-AUTHOR, ILLUSTRATOR & PUBLISHER-
Christopher J. Williams
Fiction Excerpts
Stormfront
Prologue: Treading Water
The sun has not shown itself in the skies over the city for nearly a week now. The only way Mark could differentiate the days was by his old gear driven watch, one which he received as a gift when he graduated high school. Isolated from his family and friends, in their home on the outskirts of the city, he couldn't help but wonder if they were safe; were they able to find shelter before this catastrophe ravaged their community? As he stared out onto the flooded neighborhood from his second story window, Mark wonder if anyone had made it to safety, anyone at all.
As Mark searched the seemingly vacant homes along his street with binoculars he had retrieved from his father’s box of old hunting gear; he has yet to have seen any indication that anyone else had made it to the safety of their homes. Most of the houses, that are now half destroyed structures, have only vacant holes where windows use to be; nearly swept away in the rushing waters that ripped through the streets like a tsunami. The few windows that he glanced, past with drapes drawn, makes him curious of occupancy; was there anyone there?
Without any knowledge of how severe the total impact has been, Mark sat alone in the kitchen. Dimly lit by the candle recently used to warm a small pot of water; he scarcely remember an evening without the constant droning sound of the rain on the roof. Even a cup tea was useless in soothing his nerves as the sky continued to rumble. There seemed to be no end in sight, no relief from the hot damp air; impossible to open a window for a draft. I scoured for anything I could make use of to ease the unbearable sticky heat in the air.
The electricity had been off for five days and counting, a record heat wave had managed to work its way in along with the torrential showers. The only indication that there were ever streets were the few remaining mailboxes that peeked out from the murky water like turtles in a pond. The overflown sewage and the distinct smell of decomposing animals filled the air making it nearly impossible for Mark to take a breath without having the urge to vomit.
On the days when the rain was most violent, the wind whipped around the house so hard the walls would rumble. Tree branches and cars seemed to make their way through the raging river that was once Mulberry Street. Debris and garbage slowly drifted through the neighborhood on a daily basis, empty plastic soda-pop bottles and styrofoam egg cartons being the most prominent. Oh, how he relished the idea of having of a cold soda-pop!
As Mark continued to examine the houses surrounding his own, slowly sipping on his now luke-warm tea, he noticed a sign of relief. The rain had suddenly stopped; the sky still darkened, blackened clouds draped over everything in sight, but, no rain. As Mark stood up from his chair, perched near the window, the sky rumbled with furiosity; as if it was laughing at him and his brief glimpse of hope. The thunderous roar so violent, the walls seemed shaken in terror.
The sky opened and the rain began pouring down with the force of Victoria Falls, a denser rain than Mark had ever known possible. Mark could hear the wood creaking in the ceiling overhead, as if it were on the cusp of collapsing. The roof, so heavy from the downpour, began to leak. Mark scurried through the dark corridor attempting to descend the stairs; He was trapped, between a collapsing roof and a flooded first story. The water was rising so fast it seemed as if it were raining inside the house. Marks only rations of food were being soaked in the putrid smelling water.
“I am dead!”, the only thought that can pass through his mind as he heard the roof collapse on the far side of the house. His food had been ruined, his home was in ruins, Mark was left exposed to this hellish reality, alone!
The pouring rain began to flow down the stairs as the water below slowly rose to meet his feet. Mark ran for the bathroom, he scurried the bathtub. It will be the last place to fill with water, he thought. As he lay in the bathtub curled in the fetal position, Mark began to weep at the thought of his demise. As he lay there weeping, all he could think of was his normal mundane life, before this hell in which he was trapped.
“Why can’t things be same as they were before, what did I do to deserve this?”, Mark screamed to the heavens,”Fuck, Why are you doing this to me?”
He layed there alone in the tub crying like a baby, angry, sad, and terrified.
© 2012 Christopher J. Williams
The East Road
Prologue:
The Joy of Despair
If your mind is open, and you listen attentively, you can hear the world around you. If your eyes are open and you embrace the unknown, you may see incredible things, many which you could have never before imagined. Some of them wonderful, many of them vile and horrible. The mind is an influential thing, the design so frail to suggestion, yet magnificent in its ability to learn and adapt. However, what is real and what is imaginary is all due to perception. Your perception has changed over the course of your life, as is the same for everyone. But, how can you be sure what you know to be true is in fact, reality? What has made your perception validated? The acceptance from society? The society that influenced and molded your ideas to be tame and moderated, censoring your ‘imagination’ when you were a child? You remember brief glimpses from your youth, when everything seemed a bit more mysterious and mystical. Where did that world you had known to be true go? Let me tell you a story, a story of fascinating and dire circumstances, a story of mystery and magic. This is not a story for the faint of heart, this story contains no elves nor trolls. This is a story of the old ways, a story of true magic, a story you shall not soon forget.
Today, mankind is familiar with the latest trends and fashions. Materially minded, clinching to things that do not propagate true fulfillment in their lives. Aspiring to own possessions and control every aspect of his existence. A second to second, minute to minute existence, that can never be truly satisfied and only promotes wealth of substance, not true subsentence. A drone in a rat race of daily to-do’s and what ifs. Rarely finding the time to retreat and find peace of mind, to recharge the soul. Bathing in the stench of impurities regurgitated from a consumerism lifestyle. A constant bombardment of status updates and text messaging, as if the world really was on the web. Ignorant to the beauty they tread on below their feet.
But, it was not always like this. There was a time when man was innocent and pure of heart. Unjaded by the influence of society and the bright lights of the city. Before there was any form of status, let alone a status update. Before man had had forgotten his past only focusing on the future, before the concept of time was used for scheduling spa appointments and was used to praise life itself. When man was new, he was noble, his nobility was recognized and reward was granted. Man still reaps the rewards, but has forgotten where these rewards have come from, and why they are plentiful.
When man was new to the world, the world embraced man as her own. Man had no doubt in her, she was his shelter, she was his source of nourishment, she was is inspiration, she was ‘Mother’. There was no man that would disrespect her, not from fear of repercussion, but because he loved her, and she loved him. Man was in tune to her needs, she needed love as well. Man spent centuries developing this wonderful relationship with her. He’d stay awake late in the evening praising her and all of her blessings she had bestowed to them. Man journeyed to every waters edge to know her more. It was this balance that made man strong, intelligent, and prosperous. He danced in her breath upon the highest mountains, he welcomed her tears to sustain her lands, and man was grateful.
Although this course of consciousness was ever changing, mother was not forgotten. Man continued to love her, until coerced by other men, seeking fame, fortune, and power. These men enforce their beliefs by any means to use as leverage over man. Degrading sacred temples across the land, burning villages and communes, pillaging and raping the weak and indigent. They sought to purge the world of undesirables and non-believers, massacring innocents by the hundreds, burning them alive in their homes as they slept. Making display of the few that openly practice the old-religion, claiming them evil and vile, torturing and burning their flesh, marking them as Vedma, forever scorned by the hordes of witless followers. These men that masquerade in the false light of purity were untouchable. Believing themselves divine, no man would question the authority of god. Except the men whom had no god, only mother.
But let us regress to the beginning of our tale, to a small village remotely isolated from the chaos that would soon consume their lives. Let us start with the story of two brothers that would endure astonishing pains, and torments. Let us begin with the brothers that would start a revolution.
©2012 Christopher J. Williams