a moment more, before someone shouted.  

    “I know you!  You left me to die three days ago.  You looked at me and ran.  I know we're all trying to survive here, but we help each other.  The light dimmed and shut off.  The sounds of struggling overcame the rain.  A gunshot and the sulfuric smell of a stove gun.  I didn’t remember where I was three days ago, or what happened.  But I wasn’t sticking around.  

    I threw off the lid and leapt the twelve feet to the ground.  As my feet touched the pavement, I rolled.  Simultaneously, a screeching alarm rang out overhead.  I pulled my legs under me and sprinted toward the nearest street.  

    Moments later, riot vans sped into the alley behind, and ahead of me.  A ladder hung from the fire escape of the old building.  I ran at the wall, kicking off.  My palms smacked the metal bar and I pulled myself up.  The vans rolled closer.  I climbed higher.  Then stairs.  I took them three at a time.  A megaphone shouted for me to hold still.  I didn’t listen.  My fight wasn’t with them, but they didn’t know that.  Taser wires hit the metal stairway.  

    I pulled my hands from the rails and kept running.  I hit the roof.  Water was pooling on the flat expanse.  Running, I made for the opposite edge, leaping around blackened pieces of once white marble.  I reached it, readying to slide down to the street below.  I glanced up and hesitated.  Less than a two hundred yards away, lay the White House.  Or what was left of it.  The mobs had finally gotten their wish.  The structure had been blown away.  Craters where it had stood and rubble laying in the streets and on roofs.     

    Whomever was in the the riot vans, couldn’t be the government.  Those left had been guarding the president.  It didn’t matter if I didn’t like it, or if it wasn’t the best turn of events.  But I still had to find my son.  

First Midweek Post

     So I have decided on doing some midweek posts every now and then.  It'll get me thinking more clearly about how I view some things, maybe help me clarify for myself how I'm seeing different events.  This morning, I got an idea for a short little description.  I got 100% on a quiz that I hadn't studied for.  Ironically, it was for English 1102 and I hadn't read any of the material.  It was on poems and I simply went with the most sadistic answer available.  Yeah, I don't like poems much.  So here it is, maybe the only time I'll be doing this but it's a change.

     

     The first one.  Usually the easiest.  Actually, always the easiest.  It's a dirty game with dirty players.  Sneaking glances, trying to ensure you've done the same as everyone.  Desperate not to be wrong.  If you're wrong, you face eternal remorse and suffering from fellow players.  If you're right, riches and fame just might be yours.  I choose low.  

     Then comes the second.  Usually a bit harder.  I'm not positive about this one.  I plug in what I'm sure is right, but glance up.  A player to my left has chosen low.  Now it's tricky.  Would a low get chosen twice, or would a high and a low be opposite?  It's only the second question, nothing that complicated.  I'll go with high and take my chance.  

     The third.  Okay.  Now it's complicated.  Will a pattern show up?  If it does, the answers are probably wrong.  If there isn't one, I could still be wrong.  So many choices.  I go with the middle.  My gut says so, and someone's already marked beside their pick.  Things are looking up.  Not an obvious pattern, but still hope for one.  

     The fourth really gets hard.  Instead of following the would be pattern, my answer is low again.  I really can't handle this kind of stress.  I just guess.  And then I guess again.  All.  The.  Way.  Down.  To the last question.  No pattern, but a couple doubles, same answers right in a row.  I kept my gaze on my own evaluation the whole time.  Better to guess once than to second guess yourself and be wrong.  

     I pass up my paper and cross my fingers.  Maybe I'll study next time.

Week 6 - Truth, Herai Pt. 2

So I wrote this story in about three hours.  Decided to at least give some closure to the first story of Herai and maybe explore something slightly deeper than just a story of demons and fighting monks with magical staffs.  Once you read it, you might see that since things are never as they appear, asking or seeking help might just reward you with great, or terrible knowledge.  The child got more than he bargained for, and the warrior got what he was seeking.  Different events or words or conversations might mean different things to different people.  While a sarcastic word might make one person laugh, the other might be hurt.  However, the hurting person can always be helped if the right person is there to comfort or be there for them.  I'm not sure, but I finished it and I think it kinda came out as what's been on my mind.  I guess I like this one, but here it is, the first one posted on a Monday, so I guess my life is getting busier.  But here, week 6:

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    Herai lays back, his eyes wide.  The sounds of dragon wings fade away.  The grass filled mountaintop exhumes heat, steam fogging the air.  True fear set in.  For the second time in his short life, he feels truly alone.  The monastery sits somewhere in the distance.  He takes deep breaths.  His muscles relax, the tension leaving.  

    Deciding nothing is to be done, he closes his eyes.  Dreams of dragon fire and leathery wings fill his mind.  The green light fades to a light glow.  Wolves prowl around him.  The light of the staff wards off the dangerous beasts.  

    Sometime in the night, an explosion of red light fills the sky.  Fiery birds in the night, swooping about the still air.  They race overhead towards some unknown location.  Then screaming starts.  It rises into the young child’s ears.  Herai opens his eyes, the heat singeing the grass around him.  His clothes begin to smolder.  Sweat breaks out upon his forehead.  He sits up.  Stiff muscles stretch as he stands.  The flames burn his skin painfully.  He grabs ahold of his staff for support.  The heat instantly vanishes from his senses, the pain diminished and the screaming reduced to a dull roar.  

    In the distance, the monastery rises up among the moonlit hills, now bathed in a deep red glow of flames.  The flaming eagles and falcons flew on, the sky filling with others.  Soaring wildcats and dragon-like shapes danced above Herai.  They rush onward, the screaming rising in intensity.  Hundreds of the demons fly onward, desperate to destroy their target.  

    The red shapes curled into the distance, circling each other in flaming loops.  Flames dancing over the still landscape.  The horde of demons circle Herai’s home once more, before falling upon the castle.  The creatures had passed Herai, leaving the bright moon and dull staff to light up his misery.  Horror and regret fills him.  Tears leap from his eyes.  His childhood home destroyed.  The only people he had ever called his friends would soon be gone.  

    He screams in hatred at the gods of the sky.  Anger for allowing the demonic beasts pass through their presence.  He turns his face toward the battle.  Tears continue to run.  His friends would die without him.  They would die bravely while he stood and watched from the distance.  If it wasn’t for the dragon, he would be there to fight.  

    Than the pounding of horses and beasts fill the ground.  All thoughts of home vanish from the boys mind.  The sounds of thundering hooves drown out the dull roar of screams.  A small army rides onto the plane.  Herai sprints toward the trees bordering the clearing.  First those on horseback gallop into sight, followed by sprinting giants, flowing a dull red.  Half man and half demon.  Only the darkest of magicians and kings used the half bloods.  

    Herai sprints harder, determined not to die.  Revenge for his friends and family burns inside of his young heart.  He stays his feelings, a fight would result in quick death.  The horses gain on him.  He whips his staff at a nearby horse.  It collapses, a deep burning gash in its chest.  He spins and leaps, acrobating beneath a horse and soaring over the saddle of another.

    Then the giants thunder around him. The ground shakes and flames leap at his clothing.  He tries to leap upon the back of shorter demon.  He lands upon the beasts shoulders, swinging his dragonfire staff.  He hangs for a moment and falls.  His robes are black and burned.  His skin remains whole, protected by his staff.  

    A horseman grabs his arm and tosses him toward a speeding chariot.  The driver catches him and grips his arms tightly.  As they drop into a valley, the horizon lies clean against the moonlight.  The monastery is already gone, stripped to the ground by the demon horde.  The lives of hundreds gone in moments.  Herai breaks into sobs as the army flies into the night.  

-----

    The dust swirled to a stop.  The fiery animals crept into the shadows and dissolved into ash, and the dust settled upon the ground in feral shapes.  The curiosity of the young child had long since disappeared.  Fear and awe decorated his face.  His eyes shone with revelation.  The acts of the king, they were the works of a summoner.  His eyes turned in wonder to the two trembling figures in front of him.

    The old man’s tattoos were glowing a deep green.  His staff lay under his hammock, glistening dully in the dim light.  His eyes remained closed.  Scars from his captivity decorated his back.  Reminders of what had happened years ago.  Most startlingly, the visiting warrior’s eyes were glistening with tears.

    The young warrior swallowed loudly, choking on his own breath.

    “It really happened.  We’ve been ruled and destroyed.  Laid low by the demons we are told not to speak of.  And you.  Saved by a dragon.  The last monk.  They used half bloods... Thousands of them... And demons.  Hordes of demons.”

    The old warrior slowly opened his eyes.  

    “They never had a chance.  Demons and the summoner reached them in their sleep.  They tortured me for years, decades.  They kept me as their prize.  Their trophy of when they finally destroyed their last foes.  I won’t ever know how he got the half bloods to cooperate.”  

    His voice shook with the effort.  The tattoos were no longer moving.  Stiff figures stationary on his sweaty skin.  The magic seemed gone, despair filling the room.  The monks had kept the demons at bay.  The demons couldn’t be seen unless they allowed it, and nothing but a summoner could bring them together.  And there they had went.  Filling the streets and villages of the kingdom.  Obeying only the king.  Attacking the weak and pillaging the poor.

    “We are ruled by demons.  There’s no overcoming this.  The council has suspected it for years.  We needed your power to prove it.  At least I can see them now.” The young man sat back, worry etched on his forehead.  

    The young boy leapt to the doorway, one thought in his mind.  He peered into the sunlit street.  A flaming cat slunk along in the shadows across the now silent road.  The sun now burned a blood red and the sky turned to black.  The creature faced the short doorway, its eyes meeting the childs.  The demon narrowed its eyes and screaming wracked the boys mind.  He leapt back, breaking eye contact and stumbling against the visitor.  He scrambled back, leaning against the damp wall.  

    The old man smiled.  

    “You know why I stay indoors.  With the world dark and the demons present, I wouldn’t last long.  Best you stay hidden now.”  

    The young warrior shook with realization.  

    “So I can see now.  I’m no longer safe, and we’ve been living inside of this lie for generations,”  His throat caught, “I must warn the council.  I have a long journey, thank you for showing me.  We needed to know.”

    The elder nodded his approval as the warrior slipped to the door, starting at the state of the sky that only he could see, and slipped silently into the dark world.  

    The minutes passed quickly, the red sun setting and the dark sky turning black.  Still the child sat with the old man.  Silence pervaded, other than the occasional sob from the child, or shift of movement from the old man.  After several hours, the old man turned his eyes toward the weeping child.

    The boys mind was still in shock and needed something to occupy his attention.  The old man shifted position, crawling the several feet to the boy.  He leaned against the wooden beams and touched the child's shoulder as a father would his son.

    “I know how you feel,” He said, “I really do.  I was nearly you’re age when they came.  I lived with several refugees.  They finished my training and, although never masters, were able to teach me.  I can teach you, if you would like.  You can’t live in this world alone now.  If you can see them, they’ll see you.”

    The boy looked up, tears still glistening in his small eyes, and nodded slowly.  

Week 4/5 - Lifegiver

So I fell ill last week with a viral illness that everyone seemed to have, yet it affected them in different ways.  Some would have a fever for several hours, some for days at a time.  Different symptoms hitting everyone let me lock onto an idea.  I haven't been able to act on this idea til this week, as I was to dizzy/nauseous to even play video games, which is saying something as I love gaming.  So instead of skipping a week, I decided to incorporate my idea that I had last week, and this week, into one story.  It's not that long, but, for another week in a row, I am just glad to have finished.  I have also suffered from my first case of writers block, so that wasn't any fun.  But through all of that, I managed to come up with something anyway.  Encouragement helps those with writers block, seriously.  That's basically the only reason I got this finished, encouragement from fellow artists.  So without further ado, here you go, week 4/5 in all of its glamour and glory.

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    A loud knock sounded from the door.  I rubbed my eyes.  My vision blurred.  I blinked several times.  White pain filled my eyelids momentarily.  Heavy drums beat a rhythms side my skull.  I breathed several shallow breathes, my chest heaving.  I pulled my arms close.  I tried to stand, my legs refusing to hold.  I landed inches from my desk.  My head hit the tile with a heavy thud.  More pain.  I groaned and squirmed.  My useless arms were cradled between my stomach and legs.  

    The knock sounded again.  Yelling and the sound of an opening door.  I heaved, retching warm air.  My legs acted on their own, kicking out and cracking the wooden leg of my desk.  I sucked in a lungful of air and slowly exhaled.  My muscles relaxed slightly. The terrible beating in my head continued.

    Sweaty hands snatched at my arms and felt my head.  Muffled voices grew stronger.  They picked me up, carrying me from my room.  I twisted savagely and screamed.  I felt a bone cracking as my eyesight dimmed.  

  

-----

    

    Continuous drums steadily beat once more.  Dreaded awareness overcame me.  Fear filled my throat.  A weight pressed against my chest.  I punch at the air and connect with something hard.  I arch my back and scream again, shoving at the heavy object.  I tried to roll, my arms flailing.  A fist struck my mouth.  Vertigo hit me.  The weight was gone and I was falling backward.  I tucked my head and fell onto my back, rolling to my knees.  I opened my eyes, feeling dizzy.  I stumbled forward pulling my legs beneath a me.  I swayed slightly.  White blocks surrounded me, rising into the air.  

    Some were small, littering the ground with white cubes.  The larger ones were like walls and rose up around me.  A crash echoed from within the whiteness.  A cube stood, waving it's narrow arms.  Eyes watched me from the white cubes.  My foot slid my supporting cube tumbled away, standing several feet away indignantly.  Giant cubes stood, white lines shifting in the distance.  Grey sky blurred with stark white walls, the inconsistency burning my vision.  

    Crashing echoed in my hearing, as walls continued to move.  My dizziness increased as I leaned against a nearby cube.  It shifted, my balance compromised, I fell back to the ground.  The white walls crumbled.  Dust rained over my head, misting the surreal landscape.  Grey turned to white and white to black.  My vision burned once more and the light faded.

-----

    

    Ringing filled my ears.  Sharp tones of static filtered around my head.  Voices sprang up in the static and pain returned.

    "The super-bug, it hits everyone the same way."

    "What do you think he saw?"  

    "Couldn't have been that different... Most see the same variant of events."

    "I'm not sure, he acted like he was feeling pain."

    "He acted pretty bent up when we took him."

    "His eyes are moving, and his heart rate is up.  Check his blood..."

    "Wish we got him earlier, he's pretty far..."

"They've gotta choose it..."

    My ears were ringing again.  Restraints held my body, my arms rubbing raw against the straps.  I felt my pain overwhelm my senses and sank into haunted sleep.  

-----

    The cubes returned.  White blocks rose out of the dust, clinging together into solid matter.  They towered high above, and littered the white floor.  Then they started tumbling.  Blocks cut my legs and impaled my skin.  I half fell, half ran out from under a white wall as it crashed down into whirling floor.

    Cubes raced past me at eye level, dark edges thudding into silent walls.  They twisted around the air, circling me.  Rushing walls surrounded me, silent deadly.  Then the crashing started.  Just as before, I could see the rushing squares in the distance.  They grew larger, rushing toward my little circle of solitude.  I tried to run.  Pain crushed my arms when I pushed at the spinning cubes.  The tornado closed in tighter, silently spinning faster.  

    Just as the walls reached me, I screamed.  The fear and pain rushed to my throat in a crescendo.  Than the blocks turned once more to dust.  The spinning shapes imploded silently.  Surreal dust held suspended midair for moments.  I looked around.  

    For the first time in the white and grey landscape, pain was a memory.  The suspended dust showed no signs of falling.  Then the floor shifted.  I fell sideways.  The ringing of a bell shot through the air and I hit the floor.

-----

      The restraints pulled at my arms again.  An erratic beeping filled my ears.  I twisted painfully, trying to get away from my tiny prison.  My eyes opened to darkness.  I took deep breathes and calmed my nerves.  The butterflies in my stomach relaxed and my muscles throbbed painfully.  The beeping settled into a predictable rhythm.  I waited for several minutes, just glad that the cubes hadn't crushed me to death.  

    Slowly, the lights turned back on.  I found myself in a stark white hospital room.  Gleaming metal and dull plastic decorated the vicinity.  Human figures blurred around, shifting back and forth.  Voices rose to a crescendo, and faded away.  The humans quit moving, staring through the blurry haze.  

     My eyes focused.  Men and women in lab suits stood around the foot of my bed.  One held onto a plastic box with a death grip.  Another clutched at the IV’s and was looking at the ground.  The others stared at something above my head.  I tried to remember.  My memories rolled away, slipping past my mental fingers just as I would reach them.  I finally gripped something important, and brought it to the surface.  

    Disease and death.  Cures.  Expensive.  Millions of dollars.  Only the rich could afford it.  I frowned.  I had it.  The disease, the death bug.  It had killed thousands before the cure.  And I could afford it, when others just died.  What was I?  A monster, maybe.  A condemner of those who couldn't buy their life.  I had put a price on life.  Oh yes.  I was the president of the United States.  

    I deserved life.  Only the smartest survive, right?

    No, who was I to defy death when others could not.  Nothing more than a thief.  My family had the cure.  So did the others on my board.  And these doctors and nurses.  We were all sealed from the outside.  From the suffering and violent death we had sentenced the poor of the world to endure.  

    I snapped.

    I arched my back and screamed again, the unfairness of what I had done hitting me violently.  I couldn’t bear the weight of sentencing millions to death.  A belt snapped.  I pulled harder.  

    The rich could survive when offered a cure from a canadian genius.  Another restraint snapped.  Then another, and another.  The physicians let me stand.  I trembled, my legs barely holding my weight.  Anger filled my heart and soul.  Those whom I had strove to protect were dead or dying.

    “What you saw...” One of the doctors said, “It wasn’t normal.  No one else saw cubes.”

    The tests and the cure.  How our brains reacted to the serum would tell them how much to administer.  Most saw circles of sunlight, or a desolate sandy plain.  I saw white cubes.  I was killed by them.  

    “Our results say remorse.  No one else felt remorse, only relief at living.  Being among the few who will survive the week.”  

    I coughed, slipping on the sleek floor.  Strong hands caught me before I hit the floor, sitting me up.  Sorrow and guilty expressions covered their faces.  Some looked away from my sad and angry gaze.  I felt a spasm coming.  My muscles tensed.  I felt them push me back onto the tray and hold me down.  

    “You’re mind rejected the serum.  Everyone has accepted it.  Only a few will survive.  We all understood that this was our last chance.  But even in your dream, you wouldn't accept your reality.  Instead, you destroyed it.  Twice.”

    “Sir, you aren't cured.  You can’t be.  We've tried.  And you haven’t accepted it.  I’m sorry...  There’s nothing we can do.”

    I was going to die anyway, because my mind knew that this was wrong.  I struggled with one last attempt at freedom.  My vision darkened.  Killed by my love for my country and people.  Fitting...