Fame: a microstory

He walked down the street, rain falling through the orange of the street lamp’s light. He thought as he walked, what it would be like to die. What would it give him? What could he gain from death? When the man reached 42^nd street he realized death could give him nothing that he could find in this life. From that next step he took and on he knew that there was no god for him. No Zeus with his bolts of lightning and no Buddha with his Nirvana. The man hoped and prayed that to die was to be no more. For if not, how awkward would that moment be when he saw the God he didn’t want to believe in. The man looked up at all the colorful lights around him. The man smiled and was swallowed into the crowd. 

Possible beginning to PERDITION

This was me trying to think of a creative way to introduce Eroklin in the story Perdition.

He was cold as the rain fell softly on his face.  There was so many reasons to be sad, so many reasons to hate himself. And he did.  He never let anyone know how he really felt about himself. He was whom they wanted, and because of it he was never really anyone. He failed.  At everything that he really thought he was good at he was reminded that he knew nothing really.  That he was new. That he was old. That new was not what was wanted. That he had not reached the mark. Neither good nor bad wanted him on their side. Apathy. He did not feel as he used to. He had filled his mind with venom and hatred to forget everything that was good, everything that had blessed his life.  And he cried as the ghost of good finally abandoned him.  He had trespassed a law that he could not keep.  He had fallen so far that his mother blinked recognition at his visage.  His heart beat for love, but his mind knew it would never come. That it would only be a lie, one that he refused to tell because if he did, then the pain of a hundred deaths would weigh on his soul.  Where do you stand when your reasoning has left you without a foothold on the side of a cliff.  How long can you cling onto the edge of the rocks, til your bloody fingers slip? The soothing rain washed the path that the tears had abandoned and left dirty.   He had never learned how to get back once lost.  He was never supposed to have been lost.  He was found, he was once safe, but with one push he was thrust into this maddened sea of perdition.  He had lost his name.  He was nameless.  He is what they make him to be. He is their god and nameless is his name. Shame is his wake, and death his guiding light.  And the power he invoked was that of the men he had killed and the women who in a scared whispered gave power to his name. Eroklin. Perdition. God. Devil. The one of power.  Joseph no more.  A man no more.  A beast that fed on the flesh of his people.  A god respected and feared.  A man who gorged and pleasured himself on destroying the virtue of life.  This man was Eroklin, this was their perdition on that small dark island.  This was the man who had at one time partaken only of the flesh of Christ. The Eucharist was once his lifeline.  Now he could not remember the taste of that stale cracker, nor the bitter wine that accompanied it.  Joseph had died the day he had stepped foot on this damned island. 

Morning Coffee

It was that moment in his life.  That moment that every single person on this God forsaken earth has; that moment when you feel everything slip from your grasping fingers.  It’s when you exhale and just for an instant you have no idea if your lungs will pull the polluted air in.  It’s when you stop and for the slightest moment you don’t feel anything but alone. It was crushing. The feeling didn’t leave and panic flooded his soul.  He felt the icy sensation of a chill running down his spine.  The skin on his arms tensed into cold, tense chicken leather.  He felt naked in front of the world.  He tried to breath in, to pull anything into his dry throat.  Something to ease the dread and numbness he felt.  Rob gripped the side of his desk and squeezed his eyes ‘til tears forced their way out.  Her face shown on the inside of his eyelids, he didn’t love her; he didn’t love anything but himself.  He was better than to believe in forever.  There was no ever after, eternity, or whatever the hell they called it.  It was a fairy tale to him, a grim tale that choked him.  Air flooded his chest and he held the intoxicating elixir in for as long as he dared.  A whimper escaped with the warm, dead air.  His eyes once again opened to the computer screen that sat staring at him.  It was the same image that had been engraved on his eyelids.  Tia Espinosa.  The news feed told of her suicide.  Rob’s hand shook as he reached for his cell phone.  There was one missed call from last night.  Tia.  He cleared the recent calls and sat his phone on his desk as he heard from behind him, “Want coffee?” His wife entered with a blue mug.

            Clearing his throat he said, “Yep.” He closed the window on his computer as she handed him the hot cup.  “Are the kids up yet?”

            “I was just going to wake them. Do you want pancakes or waffles?”

            “Waffles.”  He got up and made his way to the bathroom for his morning shower.  He needed to be at work in an hour.  For a second he thought of who would replace Tia as temp.  But then again it didn’t really matter. He sipped his coffee and breathed in the warm aroma.