Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Chapter 2

It was early in the morning, the light from the rising sun was just appearing. M
ercer, the Spanish Wolf, was frozen in his stance, staring sternly into the distance. He was unflinchingly focused. Showing no emotion, he deeply scanned his entire horizon. Mercer had heard a twig snap behind him. After not seeing a hint of anything he ducked under a bush and carefully stalked his own tracks.
In Spain, the wolves are not as you would picture them. Mercer is a brown wolf, with all different shades of light and dark waving and fading through his coat of fur. His eyes are small but fierce. His face is wide and impressionable. His snout is rather short. His ears are rigid and keen. Mercer's glare is impenetrable. And most importantly, Mercer's stance, like every other Spanish Wolf, is full of pride.

Mercer was certain something was following him. His heart was pounding. This was not like the battle he had partaken in a couple of weeks ago, he was alone. After the battle, Mercer was assigned to Pamplona on scouting duty. This meant he had to perform long rounds throughout the city's outer limits, all on his own.
Pamplona was a very crucial city to the war. It was one of the cities closest to the Northern border. Mercer's path was getting dangerously close to the neutral zone. And he was fully aware of that fact. His mission was to cover the grid in between Pamplona and the neutral zone. Mercer was already a week into his assignment, and so far he had experienced not a single interaction with anything besides jack rabbits and lost sheep. But to him...they were merely just lunch and dinner.
The terrain was mostly dry. Some clusters of trees and bushes, mixed with winding dirt trails, were the only other areas in which Mercer walked through besides the thick forest. Right now, he was hiding within a short spurt of dry jungle, in the fear that he was not alone. Turned around, both cautiously and silently, Mercer watched, in a prone position, for the catalyst of the twig-snapping to reveal itself. He was truly conflicted, not knowing whether he wanted a confrontation or not.

Mercer caught the sight of a young fox, no older than himself, sniffing his trail, and slowly walking past Mercer hiding in the bush. Mercer's fangs began to drool again. His excitement erupting within him, and raging throughout his body. He could feel his quick pulse pounding all over his skin. His paws were shaking. His eyes...blurring and refocusing at the thought of the upcoming fight. Mercer locks his legs and pulls his body back. He slingshots himself out of the bush and knocks the fox over to its side. The fox quickly turns over and ensnares Mercer. They tussle and wrestle on the ground, back and forth, when Mercer finds himself submitting to the fox's strength. The fox is holding Mercer down with the collective weight of his body, concentrated on Mercer's back. The fox lifts his head preparing to bite down on the back of Mercer's neck; a death stroke. Mercer gathers his strength and pushes up with his legs. The fox moves his weight, at the sudden lift and unbalance, to Mercer's lower back. The pressure from the shift puts an unbearable amount of strain on Mercer's hind-legs.


His ankle buckles from all the stress coursing through his leg. The young wolf falls back to the floor and passes out from the excruciating pain.
When Mercer came to, he was more surprised than anything; surprised that he was not dead. And after his disbelief faded, the pain from his leg surged back throughout his body. He tried to stand, but collapsed before he could even position his legs underneath him. Mercer could not walk, his leg was broken. He looked down and saw dirty blood-stained bandages wrapping his leg, from his knee to his ankle. He must have been found and saved by his kin, Mercer thought. But his thoughts betrayed him, the fox that he tried to kill, had spared his life and nursed his wound back to help. But Mercer would never know of the Fox's mercy. And although merciful, the fox had not done a very good job dressing his wound. The broken bone in Mercer's leg was improperly set. When he removed the bandages, he saw a small splintered bone from his ankle protruding out of his fur. The off-white ivory piece was both painful to feel and look at. Who knows how much time had gone by. Who knows where Mercer was. Who knows if he could get back home. And worst of all, his leg was so bad, Mercer could barely stand, let alone walk. His future was bleak. He was overwhelmed by all the thoughts and anxieties running through his head. 'How will I eat? How can I defend himself? How will I find my way?'

"Find the strength to stand in your suffering, and you shall find your way."

"Whose there!?" yelled out Mercer, now very startled and confused. The voice felt very welcoming and warmed his heart, but what could it be? And how did it know what he was thinking? Mercer was getting tired of all of these unanswered questions. So he tried to follow the directions of the only question that was answered. He mustered the courage to endure the fiery pain coursing through his body, spawning from his ankle, and pushed up on his other three legs. He kept his broken leg lifted up off the ground. And slowly rose to his feet. He did it! He was standing. He had pulled through the pain, and found his inner strength. All thanks to those kind helpful words. He turned around to meet this stranger with such inspiring advice. When he set his eyes upon the stranger it was nothing Mercer had ever seen before. An animal somewhat like him, four-legged, but much bigger. His face was round and so was his ears. His shoulders were wide and heavy-set. He had no tail, and big thick claws. But most notable of all his characteristics was his bright white fur, so splendidly clean that it looked as if every follicle of hair was capturing and reciprocating the radiance of the sun."" staggered Mercer.

"I am Urnasus, the Great White Bear."

"How did you find me?"

"Correction, but I do believe that you found me."

"I don't understand..."

"Come now, It is time to get you home."

Mercer could not think of anything else to say. The prospect of going home was far too good to pass up. And he was done with questions. This was a chapter of his life that he might never be able to explain, but for right now...he was okay with that. Urnasus knelt down and rubbed his paw on Mercer's ankle. With one gentle wipe of his white furry mitt, the protruding bone had vanished and reset, and the pain was no more. Together, the two new friends walked into the setting sun, and for Mercer, some odd feeling was born in his heart that would change his life forever.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Bearing Inigo: NEW CHAPTER!

Coming September 30th...

. . . EPISODE TWO . . .

"...Mercer was certain something was following him..."
"...Pamplona... one of the cities closest to the Northern border..."
"...The fox lifts his head preparing to bite down on the back of Mercer's neck; a death stroke..."
"...This was a chapter of his life that he might never be able to explain, but for right now...he was okay with that..."

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Flood of Darkness


Philip was out of the hospital for three days when he heard the terrible news. His grandfather had passed away some time in the night. The funeral would be held at the end of the week. Philip had three days to prepare himself. He was living with his parents, for he was still not use to his new condition. Blindness made doing everything difficult for him. Simple tasks that he took for granted he now loathed. Just getting out of bed in the morning and changing his clothes was an ordeal. Many of times he would have to suffer under laughs from his father or a comment from his mother about the clashing colors he wore. And every time he would snap back at them with a wicked mouth. He could no longer see the sun, so his world was full of darkness.

And in this darkness he rotted.

Days went by and Philip would barely get out of bed. He would lie there, rubbing his fingertips across the scars over his eyes, and bathe in the torment of self-pity. He had forsaken his life, renounced god, and burnt every bridge he had come to form in his life. There were only three people who came to visit him: his attending physician, Dr. Randolph, who was still looking after him, the military scientist, Dr. Fitzsimons, and his ex-wife, Sarah. Many of the meetings would go on without much conversation. Sarah would come visit, but spend most of her time with Philip's parents, awaiting the day he would come out of his depression. Dr. Fitzsimons would come only to show his support, he would give Philip a routine check-up, which was just a repetition of what Dr. Randolph would do.

Finally, the day came when Philip had to get out of his bed, take a shower, and leave his house. It was the day of his grandfather's funeral. While in the shower Philip thought about his last conversation with his grandfather...
'The Harvest Moon, all that Cherokee nonsense. Funny, how the old man needed religion to get him through his last days, how cliche. And yet, maybe there is some truth there. I don't deny that there are gods, but I doubt those dimwitted Indians had it right. And yet...the god in my dream...was... a storm. The Cherokee and most Indian tribes believed in the elements to be supernatural entities. What is my grandfather was right? And I blew him off. I am truly an asshole...'
Philip was almost on the brink of tears from his strong wave of erupting self-hatred. If it hadn't been for the water pouring down his face from the shower nozzle, he might have caught himself actually shedding a tear of regret. But could he even cry? Alas, he finished up in the shower, got himself together, and went back to his room to start getting dressed. A task that he no longer could handle alone. There waiting for Philip in his room was his mother.

He had almost forgotten what her face looked like. It had been so long since he last saw her. Even when Philip was home before the military, he rarely ever went home. He kept to himself, through and through, waiting for his life to take course. When it did not naturally, he forced it to by enlisting. And we all know what happened since then. But now, Philip was back home with his mother, and she was dressing him in politely dark colors, with a suit jacket, and a plain black tie. It was like he was five years old again. Total regression. He let her do it with little words. Even though they were in the same room, she felt as though they were miles apart. Philip, refusing to leave his dark little world, and his Mother trying to hold back the fear that she utterly failed with her only son.


Said Philip, but it sounded more like an order. His mother choked on his command. For two reasons: the thought of his new-found dependency on his blindness symbolized by his need for the glasses, and the lack of change in personality that she thought would surely come to fruition. For in Mrs. Dresden's mind Philip was always an introvert, he kept to himself in school, not making many friends, even in marriage he jumped ship because the intimacy was too much (or that's what she thought was the problem). And now that he was locked in his own world, Mrs. Dresden prayed that it would have an adverse reaction to his psyche and get him to make a crucial change in his life for the better and become an outgoing person, maybe even patching things up with Sarah. But, it unfortunately only exacerbated things, and Philip fell further into his solitude and depression. So, they sat in silence, except for that one interrupting command. When finished they came downstairs, Philip grabbed his smooth, ivory cane from the umbrella stand, and together, Mr. and Mrs. Dresden, and Philip filed into their 1973 Cadillac.

Mr. Dresden was much like his son, with only one distinct difference, when Mr. Dresden found his wife his entire world changed. He became the man that she saw in him, and that man was far from a recluse. Mr. Dresden saw his meeting Mrs. Dresden as a necessary change in his life. If he did not go through this change, then he would have ended his son. Together, they drove to the cemetery. Philip did not want to be there. But he knew he would feel both regretful once again and resentful at himself. There was no way to please himself. Everywhere he turned, misery was waiting for him.

They were the first ones to arrive at the cemetery. For they had skipped over the Church portion of the funeral due to Philip's lack of initiative in getting out of bed. Philip took both his Father and Mother's arms and walked in between them. After some time waiting in place, he could feel the air around him vent into the lungs of the gathering mourners. Soon enough, he heard the voice of the priest giving the closing ceremony before they lowered his grandfather's casket into the grave. Philip laughed, this christian priest was preaching about a man that no longer believed or followed in their religion. Philip pictured an ancient medicine man leading a rain-dance around the grave, to honor the Cherokee gods. Philip's mockery sadistically brightened his spirit. The sliding of the ropes lowering the casket lingered in Philip's ears and sent a soft shiver down his spine, giving him goose-bumps. The pitter-patter of the footsteps rounding the hole gave Philip the clue he needed to figure out that everyone was throwing their flowers down the grave and saying their last good-byes.

"And so lays John Archibald Ridge in his final resting place, now and forever, in the glory of god."

The priest gave his last prayer and Philip heard the shovels digging into the earth around him and the dirt being poured into the hole. After a couple minutes of repetitive sounds, Philip was tugged by his Mother, they were getting ready to leave. "I'm gonna stay." He responded to her tug. "But how will you get home?"
"Jesus christ Mom! I'm not helpless." And without anymore debate they left Philip graveside. He sat on the grass, assuming that he was facing the new grave. The air returned to its full presence and Philip took it in with relief. Now that he was alone, he could truly say good-bye to his grandfather. Philip tried to say the words he wanted to say to his grandfather before he died aloud, but only a couple of words came out before he completely broke down...

"I'm... I' sorry....I-"

Philip grasped the blades of grass brushing up against his pant-legs and the tears tried to puncture his scar tissue. But they could not get out, and Philip's misery was building up. His eye sockets felt horrible, tiny pustules filling up with tear-drops. He was a monster. Simply not human. He could not cry. What man cannot cry? Philip tore the grass out of the ground like he wanted to tear the scarred skin off his eyes. But at the climax of his grief a gentle drop of water made a tiny splash on his cheek.

The temperature dropped significantly, the wind kicked up, and the skies darkened. Philip was beginning to see, dim images, inverted colors, green and blue absent, grey and black forthcoming. A storm was brewing, and with it, was Philip's redemption. He stood up and took a look around at this new world of bright storm clouds and black earth.

Commotion in the Sky,
clouds clashing, Asundered Heavens,

The STORM HARVESTER Approaches....

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Flood of Darkness: NEW CHAPTER!

Coming September 17th...

. . . EPISODE FIVE . . .

"...Simple tasks that he took for granted he now loathed..."
"...And in this darkness he rotted..."

" lays John Archibald Ridge in his final resting place, now and forever, in the glory of god..."
"...Philip grasped the blades of grass brushing up against his pant-legs and the tears tried to puncture his scar tissue..."

Tuesday, September 8, 2009


NEW EPISODES: Flood of Darkness & Bearing Inigo

NEW SERIES: Fun in the Apocalypse