Vanish

Vanish
February 28, 2007

Tim saw the vibrant store as he was trudging through the wet snow on his way to school. The colors caught the corner of his eye as he passed by, and he just had to stop to take a look.

MAGIC TRICKS, proclaimed the fanciful letters in the window. Guaranteed to AMAZE or your money back!. The window display showed a black pack of playing cards, and a white stuffed rabbit.

Tim looked at his watch. "I guess I got enough time..." School could wait; it wasn't like he cared. He padded to the glass door and pulled it open, then slipped inside. Small gold bells rung overhead to announce his arrival, prompting the elderly man tinkering at the counter to look up.

"Hello hello! Welcome to my shop!" The old man exclaimed. He flicked his beard with a thoughtful finger. "Young people are so interested in magic these days! Is there something I can help you with? Anything you might fancy?"

"Uhm. Er, no thanks. I'm actually just- just looking." Tim replied, taken aback.

"May I direct you to the card tricks? They're easy to do, and good for performances! No? Perhaps some rope tricks? Or this box- see, it makes things disappear!" The owner darted from one display to another, showing off his trinkets.

Tim shrugged. "I just came in to look around old man. I didn't come to be sold to."

The senior looked stunned. Then he shook his head. "Ah yes, yes. I'm sorry. Please, take a look around." He plodded back to his desk and continued to tinker.

Tim took a look around, as he was invited. He noticed small tricks, like making boxes that made coins disappear, and large tricks, like conjuring hats and ribbons from nowhere. But nothing really caught his attention. Until he noticed the back door that was labelled "Do Not Enter."

With a smirk, Tim glanced at the storekeeper. He was absorbed in his work, his eyes on the small contraption on the table. Quietly, Tim snuck through the door without a whisper.

A musty, attic-like smell hit him hard. The room was dimly lit, with a small window the only source of light. Dust in the air made Tim cough, then check behind himself nervously. But the old man most likely had bad hearing, or was too into his little toys.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Tim first noticed boxes stacked everywhere. With a shock of excitement, he skimmed over the labels on the boxes, the objects on the shelves. They all looked very ancient and valuable.

Walking slowly through the shelving, Tim picked up a jar of what appeared to be human eyeballs. Continuing down, he saw bottles and oil lamps, dried pieces of what appeared to be skin, small vials of a dark red liquid he imagined to be blood...

A dust-covered jar soon caught Tim's eye. Picking it up and turning it around, he read the label aloud to himself. "Vanishing powder. Guaranteed to turn anything, or anyone, invisible." Now here was a real trick!

The next bottle was just as dusty. "Powder of Appearance. Reveals invisible objects or people." Perfect!

Quickly, Tim pocketed both. This may come in handy, he thought to himself gleefully. He continued to walk, more objects catching his eye as he passed them. "Growth juice." "Shrinking potion." "Boots of Speed."

As he passed one tight corner, the edge of his jacket caught a loose stick of wood labelled "Wand of Ovimancy". He swung his arm out to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers, rapping loudly on the floor. Tim winced.

A creak came from the door. "Is anyone in here?" Through the gaps in the jars, Tim saw the store owner coming straight for him. Frantically, he dug in his pockets. The invisibility powder will help me, Tim thought. If it works...

Quickly, Tim uncorked the jar. A thin yellow powder lay inside. He took a glance behind him. The owner was coming more assuredly, with a angry look on his face. In his haste, Tim picked up the whole jar and dumped the contents over his head.

A tingle shook through his body, and then nothing. "Shit," Tim muttered to himself. He didn't look the least bit invisible. He winced, ready to recieve a verbal lashing at the tongue of the irate store owner.

To his surprise, the store owner turned the corner, walked up to Tim, and merely bent over to pick up the wand. Placing it back on the shelf, his face relaxed, and he quickly walked back out the door without closing it. Tim, with his eyes shut tightly, slowly cracked open an eyelid. Then breathed a sigh of relief and amazement.

"It works! It really works!" Tim crept out the door, and waved his hands in the owner's face. Not even a flicker. Screaming in his face did nothing too. It only caused him to stand up, walk to his door brush the snow away from the threshold. Sneaking past the old man, Tim walked into the cold air. Not a person saw him, no matter how much he waved his arms, or however many faces he made. He was really, completely invisible to the world.

For the next few hours, Tim snuck into school. He looked at girls without fear of being labelled, and he walked freely in both bathrooms. He even watched the football game without paying a ticket. He could not believe his luck.

Even after school, he was still enjoying his invisibility. Following the girls home proved to be a huge bonus: Watching them in their private life was something he could never have imagined. He felt a little ashamed, sure, but mainly incredibly lucky.

It was only when he realized how late it was that he realized he should have been home hours ago. Guiltily, he thought of his family, his home. Surprisingly, he didn't feel hungry at all, or tired. Perhaps being invisible meant you didn't have to eat. Or sleep. Or, Tim thought excitedly, maybe it meant he would never come to harm, or even die!

But for today, it was enough. Anyways, he still had a little bit of powder left in the jar. He could always go back and get more, anytime, without fear of being caught. So Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the Powder of Appearance.

The jar was corked, dusty and ancient. Tim pulled hard, popping the cork out in a burst of dust and pieces of dirt. Turning the bottle upside down, he tapped the bottom lightly. Nothing came out.

Tim peered into the bottleneck. From what he could see... the bottle was empty. Panicking, he rapped the bottle harder against his hand. Nothing.

He dropped the bottle. It fell without making a single sound. It too, was invisible, nonexistant in the real world. Tim stared hatefully at it, then rushed into the street.

Cars passed him without hitting him as he dashed to the shop. In his haste, he passed completely through the wall without even noticing. The shop was closed, but the old man still sat there, working on his toys, stroking his beard in thought. Tim ignored him, running into the back room.

For an hour he searched. Nothing. Not a bottle, tin or vial left of the precious powder. Tim swore, and sat down hopelessly.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the old man come up behind him and crouch down next to him. Slowly, Tim turned.

The old man grinned. "So you decided to break the rules and enter without permission."

Tim nodded. "You can see me?" He asked, although he wasn't surprised.

"Yes." The old man nodded gravely. "Yes, I can."

"Can you help me?"

"No." The owner looked surprised. "Why would I do that? This is your punishment."

"But... why?" Tim cried. He looked around. "Why me?"

The old man laughed. "You? YOU?!"

Pulling a bottle from his pocket, the old man wiggled it in front of Tim's face. Then, he uncorked it and dashed its powdery contents across the room.

As the powder settled, images began to appear. Soon, the room was full of silent figures, mouths open in insane screams that would never be heard. A crowd of people, boys and girls, young and old, all filled the room, their sorrowful eyes on Tim, the latest victim to curiousity. As the dust touched the ground, the figures disappeared, still there, but doomed to wander alone forever.

Tim screamed, silent to the world. The old man smiled darkly, then walked out. Before he left, however, he turned around to a wailing Tim.

"Goodnight, boy. How long will it be, I wonder, before you lose your mind?"

The Bad Ones

One more goddamn day,
Swimming in this pool of sharks,
Marked with blood,
Stained with sin,
Disturbed beyond all reason.

You will remain behind,
Power unrestrained,
Delivered unto death,
Pain, like crying in the dark,
And shivering in the cold outdoors.

Evil cannot cover its eyes,
Nor deafen its ears, or close its mouth.
Leave the weak, clear your mind,
Walk away from your memories,
And fall down by the forsaken air.

Close your eyes to this devastation,
Hold yourself now, never give in,
Look behind, the mass destruction,
Try to relate to your suffering,
Light your path beside your feet.

Hold me now, replicate love,
Give in to darkness,
Evil will conquer you,
And you will walk alone,
Trying to escape.

Cry, child, and let the bad ones take you away.

Love

Have you ever been in love?
That's the title of one of my favourite quotes.
A lot of people say different things
About Love.
The Bible says Love is kind,
Gentle, Pure, not-sexy-until-marriage,
And a lot of other stuff.
People tell me love is special,
Love is cool,
It just feels
Right.
Some people, they tell me
They hate love.
Because it gets inside them,
All inside their armor,
Breaks them up from the inside.
I'm not exactly experienced,
So I can't tell you what I think of love,
Personally.
But this is what I've seen:
Love.
It makes your knees wobbly.
It can make you say the stupidest things,
Or feel bad for someone who is embarassed.
Love can make two people
remove the masks they wear.
It's what makes two people sit next to each other,
Even though there is plenty of room on the bench.
It's what drove those people to make
The two-handed mittens,
So you could keep holding hands,
Even when it's cold.
It's why God made roses,
And chocolate, and words,
And even music.
It's a song without words,
A conversation in your heart.
Love can make you shake,
It can make you laugh.
It can even make you cry.
Love lights your way through the darkness,
And you would sacrifice the world for it.
It can make you selfish,
Or generous,
Or even both.
Love is often like a flower,
It's found in the most unlikely places.
Or it can be just sitting there,
Waiting for you.
Love is fate.
Love is also madness,
But there is always some reason in madness.
True love stories never have endings.
Love is eternal.
It makes it very hard to talk sometimes,
Almost like you're drowning,
And you have to struggle for the right words.
Love is like picking roses.
You'd be picking them for a lifetime.

Beauty

Written at 12:30 AM on a cold winter's morning. I was walking outside, in the freezing cold, with pellets of snow bouncing off my face. I happened to look down at the ground, and realized my footsteps were breaking the smooth, perfect, surface of the new fallen snow. I turned around and saw what a path of destruction my footsteps had wrought... but just like that, the wind blew, wiped away the marks of my journey, and it was as if I had never been there. So I propped myself against a tree, and began to write.

Beauty
February 14, 2007

Beauty
Is in the mind,
Where God, love and peace come together.
Where order and feeling meet reality.

It is the thing that evokes both rest
And sadness in the heart.
It is found in symmetry, and also
In chaos.

It is the windswept snow,
The blue moon,
The still water.

It is the smile on the face,
The laughter of a loved one,
The love between individuals.

It is the mind,
The heart,
The soul.

It is in the eye of a beholder.
It is priceless.
It is ageless.

Beauty can end.
And Beauty can endure.

Flag

"We view flags with special reverence because they have historically served as symbols of the collective identity of those who fight under them, symbols proudly carried into battle at the forefront of attacking forces and waved to rally troops in disarray or retreat. The colors of a Civil War regiment embodied its honor, and the men chosen to bear them made up an elite. The post of flagbearer was deemed an appointment of great honor, and those who trooped regimental and national flags into battle were especially brave, for colors "drew lead like a magnet." A fallen bearer's banner would quickly be taken up by a fellow soldier, and many men willingly exposed themselves to enemy fire (often at the cost of their lives) rather than allow their regiments to suffer the dishonor of allowing their flags to touch the ground. Yet it was not the flag itself that was important so much as what it symbolized: that so long as the banner waved, at least one man from that regiment lived on, and thus the regiment itself continued to exist."


Flag
February 11, 2007


Bullets flayed the air around the soldiers as they dug themselves into the trench. The situation was hopeless. At least a hundred enemy soldiers, versus a small regiment caught by surprise. The base was captured, the enemy were ready and armed, and worst of all, the flag had fallen, signifying defeat and dishonor.

The soldiers contemplated their options. There weren't many. Die now in a last stand, or die later, slaughtered like pigs in a hole. There was an unspoken code between the soldiers in the trench. Die with honor, or die with shame.

"Jackson!" Private Tare cried, "Over the top!"

The remaining twenty-three soldiers all leapt over the edge of the furrow. The sound of explosive rounds filled the air. Ammunition instantly tore into a soldier, and he fell facedown into the dirt. Jackson screamed as a bullet clipped his helmet, luckily deflected by the plating. Clouds of dust flew into the air as the enemy traced long gouges into the earth. The sound was immense, tremendous, incredible.

The ground shook and splintered as the lead rounds pounded away, seeking the warm home of a human body. Private Birch fell as he was pummeled with metal slugs, and a group of soldiers dropped like screaming flies as a hand grenade made its arcing path to their position, going off with an enormous snap.

"Hold men! Hold the line! Don't let -" The incoming command was cut off by a violent scream as the chittering of bullets rained down on the officer. "AHGGGG!"

Men dropped as the metal pellets came racing like a storm from hell. The smell of gunpowder mingled with blood filled the air as dirt ploughed up in their faces. The men kept running, falling, dying.

Sweat dripped from Jackson's forehead as he reached the flag first. The fabric was torn, smeared with mud and dirt, pocked with bulletholes. With a groan, he pulled up with both arms. The enemy turned their sights on him, and a stray round clinked off his helmet as he ducked down low.

Soon, Tare and Slim joined him, screaming as they struggled to lift the heavy weight. Ammunition continued to storm around them, as more soldiers joined the effort. Enemy tracers found them, ripping soldiers with lead slugs, the flag dipping and swaying, only to be stopped by the stiff hands of the dead. The treeline offered minimal cover, as soldiers fell, and more came up, like waves lapping on a shore.

"AGHHHH!" James screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. Private Stax was killed instantly, not a moment to scream, as rounds punched through his neck, shaking him like a rag doll before he slumped into the dirt. The heavy flag swayed once again, before Tare propped it up with his body, covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Screams filled the air, as soldiers died without a chance to gasp.

Whistling filled the air as a sniper fired a round straight through Jackson's helmet, leaving a neat hole leaking blood. He fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, as Tare sobbed, trying to dig the base of the flagpole into the muddy ground. Xavier put his weight into it, until the back of his uniform flew open as his chest exploded, a slug punching through his heart.

Soon, only 2 soldiers remained. Then a sharp crack, and only Tare was left, crouching, crying, covered in filth and blood and sweat, hanging onto the thin metal flagpole like a child to its mother. He looked up. The flag stood straight and tall, flapping in the wind; beaten, torn, defiled and broken... but still standing. He gave a tearful salute.

Then he was blown away in the next hailstorm of metal.

Hey, you know I do like it when people post comments.

So please, leave some feedback. It helps me improve my writing.

The Call

The Call
February 7, 2007

She was going to kill herself.

It was decided. Life was going so badly. School was a mess, and her social life was in the trash along with her broken dignity. Her friends had abandoned her, and her family was totally clueless. Even she didn't know who she was anymore. The bedsprings creaked as she sat back on the pink bedspread. She reached into the small, white pill box.

25 pills. Enough to cause a lethal overdose in an elephant. She tipped them out onto her hand, the split-colors tumbling out onto her pale palm. There they were, her gateway, her escape.

She plugged one into her mouth, chasing it down with another one, and a gulp of water. The drowsiness began to take effect. Her mind swirled with memories of her friends. Her family. Her life, her sadness, her despair all seemed to fade away at once...

She poked another one between her reddened lips. The capsule pushed past teeth, rolled across her tongue, and fell the unfathomable distance into her throat. She took another one.

Her eyes began to tear up. Thick salty drops fell onto her palm, and she tasted the tears with the next pill she swallowed. Her hands began to shake. Another one.

Another one. And one more. Each pill was harder to swallow. Her throat clogged with tears, her body shaking violently as she rocked herself back and forth with increasing rapidity.

One more would be a lethal overdose. The point of no return, the invisible line that seperated life from death. She looked at the pill. Her only chance to turn back.

She swallowed the pill.

The phone rang. At first, she thought it was her fading mind, her grip on the concious world slowly loosening its hold. But no, it was really the bedside phone, ringing away like Death's messenger. For whom the bells toll...

She sat, cross-legged in her loose nightgown, legs awkwardly and haphazardly slumped. The phone rang, and rang. It rang, until she could bear the tension no longer, and snatched the phone up.

With her quickly failing life, she whispered. "H-Hello?"

A burst of static squealed from the other end, and the soft buzz of a disconnected line met her ear. With a sob and a sigh, she turned to hang up the handset.

"zzzzzzDOzzNOz-AAAA-HELLO?" A voice screamed from within the phone.

"H-hello?" With the unexpected link of human contact, she was suddenly desperate to talk to someone, anyone, before she passed on. "Hel-Hello?"

"zzzzzISzzzDON'TzzzzNOzzzz" A voice emanated as if from inside a long tunnel. "zzzzzzzCALLzzzNOzzzAzz- DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO -"

And with that, the line died. She set the handset down by her side.

She sobbed, confused and scared, once again, a young girl. Then she picked up the phone. Tapping the disconnect switch, she dialled emergency services.

"He-Hello?" She whispered, her voice a mere shadow. "I- I took some pills, and- and I think I... I think I need some help..."

***


10 years later, she walked into her new apartment condo. Her boyfriend lugged the boxes behind as she set her handbag on the new countertop.

"Just set them down there. Thanks a bunch hon, I'm going to go snoop around." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before bounding upstairs.

The rooms were all empty, vacated by the previous owners. As she walked through the blank hallways, the children's room jumped out at her. If all went well, there would be someone to fill that spot in just a few years. She twisted the engagement ring on her finger anxiously.

There was also that other part of her too. She stood in the doorway of the kid's bedroom. For a second, she saw a younger version of herself, planted on a pink bed, dressed in a thin slip: gaunt, forsaken, ready to die. She shuddered, and the vision passed.

For years, she had always wondered about that mysterious call that had not only saved her life, but had given her a second chance. She had never told anyone about it, not even her closest friends. But she was ever grateful. Unspeakably so.

Passing into another room, she was surprised to see that not everything was gone. The previous owners had left an object in the middle of the room, attached to the wall by a thin cord. A single telephone, of the antique variety. Spin-dial, made of brass, very ornate and unique.

Playfully, she took a seat beside it. She admired the designs, the shapes and spirals, the hook of the handpiece and the rounded edges of the base. Then she picked it up and held it to her ear.

A soft voice came through the line. "H-Hello?"

The Painting

The Painting
February 5, 2007

Helen first spotted the painting at a yard sale.

The golden frame leapt out from the other mundane objects on the lacy tablecloth, and the swashes of color were vibrant amongst the dull silver trinkets that accompanied it.

"Hey! Hey, how much for this painting?" Helen asked the old woman tending the tables. She waved towards the golden square with a slender finger.

The elderly woman looked over. "Oh? That old thing? I'll give to you for... say, 5 dollars?"

"Done!" As an art collector, and one might say a connoissuer, Helen knew the value of the simple painting was far more than 5 dollars. In fact, the thick oils of the abstract female form were at least a few hundred dollars.

Handing over a bill, Helen hoisted the heavy painting into her back seat. The picture featured a nude woman, her back to the observer, facing off into the horizon. Her thin arms wrapped her body protectively, as if modesty and embarassment were on her mind.

***

The picture matched the wallpaper perfectly, Helen noticed gladly, as she puttered around her kitchen preparing dinner. The steams from the stovetop obscured the picture for a second, bathing it in a thin mist. The haze only made the painting more mysterious and alluring.

"Oops!" Helen bent down to pick up the spoon she had knocked off the maple counter. A stain of tomato sauce splattered across the room. Looking up, Helen saw a drop of the red stuff smeared across the painting, marking the woman's back. "Shit..."

Heading to the sink to get a cloth, Helen's foot met with an overlooked splat of sauce. With a gasp, she fell hard on the tiles. A sharp pain came from her back as the spoon dug into her skin.

Rising painfully to her feet, Helen rubbed her back painfully. Teeth and eyes clenched, she felt a wet, slippery liquid dribbling from her fingers. Taking a glance, she saw blood running like water off her fingers.

***

When she woke up, something had changed.

The painting in the kitchen was different. Very different. Helen only noticed it when turning the radio on, and out of the corner of her eye. She searched her house, but no doors had been unlocked, no prankster had been inside to change the picture. So she was confused to see that the picture today... was not the one she had bought yesterday.

The woman in the painting now was adorned in a beautiful fur coat, with a handbag stuffed with dollar bills.

With a shiver of paranoia creeping up her spine, Helen studied the painting closely. It wasn't painted over. In fact, the golden frame hadn't been removed, and the oils looked ancient, as if the painting had been masterfully drawn and finished with the fur coat included.

Then the radio announcer began blaring out numbers. Helen didn't register the voice until something began to nag at her very hard.

"And 24! Thanks for playing the 649! Jackpot is 25 million ladies and gents, so make sure you check your tickets!"

With a sense of detachment, Helen removed her ticket from the purse on the table. "And again! Those numbers are 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32, and 24!"

The ticket read 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32 and 24.

Helen glanced at the painting. No, it couldn't be... or could it? The woman's fur coat, the Louis Vutton handbag full of cash...

That day, Helen went out and bought herself a fur coat, and a Louis Vutton handbag. She almost felt like she didn't deserve it.

***

And the next day, the painting was changed again.

This time, the woman in the golden frame was not alone. A tall man stood beside her, with his arm pressed across her shoulders. He too, looked off into the distance, staring at the horizon.

Taking a close, eager look, Helen noticed the clipboard in his hand, the tidy suit he was wearing, and his polished shoes. She stared hungrily at his physique, taking in his appearance.

Ding! The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Sighing, she danced down the hallway and opened the door.

"Hello ma'am, I'm taking a survey on... Ma'am?" The surveyor asked the open-mouthed Helen, as he tapped on his clipboard and brushed lint off his immaculate suit.

***

The next morning, Helen woke up next to Dave and snuck out, making sure not to wake him. Putting her feet into pink slippers, she slid downstairs to take a look at what her day held for her.

The painting was inscrutable in the dark. Helen flicked on the lights.

The image in the golden frame...

There was nothing. Nothing but the endless horizon and the setting sun. The lady had mysteriously vanished, along with the man.

Helen stared confusedly. Was she going to take a trip?

Staring closer, Helen noticed that there was something left in the frame. A small blob of color on the bland ground.

A small spot of red. Whatever could that mean?

***

The next day, the officers took Dave into custody for second-degree murder. Turns out Helen's lottery win didn't go unnoticed.

Strangely, the police did find a very odd painting hanging above the stove. A square of perfect black, in a golden frame.