1. I believe that there is a colour to each smell.
2. I believe that there is smell to each colour.
3. I believe that words can actually kill.
4. I believe that heart can shatter in million pieces.
5. I believe that the million pieces of heart can be sewn again with a touch.
6. I believe the soul can be felt with the eyes.
Cultural Dichotomy, 2417
Chandur sat back in the hydropool and relished the sunshine that shone down on his body. The air this high up was clear and sweet, and the smog layers were at least a hundred yards below his vantage point. The Council Tower and the Parliament family quarters were all he had ever known.
He had been lounging and swimming after his nap, and he was thoroughly enjoying his last day as a child. Today was his 21st birthday, and tonight he would celebrate his increase in stature, and join the Council.
After today, he would have all the rights and privileges that accompanied citizenship. He would be given quarters of his own, and his wife would be selected for him.
He would even have access to the finest in real food.
It promised to be an exciting time.
~ ~ ~
Far below the city, Malrissa sat in a chair and sighed. Her respirator dug lines in her cheeks, and she readjusted it without thinking. The bitter air stung her eyes, but not as bad today as it was sometimes.
She filled each small cube that came down the production line with a mixture of the NourishGel liquid that would be eaten by the workers here in Undercity. Today was her 21st birthday, and it marked the last day she would work here on the line, at a child’s sit-down job.
Tomorrow she would be reassigned to the growing fields or the loading machines, where she would get to stand on her feet for 13 hours each day, helping to turn the city’s waste by-products into fresh supplies of NourishGel.
Tonight she might actually get a taste of a real apple; her brother had smuggled a couple into the barracks.
It promised to be an exciting time.
Yes, the dishes are piled up,
The laundry isn't done,
No, dinner is not made
The house is a mess,
The groceries still on a list,
The bills not mailed,
But, you better not say a word,
You better not make a sound,
For the baby is sleeping!!
I promise you Susan
the void was better yesterday
Now when I stare into the abyss
It stares back at me
Our love was eternal
It was carefree
It was the stuff of fantasy
It filled the void in my heart
Filled the void in my soul
When we took our vows
We said until death doth us part
And now it has happened
Death has taken you
Away from me
I promise you Susan
The void was better yesterday
My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.
I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.
At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.
He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.
My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.
After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.
Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.
“But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.
The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”
“Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.
A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for her crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.
Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.
I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.
“I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”
I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.
“Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.
“Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.
“I promise, Sam.”
I've only ever had one dream: to write. Everything I've ever done has been for that dream. Then one day, I'm told that I should be more realistic. I shouldn't have such aspirations because it doesn't make good money, or it isn't very probable. I've been told to give up, and move on. To the people that spewed this 'empty dream' crap, I'm proving you wrong.
I've been to college for photography, I have my own studio and am writing for a newspaper. I'm a freelance photographer and have people wanting my short stories and artistic shots. I also happen to be only eighteen.
So to anyone and everyone that think their dreams are hopeless, that there's no reason to try, you're wrong. I'm doing what I love because I want to. I didn't let those other people keep me down and you shouldn't either. Be a writer, a photographer, a dancer or musician. Go forward and become a linguist, or a doctor or a stunt driver. Whatever your dream is, never let it be empty.
Live your life to the fullest.
My Cover Letter.
Hello Mr. Jacobsen.
I have been a hired assassin for the past ten years, with over 60 confirmed kills. One important skill an assassin needs that is often overlooked is research, and I excel at doing my research. For example, I know that you, Mr. Arnold Jacobsen, live at 328 Miller's Pond Road, with your lovely wife Elizabeth who is a dentist, and your daughter Candice, who attends Marshall High School and is on the swim team. She obviously loves swimming. As a matter of fact, she frequently goes swimming out in Millers Pond; usually completely alone. I do hope she is careful out there.
So, I think you can see why I would be the right choice to hire for this job.
Born amongst the winter months, when warmth is far forgotten
When life is but a rotten seed, or so I’ve thought so often
Grisly thoughts of memory past, which now so brightly loom
The wind brings mist from farther north, where I will be bound soon
What hath become of brighter days, with song and merry sight?
For now I roam through darkest crypts along this endless night
Where shadows grasp with lustful sights, to quell such dire want
Their glasses brim with foulest drops that turns the stomach daunt
What vile deed I abruptly struck for sternest punishment so
In all the years I’ve faced the worst, I’m still my darkest foe
And when the stars come crashing down upon my shaken frame
The man who comes to take the retched, will surely call my name
The bones do ache and nerves stay clenched, such age without the years
I’d hung my eyes from others sight, the gallows made of fears
Always less than those I’d gaze, and less than those I don’t
So cruel those gods who’d curse me so, so pray to them I won’t
No desire to lead the hearts of men, nor follow the brightest light
I’ll wander now, till sorrow comes, and all I’ll see is white…
Carved out of midnight ice
crystal drops on brow
frost congealed soul
snow sullied by drops of blood
pounding to discover
what lies fallow under numbness
Carved out of midnight ice
chilled heart stops its beat
glacial thoughts in quilts
numbed by life
frigid blocks of ice
Carved out of midnight ice
sun hefts its rays
sky melts in tears
crawling out of snow bank
brushing off chilled rawness
warmth flickers thawing skin.