The Story

He settled down at his desk, poised to write
It had been decided: he would end the novel tonight
The fictional characters had become very close to his heart
In particular, the wily author, who played the main part
The personality had been modeled on himself - that he could not deny
Perhaps a bit too much; it was truly a pity he would have to die
But it was a murder mystery after all, meant to shock and thrill
And creating unexpected twists, he thought, was his most prized skill
So he set about killing the novel's protagonist; a shot to the chest did it
The murderer's identity remained shrouded in mist, as he cleverly hid it
With that, the novel was done, without further thought
Surely a bestseller, he mused. It would earn him a lot
Suddenly, the sound of a shot echoed through the room
The author immediately sensed his impending doom
He glanced down in horror and saw the blood stain
Even before he began to clutch his chest in pain
The true meaning of what happened hit him as he fell to the floor
This was one twist he had never bargained for

The Bride

She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen. Her face radiated a warm, effervescent glow, and her eyes danced with the light of many happy days to come. She exuded joy in every movement, her delicate dress lightly fluttering as she laughed and twirled gracefully. All her guests' wishes were acknowledged with the firm gratitude and charming coquettishness that comes from a polite upbringing. She was simply stunning, in every way. I gazed at the scene in wonder. The routine never failed to amaze me. "Isn't she a little too old to be getting married?" A potential customer in a taffeta gown remarked. "She's been coming here every day for the past 2 years." I replied, wistfully. "Her fiancee left her at the altar 63 years ago. I guess some dreams never die."

Short Story

For her, he said, he'd forever wait. So she set out to find him one day.

But alas, when she did it was too late, for another had led him astray.

So with her own heavy heart, and his, which out she had ripped,

The poor girl sadly returned to her crypt.

The Guardian

He was grizzled, gnarled, ravaged by time. His frail body bore the triumphant scars of many ancient battles, fought and won. Some would have thought he was long retired, but the benevolent old security guard had a distinguished air about him which suggested that he had served his post with an unwavering loyalty for many years, and would continue to do so in the years to come. But as self-assured as he might have appeared, the old man held a dark secret deep within his soul. He knew his time had come. He had fought the inevitable for as long as he could; not for himself, but for the sake of that which he protected. What he protected, he knew, was the most precious and irreplaceable thing of all.
Somewhere, a troubled person felt at peace, steady breathing sweetened by the tranquility of slumber.

The guard shut his eyes for only a second, giving his tired body the brief illusion of rest. But as he did, he sensed that a new menacing presence had arrived. He was right. Dark forces had descended upon the area. The guard stood still for a moment, unable to do anything but blink. They had grown in number since the last time he had encountered them. He could see that they were stronger now, more advanced, more resourceful…and more determined than ever. They stood, surrounding him on all sides, waiting silently, daring him to make the first move. All of a sudden, the old man felt the entire weight of his years crush him with a tyrannical force. He had never felt his age as prominently as he did at that moment. He was overcome by a hopeless sense of helplessness. Then, without warning, they struck the first blow.
Somewhere, a tortured scream pierced the night, a chilling, bloodcurdling scream that shook the very foundations of earth

The old man doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. His instincts were right; his enemy’s strength had increased immensely. Unsure of what to do, he cowered at their feet, racing through his options. Then, he remembered why he was there. He remembered what he was there to protect…and what the implications of losing it meant. With the strength of a man three times his size, the guard got to his feet and began an epic battle the likes of which had never been seen before. He took his enemies out three at a time, pounding and pummeling until they were begging for mercy. He fought with a ferocious fury that instilled fear in even the hardest of his rival’s hearts. He persisted with an unrelenting fortitude till his very last breath…but there were too many of them. They soon left him to die, unceremoniously and in solitude, as they hurried to claim what they had won. Through his tears, the old man watched them debase that which he had given his life to save, that which he had spent the entire duration of his existence protecting. Then he shut his eyes and never opened them again.
Somewhere, an unfortunate soul lost their mind…forever

THE AUTHOR

I am the true artist. The most beautiful, the grandest, the unimaginable…the greatest images flow from my pen. Words are the paint that I dip my brush into. And my canvas, you ask? Why, your mind of course. Swiftly and slyly I slowly intrigue you with a thought, with a question, with an idea. Like a skillful puppet master I make my words dance over the stage of your impressionable mind. And draw you in slowly until I hold your imagination within the palm of my hand. What happens next? That’s for me to decide. Will you feel sadness or outrage or wonder? Will your heart skip a beat in suspense, or will it fill with relief and joy? Nothing pleases me more than to play with your head and leave it squirming in the throes of uncertainty. Responsibility? Perhaps. Power? For sure. In my own story I play God. Who gets to live and who has to die-these are things I have the privilege to choose. After it’s all over, will you be forever changed? This I can’t know for certain. As you turn the last page my power over you ends. But as your eyes travel from word to word and each sentence fills your mind, in these very moments you are completely and inextricably mine.

THE DEATH OF INDIVIDUALITY

I am the Every man. I have no name, no face. I have only thoughts. And these thoughts are not my own. Everyday I roam the streets, just another faceless face in the crowd. The quest for identity has long since ended. Now all that remains is acceptance. I am my own person. But my own person is only who they tell me to be. Nothing escapes the rules of the Collective Consciousness. That which is not understood must be condemned. That which is strange and does not fit the sphere of the normal can only be dangerous. And hence it has no place in the ideal world. Maybe, if we close our eyes and pretend that it does not exist, it will go away. Maybe, if we poke and prod it and drive it to tears it will change for the better and become one of us. We never think about the future. We never question where our mentality is taking us. We do not share foreboding glimpses of turning ourselves into mindless drones driven by voices that belong to us, yet speak a language which is not our own. But we listen. Because it enables us to become part of something that is bigger than ourselves. Uniqueness is an unforgivable crime-nothing but meaningless revolt. It can have only one punishment: Death.