This short story was written as an experiment a couple of years ago. A bit cynical, but hey, it was fun writing it! (Yarr, had some problems with the format, hope it's ok.)

The One

"Hey man, what'cha lookin' at!" Giving the
sobbing girl laying on the ground another kick
he asked the onlooker again, "I said, what are
you lookin' at?" The girl on the ground
shuddered, streaks of blood lining her beaten
face. Tall dark brick walls made the alley seem
even darker than it truly was, filth of all
kinds filling every corner. A few feet further
down the corridor of crud and garbage, a man
huddled inside his crude home made of
carboardboxes and old newspapers. A hurt
whimper escaped the girl, tears running down
her crimson stained chocolate colored skin,
blending with fresh blood. "Shut up bitch!" the
man yelled as he kicked her again, this time in
the chest. Sudden thoughts and emotions swirled
through the man, whose sudden appearance at the
mouth of the alley -as if placed there by some
holy unknown force of nature- only seemed to
aggravate the tormentor of the girl even more.
No. Please. Don't hurt her. Anger contorted the
tormentor's face, his eyes seeming fogged. His
dark-skinned knuckles were white from strain
clutching the gun in his right hand. "So. You
wanna play toughguy huh?" he said with a note
of challenge. Stepping toward the clearly
confused person at the mouth of the alley he
raised the gun, pointing it at the face of the
onlooker, and in one fluid motion removed the
safety with a crisp click. What is this? Why?
Who? Unheard questions and hopeless pleas. Fear
and anger topped off with confusion soared
through the spectator, as the man pointing the
gun stepped another step closer with a sneer on
his lips baring gold-covered teeth. "Please
stop hurting her. Please" the onlooker pleaded.
Thoughts and questions swirled around in his
head. It was as if he had been thrown into
existence right there and then and his mind
still was clouded from the trip. Who am I? Why
is he hurting her like that? How did- "Shut yo
mouth! She's my bitch an' if I feel like
kicking her guts out, believe me, that's what
I'll do!" Frustration and desperation started
to build itself up inside him like a wild
torrent. "Just don't-" was all he could say
before time stopped, as a bright flash of light
accompanied by a roaring sound ever so slowly
made way to his senses. Instinctively he
reached out -not with his bared arms or hands-
but with the essence of his being toward
someplace else, somewhere safe. Feeling flows
of threads, the ones of which the very fabric
of existence is woven, enter through his
fingertips, through his skin, he reached out
for more. More. Pulsating with the life of
existence, with life itself, he extended
himself toward someplace safe. Reality broke
apart and his senses reeled as he was
surrounded by a black never-ending void,
leaving a wide-eyed man suddenly turned sober
standing in the alley with a bleeding girl
lying at his feet.

He materialized miles and miles away from that
alley. A long forgotten bitter feeling of
sorrow still clung to his stomach. So
meaningless. Remote feelings of pain made his
head swim. Slowly rising from the sandy ground,
stumbling to regain balance, he took a good
look at his surroundings. It seemed he had made
his way to a small village. Or something that
resembled. Ramshackle stone and brick huts lay
scattered about as if tossed to their spots
like a cup of dices in a game of chance. The
unrelenting sun stood high, making him sweat
almost immediately. Vegetation was nowhere to
be seen, and neither was any apparent source of
water. The ground was covered with yellowish
sand and crusty pebbles, some places all
cracked up by drought. What a barren land, he
thought. Right behind him stood a well, from
the obsolete look of it most probably long dry.
The people.. It struck him like a physical
blow. Gaunt-faced children dismal in appearance
lying on their mothers' laps, desperately
attempting to draw just another drop of mothers
milk from breasts dry as the surrounding
landscape. If the young ones made a haggard
display, their parents and elders made grim
seem like joy. Famine. How can people starve in
a world as big and rich as this? Feeling
encumbered with sheer sorrow for these poor
people he slumped down on the ground.
Envisioning another place in his mind's eye, he
traveled again on the winds of reality, his
disappearance already forgotten by the starving
wretches in the village.

Once again he coalesced, bits and pieces of his
body rapidly solidifying. He had arrived in the
shadows beneath a canvas sheet supported by
wooden poles, its purpose keeping the boiling
caress of the sun away from the fruits, caskets
filled with blood-red apples. His sudden
appearance had not been noticed. Taking in the
display encircling him he winced. A loud
droning sound lay thick in the air, its origin
booted feet marching in unison on a paved road.
The vanguard of the marching men carried
banners made of white canvas on which it had
been written slogans like: "Burn the
blackskins!" or simply "Cage them all!"
Half-expecting some gruesome point of a lesson,
he emotionally braced himself. And the point
got revealed thoroughly. In the midst of a
passing battalion of crudely uniformed men a
cage had been placed on a highwheeled wagon
pulled by a dozen men, all clothed in brown
rough-hewn pants, their black skinned backs
glistening with sweat. Inside the cage, halfway
hidden by iron bars a man was stuffed. Or
rather a crushed being, the shape of a man,
emitting mere moans when someone hit his numbed
body with a missile, be it a rock or droppings
picked up from the filthy street. Most of the
men in the human-team pulling the coarse
display of suppressed freedom were stumbling,
trying their very best to keep walking despite
their tormentors mocking attempts to make them
trip. Once again the newly arrived man silently
cried out in pain. His knees gave way from
beneath him, refusing to carry his weight
another second. Grasping his long black hair
with shivering fingers, yanking out full locks
from his head, he shrieked his pain, the pain
of the captives and the pain of all other
beings denied their freedom. When the crowd
filling the street had turned to see the source
of the sound making the hackles on their necks
rise, they saw nothing. Not a trace of the
horrifying sound, nor its maker was evident.
The shouts demanding all blackskins to be
burned and caged continued, albeit not with the
contemptuous glee mere moments earlier.

Lost in agony he emerged in a clearing,
towering trees making it seem like a hall in
the forest. A faint breeze made the leaves sing
a somber tone of purity. Tears still painting
blank stripes on his cheeks, he laid down on a
soft carpet of dead foliage. Staring up at the
warm green ceiling dimming the light from
above, he desperately searched for answers,
going through every hidden memory concealed
within his mind. Why? Sobs started to rake his
body as he wept. Wept for mankind, wept for the
outcome of a once innocent being. Why? What's
the meaning of this? All the pain, all the
hurting! Who am I?

The question got answered. Waves of images and
pictures, waves of knowledge started streaming
through his head like an untamed torrent of
spring-water. Nearly washed away with
sensations of a time long gone, of a time when
a constructive force called Amsohl the Creator
made Thelos, the world on which surface he was
laying. He saw the Creator proceed with the
making of humans. In the image of himself, the
builder, Amsohl made mankind and destined them
to rule the world in his name. Ages after the
Making he saw that his creation was in truth an
egoistic being, he saw his own failure. With a
pang of mixed anguish and remorse he attempted
to set the human race right, to undo his
errors. In hope of salvation for his beloved
creation he sent his only son -The One- down to
the face of the earth with a mission; to tell
the humans of their Creator and his undying
love for his creations. In ignorance and
arrogance man hung The One, whose coming was
meant to be mankind's savior and salvation.
Being the pure essence of constructive forces,
the Creator decided to give mankind yet another
chance. He let his son walk the face of the
earth once more telling them of his next
coming. Telling them of The Day of Judgment,
where all will be judged and that the ones who
repent will be gathered in the divine presence
of the Creator. For over two thousand years his
coming had been prophesized, the Coming of the
One. The wild flow of the stream started to
slow its uncaring pace. As suddenly as they
appeared the visions and images winked out as a
candle in the wind.

And he rose. Anger, pure rage outlined with
liquid grief filled his being. The birds
stopped singing as one and the soft breeze died
away. Meaningless! Lifting his arms above his
head, hands clutched to fists he reached out
toward the very threads in the fabric of
existence and roared "Know who I am, and know
your failure and sins! Know that today, you
will all be judged and sentenced! Know that I
am The One!" His words made way through the
forest and spread out like the ripples produced
by a stone hitting the surface of a still pond.

In a small village on the other side of the
world, a busy housewife suddenly felt tears
running wild down here face. Confused she
collapsed on the floor, shame seeming to surge
through her joints. Weeping for her sins, for
every moment of her life where egoistic
motivation had made her perform an action to
further her own ambitious needs, she laid there
sobbing, shedding currents upon currents of
tears. Tears of failure.

Drawing upon the power, upon the feral power of
life, upon the code of existence and the fabric
of space and time, the sheer amount of energy
giving his eyes an unmerciful furious gleam, he
unleashed his wrath upon the world. If the
words of his mission were ripples in a pond,
the supreme force of destruction and rage
released upon Thelos simply unmade it. Molten
stone spurted from every crack as the ground
erupted in an insane inferno of flames. The
planet Thelos quivered in its destruction.
Miles and miles above, the eradication of a
world made a flash of light bright enough to
equal the sun. Bright enough to blind even the
Creator, had not his eyes been filled with
tears. Tears for his creation and for his son,
his sacrifice. The first, the One and the very

Short story by Thomas Selnes The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 568 times
Written on 2006-02-03 at 19:28

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text