I am a writer. I have many hobbies and I even have a job, a tanner hired me as an apprentice, but my job is writing. A lot of people might think the thing that makes me money ought to be called my job, but I say that what I focus on should be called my real job. I focus on writing.
I have always liked to write at night, since that is when the humors are at work in me toward that effort. In the dark, small hours, I can see clearly those things that are not there and so I lay them down. I do not create, I discover what has been covered up since the beginning of time. I do not care if you believe me, that’s the way it is. I am not as much a master craftsman as I am a seeker of stories that are already out there, but hidden for a time.
Gildon had the weirdest dream while he was dead. He dreamed he was outdoors sitting next to a fire. He was holding out a stick with some meat on the end in order to roast it. A guy was sitting oposite him and both of them were wearing old western gear. It looked like something our of an old movie.
He saw that the other guy was the cab driver. The driver said, “so, you think they’ll fly like they keep threatening to do?”
Gildon found himself saying in the dream, “Sorthod, I think we’ll have to wait on that one. They’d have to be pretty desperate to do that. Anyway, that whole phase device thing is really far out and I doubt it even works.”
“You’re probably right,” Sorthod looked at him and smiled. The same teeth. “I wish we knew more about them.”
When I was twelve, I was attacked by a werewolf. Now, I know what you’re thinking, werewolves are not supposed to attack, they are really friendly and only bite when provoked. But you’d be surprised what a nice guy can do once an evil curse is put upon him that makes him a son of Satan.
You may wonder how this event could have occurred to one so benign as I. Let me share.
At that tender age that some call the tail end of the tweens, I was out gallivanting one night among the trees of a forest I had always wanted to visit. Had I known then that it was called “The Forest of One-Armed Luke,” named for the man who had had his arm ripped off by a rabid bunny, I might have reconnoitered elsewhere. But, boys being boys, and considering I liked the feel of the place, I journeyed into the dark abyss of overgrowth.
This is to be a very short story. I remember, I was locked in a room with one small rectangular window. It was higher than I could reach. Inside was just me and the sound of scraping on the floor. When I reached down to pick it up, I saw that it was my hand, scraping along the floor with bloody nails. I screamed, but nobody heard. That’s what happens in dreams, if your me.
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“I think you really want to tell us something, that’s what I think,” he said. He was staring at the barrel of the gun. He seemed fascinated by the power he now held. Then he said, “In fact, you realize we might have to kill you for that information. Imagine if the whole world knew what you know.”
The man in the chair just shrugged, “Although I value my life, I don’t think the world would even be able to understand my research.”
“True, true,” said the man with the gun, “but those who could understand would be among the most dangerous people in the world. Whoever has this could rule the world.”
“Quite dramatic,” said the man in the chair. “But that is precisely why we must not let this information get out. The research we have done can be shared with no one. That is why we will rule the world.”