A Place to Write

            Greg came home looking a mess. His hair was tousled, but not in that “I just had sex” kind of way. It was more of a not-so-subtle “I just had to fight for my very life and nearly died” sort of way. There was blood running from the corner of his mouth, one eye was swollen shut, and somehow there were a large number of burn holes in his once perfectly ironed shirt.

            I took a long look at him and he looked back at me. His expression, despite the limited range of facial motion afforded to him with that blackened eye, held a strong concentration of blame directed at me. I took a few more seconds to consider the scene before I spoke.

            “So… I’m guessing she said no to anal, huh?”

            It’s not enough to simply win; to see your opponent beaten and frustrated. No, not nearly enough. You have to destroy him completely. Take the trophy and beat him with it over and over. Kill him with your superiority.

            She slapped him clear across his ruggedly handsome face. He didn’t respond at all though; he was stunned to complete silence. Yes, he’d made a bawdy comment about what he might do to her ample bosom, but that was how Gaston always spoke to the bar maids. That was part of their job, right?

            He was still stunned several long seconds later as he watched her equally ample bottom sashaying back to the bar.

            Gaston had apparently never met a woman before.

            The pages all blur together after a while. In truth, he liked it that way. Yes, it was something of a strain on the eye, but the speed with which he absorbed that precious knowledge was dizzying.

            Barnard Watts had a super power. He could read faster than any human being could ever hope. Bernard could absorb an entire set of encyclopedias in less than 30 minutes time. As might be expected, he spent a great deal of time in libraries. Libraries, you ask? Why not just browse Wikipedia for a day or so and know everything there is to know?

Well you see, the one caveat to his power was that he had to physically touch the book and flip its pages to gain its treasured contents. It didn’t work with a computer screen and so the internet, wealth of information that it is, was of little interest to this unsung superhero.

Bernard spend his days, and even some of his nights when he managed to hide from the library staff, tucked comfortably under a fortress of books. He knew everything there was to know on a myriad of subjects. He could tell you how to build a television from scratch, or how to row up a raging river in kayak. He could teach you to cook any one of a million different meals, or the proper technique to track down a deadly Siberian Tiger.

Yes, it was true, Bernard knew just about everything, and he was learning more all the time. There was just one problem, one tiny oversight that managed to escape his indomitable reservoir of knowledge.

Bernard had no friends. No one really liked to be around him because of how often he would correct people on even the slightest error. He knew that people didn’t like this, but try as he might, he couldn’t stop the behavior. The knowledge was right there, just begging to be shouted out, and he simply had to demonstrate it.

No matter how many books he read, or how much knowledge he absorbed, Bernard was a dyed-in-the-wool know-it-all, and nobody likes a know-it-all.

            Brown paper packages tied up with string. There were two of them on my doorstep this morning. They were both addressed to me. Where there would normally be a return address there was only dark brownish-red stain, like old blood. The packages had been there a long time, on my doorstep. From the wear and weather damage, I guessed that a minimum of several months had passed for these brown paper packages tided up with string.

            I opened the first package. Inside was a strip of very old leather, partially burned, and heavily damaged from excessive handling. It had been rubbed to almost perfect smoothness except for the burned section. Holding it gave me a sensation of deep peace followed by a few long seconds of abject terror.

            Beneath the leather strip was a note hastily written on a piece of crumbled, wide-rule notebook paper. The handwriting was nearly illegible and written in more of that dark brownish-red stain.

            “This is the last piece. I love you and hope to see you soon.” Stated the note, plainly.  I haven’t opened the other package.

            I dropped a dirty sock over the balcony today. Thirteen stories it fluttered downward, end over end until it landed neatly inside an elderly woman’s grocery bag.

            That outta teach her.

            Doran’s sword was a heavy one; forged from the molten core of his homeworld, Ikoh, it was said to be able to cleave through any foe. The rumors were true for several millennia. Doran and his enormous blade were feared the Omniverse over. None dared face him in single combat; at least not until I showed up.

            He’s dead now, Dorian is, and his legendary blade has been shattered. I know what you’re thinking. Who do I think I am, and how did I get so bold? Let me tell you something. There’s always a bigger fish, always someone that eventually comes along with a bigger sword or more magical might.

I’m no exception. Someday someone will hunt me down and try to kill me just for the glory of it. They may succeed at it too. That’s not the point though. You can’t live your life worrying about that eventual bigger fish; but look at me, I’ve gotten completely sidetracked.

Why did I kill Doran? How did I do it? To learn the answers to those questions we’ll need to talk about the essence of power and what it costs. Power, in truth, is really the only law of nature. We try and delude ourselves by coming up with fancy names like “Civilization” and “Society,” but it’s really all about power.

So how does one get power? There are a number of ways to go about it, but really the only way to get a reasonable amount of power is to either take it from someone else, or to buy it. No power comes for free. Doran got his power though beating others and absorbing their strength. He had it easy if you ask me. Not all of us can leech it like that. When a powerful being dies, normally all that power is vented back into the Omniverse. It tends to collect at specific points. These points are the natural dips and bowls in the topology of the Omniverse. Ever wonder what made those dips?

Yep, there are really really powerful things out there; beings too powerful to even be contained within a single Universe. Power comes to them naturally, like rain running into a gutter. The thing is, to them it’s just that, runoff. Power on their scale is an entirely different game.

That’s where I come in. You see, if you know the right people, you can buy that “runoff” power. The price is aggravatingly high though. Those beings aren’t stupid. They know how much it’s worth to us, even if it’s just pittance to them. They have odd prices too, things that you wouldn’t expect to be bargaining with; things that you don’t know the value of until you’ve already sold them.

In the end though, the price is worth it. Maybe not to everyone, but to me, seeing the look in that pompous bastard’s eyes just as he realized he was nothing, was worth every memory stolen from me. That tyrant destroyed my family, killed my wife… my children…

If only I could remember their faces…

I apologize for this in advance. I’m still not sure exactly how this happened.

            “I like the way you do that.” She stated, matter-of-factly. I was taken completely off guard and it was everything I could do to avoid falling out of my chair.

            “What… I? Doing what now?” My words abandoned me in my confusion. This wasn’t the first time a girl robbed me of any sense of articulation. She chuckled softly and smiled at me.

            “The way you were reading. I can tell by the faces you were making that you get really into your books. It’s cute.” At this point I was keenly aware of my elevated heartbeat and there was a slight concern that I might actually have a heart attack right then and there.

            “Umm, thanks?” I mumbled a response but her smile only widened. Clearly she was here to torment me.

            “You wanna get out of here? I know a really cool bookstore we could check out.” There it was, the invitation. I’ve never been able to get past this part.

            “I… Ummm.” I started to shake my head and stumble out a polite refusal, but suddenly she just took my hand and before I had even a chance to protest, we were walking out of the coffee shop.

            “My name’s Julie. What’s yours?” I opened my mouth to attempt a response but she quickly covered it with her finger. “On second thought, don’t worry about it. You can tell me when you find your voice again.” She giggled at me then, a delicate little sound like a wind-chime. I found myself smiling at her carefree, uplifting demeanor. Maybe this time would be different.

            Thomas Pigsly was an awful name. Thomas knew this well. Elementary school was a very special kind of hell for him. He endured it quietly though, all the taunts and the name-calling. He forced himself not to react, not to let them know how painful each cruel word felt. After a time, Thomas became quite good numbing himself against the world.  This skill served him well, more so than even he would have guessed in the coming years.

            The day Thomas graduated from high school was the very same day the Groth invaded. Terrible creatures, the Groth; they feed on emotional energy, especially pain and terror. Ultimately, they savor the slow devouring of the brain once all the emotions have been leached out.

When they arrived, on what would have been a time of celebration for the graduating seniors of Boormont High School, Thomas could clearly remember not being especially moved by the occasion; not that he was especially excited about graduating anyway.

As it turned out, the Groth have a limited form of blindness. They couldn’t see Thomas at all; and so he watched as his former tormentors for the previous 12 years were devoured, screaming and thrashing, and finally laying still, looks of abject terror permanently affixed to their lifeless faces.

Thomas didn’t think much of it. He went home and made a sandwich.

            You had a nightmare, a terrible dream the likes of which still causes you shudders even while awake.

            You were alone in a room in a very old house. It was black and white, this dream. That was the most vivid detail. The contrast was so high, the blacks were endless abysses and the whites where blinding. Each detail was louder than life; the way the dusty floorboards creaked under your feet, the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and the dryness of the air.

            There were no windows in that room, but there were deep black cracks in the blinding white walls. Though you never turned around, you knew there was a door behind you. The door was unlocked, vulnerable, and insecure. Though it was still closed, what was behind that door was steadily drawing closer, closer to that inevitable moment when that useless door was opened and then…

            You can never manage to finish the dream. You can never mange to turn around. You cannot lock the door. You cannot keep them out.