The Electric Fence

“So, what is your name?” I knew as soon as I asked my shaky, silent lab partner this question, I couldn’t go back. His mysterious, bad-boy image somehow attracted me to him. Glancing at his features was like staring at stars on a dark night; you know that they’re there, but you don’t know what story lies behind each star.

He finally answers. “James, you?” His child-like voice made me even more interested in him.

“Cary,” I mentioned as I extended my hand to meet his.

His gentle, strong hands meet mine and that’s when it hit me: my palms felt as if I had a firm grip on an electric fence. From then, our conversations eventually became longer and our distance from each other became shorter.

I noticed his struggling grade in science, so I followed my instincts, “James, do you need help studying for our unit test on Tuesday?”

“M’fine,” that’s all he ever said when I tried to take our friendship a step forward.

“I can tell from that D,” I proved to him.

“So I’m below you, is that what you’re saying?” he asked, as his childish voice escalated to an adult-like scold. Before I had a chance to defend myself, he continued his rant, “Jus’ cause I get one bad grade, means I won’t be successful? Are you trying to make me feel bad, ‘cause it worked.”

Those were the last words James ever said. Why he did it, no one will ever know.

"Itsy Bitsy Spider" (Untitled)

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout…” Hiccups momentarily halted her sobs in a pathetically repetitious rhythm, causing her weak, tired body to convulse in short intervals. Her very silhouette epitomized utter defeat as she melded into the wall supporting her frame, yet the rain poured down upon her without mercy. As the tiny drops of liquid transformed into a sonorous cacophony of drums within her mind and ears, the cheap dye in her hair washed out and permanently stained her silky white coat a bloody red. Honey-colored bored into freezing gray as she finally spoke din her strained, cracking voice. “You never give up…do you? You should understand now! You can do as you will, but you’ll never lay your eyes on that item which you seek so fervently….fruitlessly.” His mouth stretched as an all too familiar expression tainted his average features, “Elzbieta, darling, sweetheart, did you think I would spend all this time searching in futility? You couldn’t possibly still believe I don’t know of that child? Or no, I’m sorry, I underestimated your naïveté. You did know-but you thought I would never dare to hurt her. How could I ever even harm a hair on a child so pure, so full of… hope?” His words had turned poisonous as he had verbalized his hidden threats. The concluding words had been spat out with a matching expression that unsuccessfully mimicked a smile; full of malice, scorn, and worse yet, knowing. A chill rattled through her as she processed his words in horror. “N-no,” she croaked. Brushing a hand through his damp auburn hair, his hazel eyes watched gleefully as she seemed to shrivel in horror. “N-no, no…No!” she shouted desperately. “You c-can’t, y-you won’t harm her!” she hissed vehemently, trembling with an unknown mixture of absolute fury and utter fear, but he chuckled gleefully. “How endearing, a kitten wearing the mask of a lion. Darling, if it’s the only way to gain access to that key you oh-so-kindly hid…then yes, it will be my pleasure.” The woman closed her eyes as if the condensation was painfully acidic, innocently pattering unfathomable amounts of anguish upon her. She exhaled and abandoned both duty and reason. Reaching into her coat, she shakily revealed a jewel encrusted key with the head in the shape of a black widow. The future of mankind, her hope, the resistance, their strength of will…they were all dragged into the gutter as the exchange was made and our fate was sealed. “Good job,” he whispered. They were the last words she heard. You could amost hear it all going down, as the water came down the drains and washed the good right out. “…down came the rain and washed the spider out…”

Irony is a Joke

“I want to be the first person to sneeze from pepper, slip on a banana peel, fall down a spiral staircase, and die!”

The three girls’ joyous giggles echoed across the expanse of emporiums as they strolled to the candy shop, making up whimsical death tales that even the Grim Reaper himself wouldn’t believe along the way.

“Hey, Sofia, has it ever bothered you that we’re always joking around about dying?” Sherry fidgeted with her jacket strings, glancing warily for anyone who would think they looked suspicious.

“No way!” Sofia sent a sassy smirk in her timid friend’s direction. “It’s gonna take anyone a good while to finish us off!”

“Just think about it, Sherry,” Eva fell in step with her friends in the front. “We’ve got a lifetime ahead of us. Don’t sweat the small stuff and just enjoy life!”
She grinned and broke out into a dash. "Now get moving! You guys are so slow! I’m going to get all the chocolate pretzels before any of you do!”

“Oh yeah? Challenge accepted!”

As her friends bounced around the racks of candy like playful puppies, Sherry remained still. Somehow, she felt uneasy.

At that moment, her thoughts stopped.

“Sherry Devonshire.” The name trickled out like thick, creamy molasses. A boot pressed roughly against Sherry's cheek, firm as a paperweight. "You've changed a lot, old friend. Thanks for cooperating quietly; my job doesn't allow any margin for error."

“Sofia! Sherry’s down!” Eva’s horror-struck face gaped at the auburn-haired girl, who promptly swatted Sherry in the back with her silver crossbow and leapt away, disappearing into the floor below.

The two crumpled beside their friend as the crowd around them went into a panic, some screaming for medics or the police.

Sofia’s hand brushed a tiny round bullet.

It was silver.

That Special Night

“Moms will clean up everything. Scientists have proven that a mom’s spit is the exact chemical composition of Formula 409. Mom’s spit on a Kleenex, you get rust off the bumper with that.” My mom will clean up anything from gooey vomit to moldy bread. No task is too daunting for that woman. It wouldn’t be a normal morning for my family if there wasn’t a mess to clean up. It’s Tuesday which means it’s Sloppy Joes for breakfast day. Exacerbated by the pure thought of that delicious meat along with a perfect mix of seasoning, I slowly drooled down my chin. The slimy drool raced through my beard and onto to the floor. By a bad coincidence, the drool collected exactly where my mother’s next step was and she just happened to be carrying the hot and steaming pot fool of the Sloppy Joe concoction. “Mom, watch out!” I yelled aggressively. My warning came far too late. The dogs were in heaven. “What did I slip on?” my mom demanded. I quickly made-up a lie, “You slipped on the rug, Mom.” “Can you please control your draining mouth next time? Or there will never be a Sloppy Joe Tuesday ever again!” she yelled with a fierce voice and tone. The day was ruined. I had ruined Sloppy Joe Tuesday and my whole family cussed me under their breath. I will never open my mouth again when in sight of any delicious food. Lesson learned for me and the dogs. Drool can destroy your day, or in the dogs’ case, make your day, heck, your week.

A Paranoid Exaggeration.

People say that a home should be where you feel safe, a place to rest and relax, a place that shelters your thoughts and shelves the worries of tomorrow. In a home, you should feel like you can open up, be yourself, and let other people in. Then, in that case, my home is more like a psycho ward than a place for a family. Twitchy and nervous, I sit on the couch near the window and listen for shouts and conversations outside. Conversations that a little bit of privacy, if it were to be granted, would have blocked from my ears. I sit in my room, and I hear thumps and booms from the walls around me, like an angered beast is rampaging all around me in circles. This beast does not drag his feet, and I never know where the next will fall, each time making me jump. I try to rest, laying in my sisters bed, and I can not. After hours of battling myself, rolling and twisting with the blanket snaking more and more tightly around me, I am just about to fall asleep. But then I hear the worst thing in the world, my enemy in an invisible form, Distraction. He pulls my mind out from the sewer of sleep and throws it back down into the center of my brain. It takes me a moment, but I finally figure out what snagged my attention like a fish, and this annoys me even more. Bed springs. Loud, obnoxious, squealing bed springs. It is as if they planned this, their high-pitched moaning warping into giggles as they darted through the air and slapped me in the face. It was like I was a pan on a stove and this was my fire, irritating me until I was red-hot. The bed springs ceased their relentless giggling. Then they began again. They stopped. Then they began again. I heard floor-boards creak and water run, and after that, I fell asleep, exhausted and agitated. In this building, I know better than to step outside and have the audacity to believe nobody is watching. You just do not do it. They lurk behind their windows, weaved into their curtains. They watch; You, themselves, and each other. Nothing you do goes unseen, inside the building or out, and if you try to run, they will find you. Even if you rest inside, they greedily watch, their appetite only growing. You take a breath, and the imp behind the wall marks it down on his tally-chart. You mistake this for the clock, and he clutches his clip-board with one clawed hand and grins, satisfied that you have not caught on to their little game.

I Remember......

I Remember…

“Rainbows are just colors showing off. It’s a pathetic cry for help.” I for one prefer darker colors but, whatever. They remind me of him, Kael Williams Jr., My grandpa. He was my friend, my family, and my mentor. I remember the days he would sit me and my little sister Angie around his favorite cotton chair. Of course it was worn out, covered in patches that were probably holding the whole thing together, but it was still his favorite chair. He would rest in it like it was his cocoon and he would always start his stories off by saying, “My adventure began...,” and that would always get a chuckle out of me and my little sis. My grandpa always had a way with people he knew how to make us smile. That night he told us a story about his boxing days. When he was young he was a force to be reckoned, with a record of 23-4-0 and he was on his way to the pros. “Kids you wouldn’t believe the freaks I had to step in the ring with, but I always got them with the 1-2 combo!” He boasted while flailing his arms around like he had won something. “Grandpa, if you were good why you stopped?” Angie teased. My grandpa sat, and he said “My dear that is a whole other story for another time…” He smiled, but I could see a slight look of remorse in his eyes, by then he stopped speaking and sent us off to bed. Grandpa usually tucked us in, but when he didn’t I couldn’t just sleep, so I crawled out of bed and I looked silently through my door. He was viewing over his old red grit covered gloves with a bottle of whiskey resting on his lap.

Not the Gun

Not the Gun

The gun popped along to the staccato of her heartbeat, thumping against her ears like the time when David Stefani told her she was beautiful.

“Oh, god.” Her cry flew across the pavement with a flutter of startled birds. For an endless moment, all was silent, the air broken only by a shuddering exhale from the crumpled figure on the ground.

A hooded form trembled as crimson seeped into his shoes, staring at the boy beneath his feet who had three bullet holes kissing his chest. “I’m sorry,” he choked as he brought a shaking hand to his mouth. A final pop burst through the silence. His hood exploded from his head, revealing eyes that widened before rolling back. He fell like a judge’s mallet, hard and sharp.

The girl stood facing the scene, her knees threatening to lose the battle with gravity. On the ground not twenty paces away lay her past and her future, folded perfectly into each other, one lifeless body cupping the other in curled absolution.

Gravity won out. She stumbled to the ground, retching into the dizzy space between her hands. 911, she thought, I need to call 911. She fumbled into her jeans for her phone, punching in the three infamous numbers from where she crouched.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s a shooting. My friend—my friends have been shot.” Her voice caught. “Oh, god, there’s so much blood. Please, send an ambulance! I think…I think they’re dead.” She began to sob, making the speaker blow with her gasps.

“Ma’am, please calm down. Where are you?”

“I’m at the park near Williams street,” she exhaled. “I didn’t come in time…I couldn’t stop him…” Anger invaded her throat. “They were friends! It was the gang that killed them, not the gun.”

With Age Comes Wisdom

For seventy-one years, the bench had sat in the same place. His perch on the hill provided a view of a pristine field with a small stream flowing gracefully through it. Across the field sat another hill. Atop the hill sat the bench’s best friend; a mighty oak tree. While the bench had been at his post for seventy-one years, the tree had been growing for one-hundred-and-fifty years. For thirty-two years the tree grew alone. He dreamed of having a friend to share his thoughts with, but for thirty-two years he sat alone. The day the bench was built across the stream inside of the park lines went something like this.

“…hey bench.”

“Hello?” It was the benches first word.

“How’re you?”

“Sore.” The bench stretched its frame, trying to break it in.

The bench and the tree spent seventy-one years together. The tree was like the bench’s father. He taught him many things during his first thirty-two years, but the tree learned just as much from the bench. One brisk spring morning, a group of humans were gathering around the tree.

“What are they doing to you, Tree?”

“Probably just another team of scientists studying trees.”

The companions spent two days wondering what the humans were doing to Tree. On the third day, the humans returned.

“Looks like the scientists brought some science equipment this time,” said Bench.

“It would appear so.”

Bench fell asleep as the scientists conducted their experiments on Tree. They sure were loud. The Bench had never learned something and not shared it with Tree. Upon waking, he did just that. For seventy-one years they had learned many things. But in seventy-one years, Bench had never learned of lumber jacks. Tree would never know either.

Shark attack!

Shark attack!

“I want to be the first person to sneeze from pepper, slip on a banana peel, fall down a spiral staircase and die.” My husband had quoted earlier today. How ironic that everything that he had said had happened to me today.

I’m going to die.

                That was pretty much the first thought that came to mind as I dangled from the helicopter, clutching desperately at the ladder, my hands on the verge of slipping. In that moment, time froze. The shark paused midair, and I dug my feet into the last rung, wishing I could close my eyes. But I couldn’t. I simply hung there, shark frozen in front of me, huge black eyes wild with the excitement of its kill.

The hand that clasped mine was what brought me back, yanking me about six rungs into the air. I caught my breath as my foot met the nose of the shark, sending it flying down into the water below.

“Pull her up!” The captain shouted.

I finally managed to get a good grip on the ladder with my free hand, gripping the hand that held mine as my feet found a rung. Then, about ten seconds later, warm arms where wrapped tightly around me.

“Freya,” My husband breathed, holding me close for a brief moment before pulling away.  “Are you alright?”

“Fine…” I stuttered as he wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

“You don’t look fine.” He frowned. “That was probably the scariest thing I have ever seen.

“I’m fine.” I insisted.

Carefully, we both looked down at where the shark had disappeared, peering into the murky water below us. Then, as we watched, a dark fin came slowly up out the water, surfacing only for a brief moment before slipping back into the water.

Lucky Me

The baby was crazy; her mother was convinced of it.

“No sit! Sit!” Leah shrieked; eyes wild, black curls haywire as she let her displeasure with dinnertime be known. The cheerios that were supposed to be eaten were instead flying across the kitchen. Her harried single mother tried everything-pleading, cajoling, bribing. It was to no avail.

“No no no no no no no!”

“Fine kiddo, have it your way.” Letting out a loud huff, the mother slammed the high chair tray down and left the room, tears of frustration pricking behind her eyes.

CRASH!!

The mother turned around and screamed. There was her baby, lying immobile amongst the cereal on the floor, the high-chair tipped over, the wooden table-top cracked. She rushed over, too shocked to cry, and gathered her daughter in her arms. Leah began to stir. She blinked up at her mother, trying to get her bearings. The mother watched as the impact of the jump hit Leah. Her lips began to quiver, her fists closed up, her head tilted back and she started to wail.

Hugging her baby tight to her chest the mother whispered “Shhhh baby it’ll be ok. Don’t you worry, mama’s got you.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of doctors’ offices and concerned nurses. Finally, the physician approached them with the verdict.

“She’s lucky,” he explained in a tone of voice that hinted at his detachment. “That kid has a hard head.”

Letting out a soft sigh of relief, the mother grabbed the discharge papers and scooped up Leah. They were ambling toward the mini-van when Leah blinked her big blue eyes spoke up for the first time in hours.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Leah?”

“Hungry.”

Genesis 3:14

I blink.
I’m sinking. I’m drowning. This sea of cords. This flash of light. The sensation of falling. Fill my soul with the emptiness of everything.

The idiot who assigned me to this rig was heavy on the bottle, his speech thick with slurs and hiccups like a troubled road.
“You sure I’ll be okay up there?” I questioned him feverishly, my palms wet with indignant nervousness.

“Why wouldn’t ya be? It’s just a box.”

“People die in elevators all the time.” Stubbornness poisoned my lungs, charcoal forged from a immovable mountain.

“Not 32A.” He belched, back to his Jim Bean in a blip.

Adam took the fruit from Eve. He took the bait; he was foolish. His world turned upside down in a sick twist of fate. Eden is still smoldering.

Madam, I’m Adam, I whispered to myself. The sound of that palindrome was soothing amid the destruction that swallowed my surroundings. Those words can be spelled the same either way, reversible, interchangeable. This instance was permanent, however.

There wouldn’t be an exit.

Snap. The inhuman squelch of wire echoed throughout the lone chamber. My grip was completely severed from its intended location. The end was nigh.

I blink once more.

I’m in a hospital bed, surrounded by candied flowers. A flick of blue eyes, like cerulean embers. A smirk.

“Look alive, sunshine.”
Oh, the irony.
It takes the darkest of tragedies for love to come back running, doesn’t it?

Life is an elevator, and we’re all ascending and descending, but one snip of our wires can change everything.

The Storm

“It’s awful cold out. Today I let the cat in and I had to defrost him in the microwave.” Laughter erupted from the backseat as the car roared down the highway. Entirely focused on twirling her doll, the girl giggled, “Tell another joke mommy.”

As the mother continued amusing the little girl, the driver glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the storm fast approaching. But this was not just any storm; this storm contained violent thunderheads and carried with it a layer of ash so thick that it made Pompeii look like a sandbox.

“Daddy? Where are we going?”

The father looked back at her in his mirror and calmly answered, “We’re going on vacation sweetie.”

His wife glanced uneasily at him. The weatherman said it would be the worst storm in history. The only hope was if civilians could head to the coast. The family arrived at the military bunker, hidden away in the cliffs of the coast. The father lifted his young daughter in his arms and, followed by his wife, approached the MP.

“Hold it right there.” The MP stopped the family, “Name?”

“We’re the Eriksons’.” The MP consulted his list, and not finding his answer on the first page, flipped to the second. The father looked back to see that the storm was getting closer.

“Alright go ahead in; but the ship’s almost full.”

The family hurried aboard the waiting vessel. The furry sides of the ship shifted with the strong winds that were beginning to buffet the sides. As the family buckled in, the ship was propelled into the air. After a very hard landing everyone emerged from the ship. The family looked back to see a giant holding a long pole with large bristles at the end move over their previous home.

Tommy

Dexter sprinted through the house on all fours. Bleeding and exhausted, he panted desperately for air. Each breath opened his wounds and blood splattered onto the floor. The figure closed in, knife in hand. Dexter barked frantically one last time...then silence consumed the house.

"Tommy!" yelled his mother, walking through the front door, "I'm home." She could hear Tommy doing something upstairs and wasn't sure he'd heard her. "Did you feed Dexter?" she called again.

Tommy walked downstairs nonchalantly, drying his hands on his shirt. "He ran away."

"What?" she gasped, "Which way'd he go?" Tommy pretended not to hear her; instead, he grabbed a black hoodie and put something in the front pocket; she assumed a flashlight. "Check the cul-de-sac, I'll check the woods," she said anxiously.

"Be careful," Tommy replied, grinning.

"Dexter!" she cried, stumbling into the woods. It was nearing sunset. The woods were dark and empty. "Dexter!" she was frightened and the feeling of being watched consumed her. She remembered the unsolved murders that had taken place in these woods at least as long as they'd lived there.

A tree branch snapped. She jumped; then turned...nothing.

"Stop!" yelled a voice in the distance. She gasped and turned. A man was running towards her with something in his right hand; it looked like a knife. Her legs collapsed and she fainted. When she awoke, the man was lying on the ground next to her...dead. In his right hand was a cell phone. Tommy hovered above him, slowly running the barrel of his father's gun through the blood-stained mud. He was smiling.

When Tommy saw that his mother had wakened, he walked slowly to her side and sat down.

"Why did you shoot him?" she cried.

"I thought he had a knife."

She paused, "Then how'd you know to bring the gun?"

Red Canvas Shoes

Guinevere’s maroon shoes were soaked. The cherry material was permeated with a liquid, blending to and transforming the original color to a more saturated scarlet. Her indigo jeans were covered with russet splatters and random wet patches around her calves. She had just sauntered through the automatic doors of the convenience store, burgundy shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. As she strode through the store she was given multiple looks from fellow customers ranging from concern to extreme cautiousness. She approached the cashier with her assorted items. “It’s a rough night outside, huh?” Guinevere looked up at the middle-aged woman and then looked at her nametag. “Yes, Janice, it is. I wasn’t expecting this kind of destructive, tumultuous weather in September.” The cashier looked off guard, as if weighing her next response. It appeared that she chose not to answer at all. Janice looked at the items she had rung up; there was a lemon container of Lysol wipes, violet rubber gloves, and a box of heavy duty trash bags. “That’ll be $10.62, please.” Janice held up her hand warily as she accepted the money from the haggard girl. Guinevere accepted her change and grabbed her bag rushing out of the store. After arriving at her home, she charged through the door whilst ripping open the Lysol container. “Thank God you’re here; I thought the stain was starting to set.” Guinevere’s mother was bent over a mess of red and brown. “Yeah, it was cheaper than I thought, here. Next time you want to use the ketchup bottle, don’t squeeze it while it’s still closed, and if you do, do it away from my soda. My jeans are ruined!”

When My Eyes Close

It's awful cold out. Today I let the cat in and I had to defrost him in the microwave.” Grandpa Lee jested trying to comfort me after knowing he had been sent to the hospital.
“Grandpa you aren't home,” I acknowledged, trying to cease my tears. “You're in the hospital.”
“I know,” he replied grasping my hand. “I was trying to cheer you up.”
Tears poured down my face as Dr. Shepherd appeared, “Are you ready for surgery, Mr. Brown?”
He brought his wrinkled hand to my face and kissed my cheek, “I love you more than anything, my squiggle-bottoms,” he muttered in my ear, indirectly avoiding the doctor's question.
“I love you, too,” the only word I could render before he let go of my hand and the doctor wheeled him away to heart surgery.
The waiting room was scarce of company; I was the only one there. I tried to keep myself occupied, not thinking of all the possibilities that could happen during surgery. My eyelids slowly drifted closed and a scene unfolded before me. I was in the operating room observing my grandfather's surgery. All of the sudden something went wrong, the blood stopped circulating and he began to flat-line.
“NOOOOOOOO!” I yelled in despair as the doctors scrambled. “You have to save him.”
The surgeons frantically used the paddles to shock his heart. His body jolted into the air, but to no avail, he was still flat-lining. They tried again, but this time I woke up.
Dr. Shepherd poised looming over me, rattling my shoulder. A solemn look crossed over his face and I knew what had happened. Tears flooded my eyes as he spoke the unwanted news.
“I'm sorry, we did all we could, but we couldn't save him.”

Prejudice

“Rainbows are just colors showing off. It’s a pathetic cry for help!” screamed Cool Gray to his brothers and sisters, also varying shades of gray. None of the colors were invited to this sermon only the Shades, Black, and White.
“Oh the colors aren’t that bad. They didn’t choose to be that way, they were born colored. We should treat them all the way we treat each other!” Black shot back at Cool Gray.
“Oh, come ON!” Cool Gray erupted, his cheeks blackening with rage, “You only say that cause you get to combine with all of them! You’re a disgrace to us all, so are those forsaken mongrels that you produce!”
“Now now, Cool Gray honey” replied Mother White, “Be nice to your father. The Colors are beautiful just as each and every one of you in your special ways.”
Now Cool Gray was mad. His eyes were pitch black, displaying his animosity to the crowd of shades gathered in front of him.
“Mother, Father, you only accept them because you still get recognition! Us grays don’t ever get attention. You’re symbolic, you’re used, you’re important. We don’t get such use, we don’t get noticed, and we don’t get used. We’re hated.” Cool Gray growled, frothing at the mouth into the microphone on his stage. The darker, bolder shades in the crowd erupted with approval of Cool Grays sermon and call to action.
“We should revolt! Kill the colors!” Cool Gray shouted into his microphone pumping his clenched fist into the air.
The crowd erupted into cheers. The crazed crowd of bold grays lifted their monotone pitch-forks and torches alight with gray flame and charged screaming at the rainbow, leaving Black, White, and the dimmer grays in the dust behind them.

To Start a War

Hordan stood in the crowd of people, all dressed in their Sunday best, who had gathered at the rally, smiling with anticipation. The crowd erupted in cheers as the councilor approached the podium, his neatly combed blond hair gleaming in the sun. “My friends, we have gathered here today to talk about a great danger to our….”
Hordan sighed. He’d grown tired of the councilor’s constant attacks on how much of danger he and his kind were. He trembled with anticipation, history was about to change for the better of his people.
“Witches, they call us” Hordan muttered in disgust, “wizards, warlocks and devil worshippers. We are the next stage in human evolution, they will learn to either step aside or be crushed by our might. All it takes is that first step, and I’m happy to be the one to take that step.”
The next few seconds were frantic as Hordan finished and rushed through the crowd, his palm glowing pale blue. The bodyguards drew their flintlock pistols and moved to protect the councilor, as the blue light blasted out of Hordan’s hand, the noise of the initial blast sounding not unlike a cannon blast. It moved faster than their eyes could follow, pulsating and making an odd humming noise as it flew straight toward its target, cutting through the guard’s torso before emerging from his back and passing through the councilor’s body.
There was a collective gasp as the two collapsed to the ground and lay still, not a single spec of blood. Hordan was soon brought down by the security. All the while he was smiling, oblivious to the screams of the people and the cries of a new widow. With the death of two men, a war would begin, and an era would end.