Shrugged

Wes shrugged, feeling as though he could do nothing about his short lived companion. "Fortunately", he said, "The weight of the world is on Atlas's shoulders, and not mine". He started to descend the stairs, wondering what would happen if Atlas ran out of the delicious Hot Pocket snack. It would be very difficult to survive if the support of our society were to run out of steam.

As he took the steps one by one, he discovered the atmosphere was subtly changing, and that the steps were really not that old, but new. It was becoming warmer and darker, as a slight hint of evil in the air started to waft under his nostrils.

He pondered, "Is this really what I think it is?", "Really where I have ended up after my journey?" He was sad, but then realized that he had actually found meaning in his journey, something that was theory but had never been proved: the demons and creatures of hell have now established a direct link to the life line of the world, the producer, and the mind that keeps humanity safe...

Wes stood there, on what seemed to be an even floor, with his eyes closed. He hesitantly cracked his eyes and opened them.
"huh?" was the only utterance that could come out of Wes in response to what he was seeing. A thin man with a bald top and long thin white hair flaring out from the sides and back of his head was sitting on an exercise bike and calmly cycling while reading the magazine that rested on the handlebars. The red "walls" of the room he was centered in were of gently glowing crusted lava and was circular in shape with no corners or distinguishable ceiling. Wes imagined that this is what being inside of a very large egg shell would look like if the shell was made of almost entirely crusted lava. The lava seemed to have an inextinguishable life to it, keeping a calm glowing pulse behind the crusted scab that prevented the room from being flooded with lava. Wes saw a refrigerator sitting next to a small counter that had a microwave on it on the other side of the room. There was an oscillating fan sitting in front of the old man that would make his flaring white hair dance every time it passed him. Wes cleared his throat and the man turned his head to Wes without stopping cycling. His nose was long and jagged and his face looked bony and withered.
"Who are you?" said the man shortly.
"Um, I'm Wes. I was the oceans of Earth a couple of seconds ago and then I became pure conscious energy and came here."
"Hmm." responded the man without interest and then turned back to his magazine. Wes stood there for a moment wondering what to say.
"Sooo... what is this place?" asked Wes.
"Its my place." He said with a hint of bitter irony without turning from his magazine.
"Oh." responded Wes awkwardly, "So why are you on that exercise bike?"
"A bulb needs a power source doesn't it? Well that's me. I'm the one that keeps this thing on. I'm responsible for keeping life on Earth going. The weight of your world is on my back." The man turned to the next page of his magazine. Wes stood there in disbelief. This bony old man was the source of the great orb's energy? It couldn't be, but Wes thought it unwise to question him, he already seemed to be in a hostile mood.
Suddenly a beeping noise came from the other side of the room and the old man slowed down his pedaling and stepped off the bike.
"What's that?" Wes asked, alarmed, and also in shock that he would stop pedaling and risk the life of every being on Earth that depended on the sun. The man walked over to the microwave and popped open its door causing the beeping to stop and pulled something out of it.
"My hot pocket is done." He said. He walked back to the bike and resumed cycling while reading his magazine with hot pocket in hand.
"But what about the energy? I thought you had to keep pedaling to keep the light on, why didn't it die when you came off the bike?"
"Son, do you know how much energy this bike generates?" asked the man, this time turning his body to face Wes. "Not very much. There is enough energy stored in the sun around us to last for a long time. I would have to stop pedaling for several milenia just to dim this thing."
"So then how did all this energy accumulate?" asked Wes. The man turned his gaze away from Wes to the crusted shell wall in front of him. His gaze was distant, like he was staring past the shell to an infinitely distant place.
"Time." The solemn word came from the man with a weight that Wes could not comprehend. There was silence afterward except for the never ending hum of the oscillating fan and the old man's persistent pedaling. Wes swallowed and felt awkwardness lay heavy on him. He looked around for something to do but found only a cage of crusted lava. He wanted to leave, but oddly enough he couldn't break through the lava crust. He felt a jolt of panic seize his heart for a moment. How is he getting out of here? Is he stuck here forever like this wretched withered old man? His heart was beating into his throat with bubbling fear.
"Um, how do I get out of here?" asked Wes's shaky voice. The old man sighed and slumped his head momentarily before steping off his bike again and walking over to the refrigerator. He put his hands on both sides of it and pulled it away from the shell wall with surprising strength.
"Come here." he said shortly and Wes obeyed. There was a large and heavy rusted metal door behind the fridge. The man wraped a deceptively strong hand around the rusted handlebar of the door and slid it screechingly open. Stone stairs descended into darkness behind the door.
"Uh, you want me to go in there?" Wes asked with incredulous eyes.
"Yes" said the man without looking at Wes. Wes turned back to face the ominous stone stairs. He placed a reluctant foot on the first stone step and then he lowered the rest of himself onto the step. He heard the screeching door begin to close behind him and he quickly turned around and yelled
"Wait!"
The man obliged.
"You never told me your name." Wes said staring up at his bony and worn face. The withered old man stared down at Wes and uttered the name he hadn't spoke for milenia:
"Atlas."
And with that the heavy metal door screeched shut and all was dark.

A spark of curiosity ignited in Wes and he felt drawn to the powerful source of light slowly climbing down the sky to a place beyond the horizon. What wonders lay beyond the imprisonment of this liquid body? What marvels are hiding behind the great threshold of the horizon? What is this powerful source of light that floods the Earth and washes away cold and darkness?

The voice thunders within him and echoes without comprehension into his mind. It rings in his ears, but he has no ears, so how can he be hearing it? No, it isn't something that is heard, this voice, this cryptic message that is beyond sound and comprehension. Its communication without the limitations of tounge and ear, communication of pure energy, a mixing of consciousnesses. The echoing voice crystalized in Wes's mind and the transcendent verb that had been beyond him earlier slammed into the forefront of his consciousness: "Go".

Wes felt energy surge through him at the speed of light and as soon as it started it was over. He was no longer trapped in his liquid form, no longer limited to his physical boundaries. He was pure conscious energy, free to interweave himself through the fibers of the universe as he pleased. His attention turned back to the powerful source of light that was now peeking from behind the horizon. He felt that same spark of curiosity ignite within him and he immediatly propelled himself forward through space to the chaotic inferno and let the massive arching whips of flame lap through him. Such power, such strength, such chaos. What could fuel such a beast? Wes wanted to find out. He dove into the tumultuous ocean of fire with eyes closed, uncertain as to what he'll encounter. (i've got more i want to write of this entry so please wait until my next entery to add on)

Beckoning

An eel pulsing with electricity glides and maneuvers through the belly of Wes, only wandering and watching for now; floating through the iridescent scope that Wes has granted his tenants. It moves by a symmetric motion of it's body, taught to do so by waves under the learned instruction of Wes. The eel cuts through the dark and murky water, fearfully watched by the suspended white particles that it pays no attention to. The filmed eyes miss much.
Wes wanders, too. He wonders. Under calm seas and moon lit sky he stares up through the heavens and contemplates his distant brother. Tumultuous thoughts dance within his body and Wes swims through them by restless surging energy. But his eyes are still- never do they move. Wes often churns his spirit in vain effort to reach the ocean floating beyond, maybe to speak to the ocean outside his boundaries. Tonight, he churns a new thought: he wants to leave. Earth has been a warm love, she has been the warmth at his belly and in his veins. Earth has given Wes the contours of his mind and therefore the sight to explore it - but Wes has no eyes for what is beyond. Wes wants to see the burning specks embedded in his brother- to see them close and to cradle them in his eyes. Wes....
"Who is my Brother?"


Suddenly, like the crack of dawn spit forth by lightning a voice intrudes into his dark breezy silence and beckons him with a single transcendent verb... misunderstood because Wes can't speak. Rocked by the soft thunder, Wes holds still to comprehend the light behind the now encroaching dusk. What was that?
What was that....

Warm again

By the grace of God, he has returned to his birthplace. Many stay, few fall onto the cold earth.

If this man had a mirror, he would be able to distiguish kelp hair, and a seafoam body. He was not in the water, but was the water. Able to gather and crash, to destroy and to preserve, to take and to give, to fly and to ride. He is the Atlantic and the Pacific, Rhine and Galilee. Though he spanned most of the globe, he did not cover it.

He needed earth, his love. And this is what she is.

Too Cold

:) I will take up the spot.

It's like the light hit the fan, because this new awareness could be compared to that. In fact, the only light hung warmly above, though the red wave faded closer to the ground, closer to him. It just barely touched the doors, and there it holds cold at the bottom.
The word Weston is vaguely imprinted on the hardwood floor.
The man adresses the script: "Weston. My name is Weston."
Now, reader, I would like to enlighten you on the dire, airless dis that this newly borne Weston has engaged. This first fresh breath is his declaration- to whom?
Weston's stare rises upward until it meets the steady gazes of his oppossites on the walls. Wes has all the necessery facalties and functions of a life, and now the moon has showed it's bleak face. Weston's only neighbors are faces; cold and smooth. Ceramic. Symbols on ominous entryways. He would move his lips in desperate expression, but who is there? God, is an overhanging light awash in warmth that does not reach him. There to spectate.
And now there is silence past his words. This will be the highest point in his life: the last time he speaks and expects to be spoken to.
Watch him, as he widens his perception. Look at his eyes- they stop. Why move? The air around him slows and stiffens. His shoulders tense, then his back, then his neck, now his jaw.
He counts.


A whisper??
was that a whisper--

A scream grows in his head too loud for sound to express. In a flame of movement he runs and throws himself through the hole in the breathing door.
Adrift in ocean, one is freed from landlocked constraint.

His piercing blue eyes shoot open, pupils refining themselves so as to cut through the haze that lays heavy on his senses. He can feel his body fine tuneing itself to bring his senses back to equilibrium. As he observes his vision sharpen and his hearing heighten a vague sentiment floats to the surface of his mind: "somethings wrong". He looks at the thought dumbly, with just enough understanding to know that something is not how it should be. His muscles tense up and his heart beat rises to match the demands of this foreboding future. Anxiety rises in him, within his chest, swimming through the viens in his arms and crawling up the muscles of his neck. The initial pangs of fear sink its teeth into his stomach, steadily getting stronger. His eyes dart around blindly, trying to escape the looming giant of panic that encroaches ever closer. The sentiment continues to grip his mind without reason and slowly pulls him deeper into darkness. But then he feels something, something other than fear. It grows slowly but not throughout his body. He feels the sensation of seeing more clearly, but his vision is not altered. The sensation of seeing does not spread within him, but through his surroundings, his world growing.

He blinks several times. For the first time he feels the hard wood floor pressing on his face and sees the nocturnal blue wall in front of him. He pushes himself in an upright sitting position while cradling his head in his other hand. The room is dimly lit and given a faint red tint from the oriental style lamp hanging from the ceiling that is boxed in thin, red filter paper. The room is very small and hexogonal in shape. Each of the six walls had a nocturnal blue door that blended seamlessly with the surrounding wall. On each door there hung a powerfully expressive venetian style ceramic mask. On the door directly in front of him hung a face contorted in profound sorrow. A wide grin stretched across the face of the mask to the left. Under the mask the words "it lies" were carved deep into the door. There was something sinister about that smile, and although there were no eyes he could sense it glareing hungrily at him.To the right of the sorrowfull mask hung an expressionless bleach white face. The mouth lay imprisoned behind smooth white ceramic and the eyes were nothing more than sunken in depressions. Directly behind him hung a mask consumed by fear, its eyes forever staring into an abyssal and unforgiving darkness. To the right of that stood a maskless door with massive chains hanging from it and a heavy rusted padlock uniting them all at the center. The door to the left of the fearfull mask stood a door with a splintered mask sized hole where the mask would have been. Cool air flows gently from the seemingly endless darkness within that hole.

Another thought floats to the surface: "What do they mean?". Its at this point that the knowledge of his ignorance smashes onto him. He knows nothing. He doesn't know who he was, where he is, what came before this and what he should expect to come after. He notices, though, that his earlier feelings of confusion and fear are replaced by a sense of clarity. and i dont feel like writing anymore :(

A Story

A crowd of 5 sit around a rickety wooden table in a room, faces shadowed from the moonlight. A candle casts light around the room, a sole candle at the table's center. Suddenly the candle flame is upstart in a tiny chaos, throwing light haphazardly in every direction. The five are ready to commune the sentence of the fate of their world. These souls are about to embark through a world self made...

The first, fire reflecting on his dark indestinguishable countenance and deep in his pure eyes, spoke: "Let there be Light!" And in an upstart like the candle but still as God the room is filled with white. The moon outside has turned into a ball of clay embedded quiet in the sky.
A silk shawl waved around the neck of the second as if wind blew in the room. If mystery could speak words, her voice and her mind would be it. Like wind contained in a whisper, she spoke: "Let there be Life!" And there was all.
The Third, a soul of strong will and noble persuasion, spoke: "Let there be Man!" The candle flame rioted, and then was still.
The fourth raised his sober expression to meet the faces of his accomplices. Anger shot through his eyes, accusing his accomplices with a heart of hard malice. Through a deep and dark mouth this scarred one spoke: "Let there be War!" And there was sorrow.
The fifth. Stood with tense anticipation. Tempering hysteric laughter, this one's mouth opened to reveal his sentence, and the candle flame spoke no more. Quieted, the smoke rose from the dead candle, and the fifth sat with just as dead a mind as the room grew darker. But there was light outside, and there was the beginning.