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After a disturbed night’s sleep, dreaming about dark gods, masked villains and guns, I awake to the sound of a dragon’s roar outside my window. Or is it just my neighbour’s car, as she sets off for work? No matter. I rise from my bed, don my armour (or the navy suit and tie which pass for such in these times of scarcity) and prepare for the challenges that lie ahead. Will I be savaged by a pack of hungry wolves as I step outside my abode? Or will I fall into a vortex of primal energy and be transported to a world of gothic nightmares, where ghouls and demons roam free? I take a deep breath. I grasp my Comb of Heavenly Protection and pass it through my matted locks. It crackles and sparkles, as the sacred energy imparted to it by the Ancient Monks of the High Mountain seeps into my scalp and infuses my very soul. Or maybe it was just a bit of static.
The road ahead is treacherous. I am not savaged by wolves or transported into a world of gothic nightmares, but the stark realities of existence hit me with the force of a 12-bore, as I negotiate the dark, cold streets of the city. It is a city of violence. A city of sharp corners and sharper tongues. Of screams, hopelessness and despair. I am one man, alone, surrounded by millions, trying to find my way amidst the filth, degradation and threats of death or dismemberment at every corner. Threats in the form of a hail of bullets, a cold serrated blade or the bumper of a car thirsty for the taste of my blood.
I am lucky today. I am not mown down by a hail of bullets or eviscerated by a carnassial blade. I do, however, get knocked by a speedy cyclist and slip in a puddle formed by the early morning drizzle. Minor inconveniences, but hints of the greater evils which plague me at every turn.
I arrive, relatively unscathed, at my destination: a dark, looming temple, whose denizens are the scurrying acolytes of the two-headed Demigod of Greed and Deception. The trials which I have barely avoided enduring in my journey thus far are but nothing compared with the perils which lie within. Evil minions of darkness, who seek to suck the blood from my veins and pollute my brain with their filth and their lies, hordes of which I must battle through in order to reach the thing which has drawn me to this terrible place. The sacred thing. The thing which makes it all worthwhile. The thing I have risked my life - my very soul - for. The thing I must reach and acquire upon the precise moment of its inception, at the exact midpoint of the day, lest its constituent parts become corrupted, and its power therefore diminished, by the passage of time.
The thing...
The Cheese-Salad-Baguette-With-Mayonnaise.
And, once it is consumed, I am sated. My reason for being becomes clear and unquestioned. My task is complete. I have done what I came here to do. I am, however, like a mountain climber, at the peak of a mountain - at the peak of his elation - who, having placed his flag at the summit, has to now find his way back down to the bottom. The warm hearth of home awaits, but only after I have retraced my steps through the hordes of evil minions, the puddle, the cyclist, the bloodthirsty bumper, the cold serrated blade, the hail of bullets, the despair, the hopelessness, the screams, the sharp corners, the gothic nightmares, the pack of hungry wolves... To then stand before the gate of my castle, staring up at a single light in a high window, wondering if I have forgotten to switch off the bedside lamp, or if a lone psychopathic gunman is sitting on my comfy chair, waiting to splatter my brains against the wall as soon as I step through the door.
I must have stood there for half an hour, in the middle of the road, in the dark, in the rain, trying desperately to remember if I have switched off the lamp, then realising that, even if I haven’t, there could still be a lone psychopathic gunman waiting for me.
I cannot remember.
I have to take my chances.
When did I last save my progress?
Did I recently pass a checkpoint?
I pull my coat tightly around me. I search my pockets for some kind of weapon, and find only a cigarette lighter and a pen. Bruce Lee could have worked wonders with a cigarette lighter.
I am not Bruce Lee.
I take a deep breath.
I start to walk towards the pavement. A cat - black as tar, heckles raised - squeals as I almost trip over it, then dashes off into the night. I gulp. I continue on my way. Step onto the pavement, walk slowly towards my front door. Grasp the handle. Pull...
It won’t open!
Extract key from pocket. Insert. Turn. Take another deep breath. Slowly open door, while listening desperately for the sound of movement - for a sign of any other presence within my sacred space by my own. Close the door slowly behind me, head for the stairs... start to rise, grasping pen tightly - prepare to stab it through the eyeballs of anyone who confronts me...
Top of stairs, turn right, bedroom door on left. Listen...
Listen.
No sound.
No breathing.
No panting.
No cocking of shotgun.
No sharpening of blade.
Nothing.
No sound, except for the gentle tick-tick-ticking of my alarm clock, slightly amplified through the wood of the bedside table on which it rests.
I touch the door.
I consider turning and running, back into the night, away from my fears, away from my nightmares. Hiding in an alleyway, under a bridge, wrapping myself up in anonymity, where no one can get to me, no one can gouge out my eyes, blow me away or use my skin for a handbag. I consider running and running, never stopping, never looking back, but never planning, never knowing where I am going to be the next day, because if I don’t know where I am going, how will anyone trace my movements or anticipate my destination? But then I realise nowhere is safe, and what kind of life would a life on the run be anyway?
I have to take my chances.
I have to roll the dice...
I open the door, enter the room.
There is no lone psychopathic gunman waiting to splatter my brains against the wall.
I breath a deep sigh of relief.
I take the lighter from my pocket and the single cigarette from the bedside table - the cigarette left there “for emergencies.” I take it between my trembling lips. I flip on the lighter.
I had left the lamp on.
I had also left the gas on.
My whole life flashes before me.
No checkpoints. No saves. No memory card.
Game over.
The road ahead is treacherous. I am not savaged by wolves or transported into a world of gothic nightmares, but the stark realities of existence hit me with the force of a 12-bore, as I negotiate the dark, cold streets of the city. It is a city of violence. A city of sharp corners and sharper tongues. Of screams, hopelessness and despair. I am one man, alone, surrounded by millions, trying to find my way amidst the filth, degradation and threats of death or dismemberment at every corner. Threats in the form of a hail of bullets, a cold serrated blade or the bumper of a car thirsty for the taste of my blood.
I am lucky today. I am not mown down by a hail of bullets or eviscerated by a carnassial blade. I do, however, get knocked by a speedy cyclist and slip in a puddle formed by the early morning drizzle. Minor inconveniences, but hints of the greater evils which plague me at every turn.
I arrive, relatively unscathed, at my destination: a dark, looming temple, whose denizens are the scurrying acolytes of the two-headed Demigod of Greed and Deception. The trials which I have barely avoided enduring in my journey thus far are but nothing compared with the perils which lie within. Evil minions of darkness, who seek to suck the blood from my veins and pollute my brain with their filth and their lies, hordes of which I must battle through in order to reach the thing which has drawn me to this terrible place. The sacred thing. The thing which makes it all worthwhile. The thing I have risked my life - my very soul - for. The thing I must reach and acquire upon the precise moment of its inception, at the exact midpoint of the day, lest its constituent parts become corrupted, and its power therefore diminished, by the passage of time.
The thing...
The Cheese-Salad-Baguette-With-Mayonnaise.
And, once it is consumed, I am sated. My reason for being becomes clear and unquestioned. My task is complete. I have done what I came here to do. I am, however, like a mountain climber, at the peak of a mountain - at the peak of his elation - who, having placed his flag at the summit, has to now find his way back down to the bottom. The warm hearth of home awaits, but only after I have retraced my steps through the hordes of evil minions, the puddle, the cyclist, the bloodthirsty bumper, the cold serrated blade, the hail of bullets, the despair, the hopelessness, the screams, the sharp corners, the gothic nightmares, the pack of hungry wolves... To then stand before the gate of my castle, staring up at a single light in a high window, wondering if I have forgotten to switch off the bedside lamp, or if a lone psychopathic gunman is sitting on my comfy chair, waiting to splatter my brains against the wall as soon as I step through the door.
I must have stood there for half an hour, in the middle of the road, in the dark, in the rain, trying desperately to remember if I have switched off the lamp, then realising that, even if I haven’t, there could still be a lone psychopathic gunman waiting for me.
I cannot remember.
I have to take my chances.
When did I last save my progress?
Did I recently pass a checkpoint?
I pull my coat tightly around me. I search my pockets for some kind of weapon, and find only a cigarette lighter and a pen. Bruce Lee could have worked wonders with a cigarette lighter.
I am not Bruce Lee.
I take a deep breath.
I start to walk towards the pavement. A cat - black as tar, heckles raised - squeals as I almost trip over it, then dashes off into the night. I gulp. I continue on my way. Step onto the pavement, walk slowly towards my front door. Grasp the handle. Pull...
It won’t open!
Extract key from pocket. Insert. Turn. Take another deep breath. Slowly open door, while listening desperately for the sound of movement - for a sign of any other presence within my sacred space by my own. Close the door slowly behind me, head for the stairs... start to rise, grasping pen tightly - prepare to stab it through the eyeballs of anyone who confronts me...
Top of stairs, turn right, bedroom door on left. Listen...
Listen.
No sound.
No breathing.
No panting.
No cocking of shotgun.
No sharpening of blade.
Nothing.
No sound, except for the gentle tick-tick-ticking of my alarm clock, slightly amplified through the wood of the bedside table on which it rests.
I touch the door.
I consider turning and running, back into the night, away from my fears, away from my nightmares. Hiding in an alleyway, under a bridge, wrapping myself up in anonymity, where no one can get to me, no one can gouge out my eyes, blow me away or use my skin for a handbag. I consider running and running, never stopping, never looking back, but never planning, never knowing where I am going to be the next day, because if I don’t know where I am going, how will anyone trace my movements or anticipate my destination? But then I realise nowhere is safe, and what kind of life would a life on the run be anyway?
I have to take my chances.
I have to roll the dice...
I open the door, enter the room.
There is no lone psychopathic gunman waiting to splatter my brains against the wall.
I breath a deep sigh of relief.
I take the lighter from my pocket and the single cigarette from the bedside table - the cigarette left there “for emergencies.” I take it between my trembling lips. I flip on the lighter.
I had left the lamp on.
I had also left the gas on.
My whole life flashes before me.
No checkpoints. No saves. No memory card.
Game over.
Page:
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After a disturbed night’s sleep, dreaming about dark gods, masked villains and guns, I awake to the sound of a dragon’s roar outside my window. Or is it just my neighbour’s car, as she sets off for work? No matter. I rise from my bed, don my armour (or the navy suit and tie which pass for such in these times of scarcity) and prepare for the challenges that lie ahead. Will I be savaged by a pack of hungry wolves as I step outside my abode? Or will I fall into a vortex of primal energy and be transported to a world of gothic nightmares, where ghouls and demons roam free? I take a deep breath. I grasp my Comb of Heavenly Protection and pass it through my matted locks. It crackles and sparkles, as the sacred energy imparted to it by the Ancient Monks of the High Mountain seeps into my scalp and infuses my very soul. Or maybe it was just a bit of static.
The road ahead is treacherous. I am not savaged by wolves or transported into a world of gothic nightmares, but the stark realities of existence hit me with the force of a 12-bore, as I negotiate the dark, cold streets of the city. It is a city of violence. A city of sharp corners and sharper tongues. Of screams, hopelessness and despair. I am one man, alone, surrounded by millions, trying to find my way amidst the filth, degradation and threats of death or dismemberment at every corner. Threats in the form of a hail of bullets, a cold serrated blade or the bumper of a car thirsty for the taste of my blood.
I am lucky today. I am not mown down by a hail of bullets or eviscerated by a carnassial blade. I do, however, get knocked by a speedy cyclist and slip in a puddle formed by the early morning drizzle. Minor inconveniences, but hints of the greater evils which plague me at every turn.
I arrive, relatively unscathed, at my destination: a dark, looming temple, whose denizens are the scurrying acolytes of the two-headed Demigod of Greed and Deception. The trials which I have barely avoided enduring in my journey thus far are but nothing compared with the perils which lie within. Evil minions of darkness, who seek to suck the blood from my veins and pollute my brain with their filth and their lies, hordes of which I must battle through in order to reach the thing which has drawn me to this terrible place. The sacred thing. The thing which makes it all worthwhile. The thing I have risked my life - my very soul - for. The thing I must reach and acquire upon the precise moment of its inception, at the exact midpoint of the day, lest its constituent parts become corrupted, and its power therefore diminished, by the passage of time.
The thing...
The Cheese-Salad-Baguette-With-Mayonnaise.
And, once it is consumed, I am sated. My reason for being becomes clear and unquestioned. My task is complete. I have done what I came here to do. I am, however, like a mountain climber, at the peak of a mountain - at the peak of his elation - who, having placed his flag at the summit, has to now find his way back down to the bottom. The warm hearth of home awaits, but only after I have retraced my steps through the hordes of evil minions, the puddle, the cyclist, the bloodthirsty bumper, the cold serrated blade, the hail of bullets, the despair, the hopelessness, the screams, the sharp corners, the gothic nightmares, the pack of hungry wolves... To then stand before the gate of my castle, staring up at a single light in a high window, wondering if I have forgotten to switch off the bedside lamp, or if a lone psychopathic gunman is sitting on my comfy chair, waiting to splatter my brains against the wall as soon as I step through the door.
I must have stood there for half an hour, in the middle of the road, in the dark, in the rain, trying desperately to remember if I have switched off the lamp, then realising that, even if I haven’t, there could still be a lone psychopathic gunman waiting for me.
I cannot remember.
I have to take my chances.
When did I last save my progress?
Did I recently pass a checkpoint?
I pull my coat tightly around me. I search my pockets for some kind of weapon, and find only a cigarette lighter and a pen. Bruce Lee could have worked wonders with a cigarette lighter.
I am not Bruce Lee.
I take a deep breath.
I start to walk towards the pavement. A cat - black as tar, heckles raised - squeals as I almost trip over it, then dashes off into the night. I gulp. I continue on my way. Step onto the pavement, walk slowly towards my front door. Grasp the handle. Pull...
It won’t open!
Extract key from pocket. Insert. Turn. Take another deep breath. Slowly open door, while listening desperately for the sound of movement - for a sign of any other presence within my sacred space by my own. Close the door slowly behind me, head for the stairs... start to rise, grasping pen tightly - prepare to stab it through the eyeballs of anyone who confronts me...
Top of stairs, turn right, bedroom door on left. Listen...
Listen.
No sound.
No breathing.
No panting.
No cocking of shotgun.
No sharpening of blade.
Nothing.
No sound, except for the gentle tick-tick-ticking of my alarm clock, slightly amplified through the wood of the bedside table on which it rests.
I touch the door.
I consider turning and running, back into the night, away from my fears, away from my nightmares. Hiding in an alleyway, under a bridge, wrapping myself up in anonymity, where no one can get to me, no one can gouge out my eyes, blow me away or use my skin for a handbag. I consider running and running, never stopping, never looking back, but never planning, never knowing where I am going to be the next day, because if I don’t know where I am going, how will anyone trace my movements or anticipate my destination? But then I realise nowhere is safe, and what kind of life would a life on the run be anyway?
I have to take my chances.
I have to roll the dice...
I open the door, enter the room.
There is no lone psychopathic gunman waiting to splatter my brains against the wall.
I breath a deep sigh of relief.
I take the lighter from my pocket and the single cigarette from the bedside table - the cigarette left there “for emergencies.” I take it between my trembling lips. I flip on the lighter.
I had left the lamp on.
I had also left the gas on.
My whole life flashes before me.
No checkpoints. No saves. No memory card.
Game over.
The road ahead is treacherous. I am not savaged by wolves or transported into a world of gothic nightmares, but the stark realities of existence hit me with the force of a 12-bore, as I negotiate the dark, cold streets of the city. It is a city of violence. A city of sharp corners and sharper tongues. Of screams, hopelessness and despair. I am one man, alone, surrounded by millions, trying to find my way amidst the filth, degradation and threats of death or dismemberment at every corner. Threats in the form of a hail of bullets, a cold serrated blade or the bumper of a car thirsty for the taste of my blood.
I am lucky today. I am not mown down by a hail of bullets or eviscerated by a carnassial blade. I do, however, get knocked by a speedy cyclist and slip in a puddle formed by the early morning drizzle. Minor inconveniences, but hints of the greater evils which plague me at every turn.
I arrive, relatively unscathed, at my destination: a dark, looming temple, whose denizens are the scurrying acolytes of the two-headed Demigod of Greed and Deception. The trials which I have barely avoided enduring in my journey thus far are but nothing compared with the perils which lie within. Evil minions of darkness, who seek to suck the blood from my veins and pollute my brain with their filth and their lies, hordes of which I must battle through in order to reach the thing which has drawn me to this terrible place. The sacred thing. The thing which makes it all worthwhile. The thing I have risked my life - my very soul - for. The thing I must reach and acquire upon the precise moment of its inception, at the exact midpoint of the day, lest its constituent parts become corrupted, and its power therefore diminished, by the passage of time.
The thing...
The Cheese-Salad-Baguette-With-Mayonnaise.
And, once it is consumed, I am sated. My reason for being becomes clear and unquestioned. My task is complete. I have done what I came here to do. I am, however, like a mountain climber, at the peak of a mountain - at the peak of his elation - who, having placed his flag at the summit, has to now find his way back down to the bottom. The warm hearth of home awaits, but only after I have retraced my steps through the hordes of evil minions, the puddle, the cyclist, the bloodthirsty bumper, the cold serrated blade, the hail of bullets, the despair, the hopelessness, the screams, the sharp corners, the gothic nightmares, the pack of hungry wolves... To then stand before the gate of my castle, staring up at a single light in a high window, wondering if I have forgotten to switch off the bedside lamp, or if a lone psychopathic gunman is sitting on my comfy chair, waiting to splatter my brains against the wall as soon as I step through the door.
I must have stood there for half an hour, in the middle of the road, in the dark, in the rain, trying desperately to remember if I have switched off the lamp, then realising that, even if I haven’t, there could still be a lone psychopathic gunman waiting for me.
I cannot remember.
I have to take my chances.
When did I last save my progress?
Did I recently pass a checkpoint?
I pull my coat tightly around me. I search my pockets for some kind of weapon, and find only a cigarette lighter and a pen. Bruce Lee could have worked wonders with a cigarette lighter.
I am not Bruce Lee.
I take a deep breath.
I start to walk towards the pavement. A cat - black as tar, heckles raised - squeals as I almost trip over it, then dashes off into the night. I gulp. I continue on my way. Step onto the pavement, walk slowly towards my front door. Grasp the handle. Pull...
It won’t open!
Extract key from pocket. Insert. Turn. Take another deep breath. Slowly open door, while listening desperately for the sound of movement - for a sign of any other presence within my sacred space by my own. Close the door slowly behind me, head for the stairs... start to rise, grasping pen tightly - prepare to stab it through the eyeballs of anyone who confronts me...
Top of stairs, turn right, bedroom door on left. Listen...
Listen.
No sound.
No breathing.
No panting.
No cocking of shotgun.
No sharpening of blade.
Nothing.
No sound, except for the gentle tick-tick-ticking of my alarm clock, slightly amplified through the wood of the bedside table on which it rests.
I touch the door.
I consider turning and running, back into the night, away from my fears, away from my nightmares. Hiding in an alleyway, under a bridge, wrapping myself up in anonymity, where no one can get to me, no one can gouge out my eyes, blow me away or use my skin for a handbag. I consider running and running, never stopping, never looking back, but never planning, never knowing where I am going to be the next day, because if I don’t know where I am going, how will anyone trace my movements or anticipate my destination? But then I realise nowhere is safe, and what kind of life would a life on the run be anyway?
I have to take my chances.
I have to roll the dice...
I open the door, enter the room.
There is no lone psychopathic gunman waiting to splatter my brains against the wall.
I breath a deep sigh of relief.
I take the lighter from my pocket and the single cigarette from the bedside table - the cigarette left there “for emergencies.” I take it between my trembling lips. I flip on the lighter.
I had left the lamp on.
I had also left the gas on.
My whole life flashes before me.
No checkpoints. No saves. No memory card.
Game over.
Page: