Reflections of a the Fire Man

Dang its been a while. Sorry for the wait. I've been feeling especially lazy this month, but whatever. Here we go!


The sun slowly slid below the horizon, its light bleeding away into darkness. I watched it fade, standing towards the bay windows that prominently cover the front of my house. A cup of warm cocao in my hand, I listened as the crickets started their nightly serenade. All was peaceful and calm. The town that glittered below was a beacon against the shadowy landscape. Cars sputtered to and fro, individual people living individual lives. My house, or mansion, as some simpletons may call it, was located precariously on the side of the mountain that rose forever into the clouds. The little town of St. Kellers was the town below, a beautiful little city that had thrived during the big war.
I felt an odd kinship towards this little town. I did not reside there, but I made my fortune there during the war. I led the development of weapons and vehicles for the military, a job that supplied me with enough money to retire after the war. Now I watched as others went about their work, toiling away while I did nothing except amuse myself. On the far side of town, I could still see the weapons plant, still running due to the threat of war with the Eurasian nations.
I sighed, a deep melancholy sound that welled up from the recesses of my chest. I stepped away from the window and walked over to the couch, throwing myself upon it lazily. I needed to work out. I could tell that this lifestyle had taken its toll on my now flabby stomach. But I figured I'd deal with that problems later. More important things were at stake.
For once, I was excited at what the night would bring. Today was the 200th anniversary of America's successful announcement of freedom. It was the fourth of July, and it promised to be the best one ever seen by the likes of this great nation. Any minute now, the fireworks would begin and light up the sky with color and sound, a feast for the senses. I was anxious to get started, but I kept my patience. The show would begin promptly at 10 o'clock. And, since I was the benefactor for this magnificent event, the townspeople would be given a show they would never forget.
I think back to my earlier days, before the war. I lived in St. Kellers with my mother and my brother Tom. We weren't exactly well off, but we managed to scrape by. My mother sold herself to afford food, and at the age of 8 I took up a job working in the old Herman shoe factory. When I turned 17, war broke out between the Eurasian nationalists and the good ol' US of A. Herman's was changed into a weapons factory to provide for the war. Luckily, I showed potential when it came to the development of weaponry, and I quickly rose to the top, taking control of the second largest weapons company in the US. The highlight of my career came years later, when I developed the nano missile. Designed as an experiment, the nano missile could be told what the target was, and the nanos released upon impact would decimate it, leaving everything else intact. The nano missile gave me my fortune. The military gave me a life. A life I felt I had lived to the fullest.
The fireworks were about to start. Abandoning the couch, I walked over to the windows and looked out. Any minute now. Off in the distance, I saw a bright orange streak shoot of into the sky. The show had begun. I watched as the rocket ascended to the heavens. I smiled. What a show it would be.
The nano missile fell to the ground in the center of St. Kellers, decimating the nearby buildings. I watched with relish as the nanomites spread from the blast site, consuming everything in their path. I could hear the townspeople screaming from down below. Another orange streak erupted from the Herman weapons factory, this time directed toward the army base at Ridgeton.
I watched the small town burn, as the sins of the townspeople were cleansed in this baptism of fire. The bastards that tore my childhood away from me, that forced my mother to resort to prostitution to feed my and Tommy were now awash in flame and death, and I relished the feeling of liberation I now felt.
I took another sip of cacao, reflections of the flames dancing across my face. Smoke rose gracefully from the crator that the missile had left in its wake. The horizon lit up once more, far off in the distance. I laughed at the beauty of destruction. What a cruel irony that the most beautiful things in life were the most deadly! Satisfied, I watched the nanomites finish off the rest of the town before perishing. Another wicked smile crept across my face. What a show it had been.

The Halloween Massacre

Some may presume that Halloween is all about horror. I am here to tell you that it is not. It is a night of death. Of loss. Most people have forgotten the true meaning of Halloween, treating it as a night of fun and games. The spirit of Halloween was lost amid the costumes and candy. Until one night, a dark and cold Halloween night, when the darkness reminded them what it meant to be truly afraid.
I was a spectator on this particular night. I had always held Halloween with a type of reverance. My superstitious nature had always determined my willingness to participate in the holiday, and I had a very bad feeling about this particular day. As a result, I did not go to the store and buy candy en masse. I did not carve a pumpkin with a childike grin. I did not answer my door when the various ghosts and ghouls came to visit my home. On this particular night, I was watching television. Not a very entertaining pasttime, I know, but it held my interest quite well.
A knock on the door. I glanced towards the front window. A quick flash of a cape, and a momentary appearence of a face with mountains of makeup. The trick-or-treaters had arrived.
I ignored them and went back to my television. Another knock. Then a ring. Another ring. finally, I heard the resigned whispers of the children, as well as retreating footsteps. I smiled to myself. They had given up.
I had just started to settle into my comfy chair when the screaming started. Loud and insistent, the screamer was soon joined by others. Soon, the air was filled with screaming. Frightened, I made my way toward the front window. I saw hundreds of children on the street, each weary a gaudy costume, screaming at the sight of a broken boy on the sidewalk. I opened the front door and stepped out into the frozen night. I was in shock. What had happened to him? Was he hit by a car? My answer came seconds later.
A wave of darkness came rushing through the night. Shadows whirled around a dark shape that hurled itself at one of the helpless children. The young boy was swallowed up, his scream cut short by the blackness. The other children began to run, panic on their faces. I watched in horror as the body of the swallowed boy was thrown violently from the shadow. There was a sickening crunch as he hit a parked car and he lay still, blood oozing thick and red from his head. He was clearly dead. even so, I sprinted towards his body, desperately feeling for a pulse. As I turned his head towards me, I saw that it was young Tommy Chase. I was good friends with his parents. And now their son was dead.
I stood up and looked for the shadow. Amidst the screaming children, I saw it. It was not thirty feet away from me. As I stared at it, I felt its gaze fall upon me. I felt a wave of horror and hatred wash over me. I staggered back, and as I did, the shadow made a harsh grating noise that shook me to my core. I realized that it was laughing. The noise stopped and the shadow swung around, turning to meet a little girl dressed cheerfully as a fairy. He swallowed her up, and I saw her die.
I ran back into my house to grab my car keys, determined to leave this graveyard. A loud thump interrupted my search. There was silence, then another thump. And another. I searched harder. There! Under the papers, I grabbed my keys and rushed out the door. Another thump, and as I stepped out of the door, I saw the cause. The bodys of children had been thrown violently against my house, their blood painting an abstract shape upon the wall. I did not slow down as I raced to my car. Hopping in, I quickly turned the key and sped away from the massacre.
I nearly had a heart attack when I heard a small voice behind me. I spun to see three children that had taken refuge in my car. Fear was etched on their faces and none of them moved until one of them, a girl, spoke up.
"Mister? Can- can we stay with you?" she managed to say between sobs. I looked at her tear streaked cheeks and wide, fearful eyes.
"Of course. Now lets get as far away from here as we can." I told her.
Relief flooded each of their faces. The other two children were both boys, and they were dressed as a pirate and a zombie. The girl, whose name I learned was Rose, was dressed as a princess. They were all around the age of 13. I let Rose ride in the front seat. She seemed the most vulnerable, yet she had kept her head. I needed her help if we were to survive.
I began to calm down when a large dark shape slammed into my car, jerking the wheel from me. The rear end of the car spun violently and was slammed into a tree, killing the boys in the back. Blood splattered against the windows of the car, and I searched desperately to find Rose. In moments, I found her.
She lay ten feet from the car, battered, but still alive. I got out of the car and rushed to her side. Blood oozed from her nose and her leg was broken, but she would live. All of a sudden, I felt a familiar wave of hatred and evil settle upon my shoulders. I turned to see the shadow approaching me. It spoke, a grating sound that tore my head apart.
"The girl. Give her to me." It rasped.
I stood my ground. I was not going to surrender Rose. I was done running. The shadow laughed.
"This is not your place to die, boy. Give me the girl! She has made a mockery of the dead, and will now join them."
"No, she will not. I won't let you take her!" I shouted fearfully. I sounded a lot braver than I felt.
The shadow stopped its approach. It stared long and hard at me. I stood defiant. We stood for what felt like hours until the shadow turned away. Relief flooded through me, but as it retreated, it spoke once more.
"Take her. She will be spared. But if you anger the dead, your soul, and hers, will belong to me."
I fell to my knees as the shadow disappeared, sobbing hard. The last thing I remember was passing out next to Rose.
I learned later that over half the population of the US had been wiped out in what was commonly referred to as the Halloween Massacre. Rose's parents had been among the victims, so I raised her myself, as my own daughter. We grew to love each other, but every Halloween, we stay indoors, praying that the shadow will overlook us once again. We've been lucky. But luck can't last forever.

The Manor of Antiquities

The small, flat building sits haphazardly on the grass. Windows like eyes look down on a beaten parking lot. A scattered assortment of cars litter the empty pavement. It is a sad sight.
I have been here many times.
I never enjoy it.
A sign introduces the building as Cherry Blossom Manor. Its a nice name.
It doesn't fit.
The halls are full of resignation. Aged relics of an era long past are scattered in dark rooms. Eyes gaze listlessly from behind wrinkled lids. In every room I can hear the drone of a television. Or I can hear the eerie emptiness of silence..
There is an elderly man who sits in a chair. He is there everyday. He has impeccable timing. He smiles at everyone, his face a mask. He tells me "My son is coming to get me today!"
A year later, he still sits in that chair, waiting. Smiling.
There is a woman down the hall. She is friends with everybody. She is friends with nobody. One day, she is not longer there. There is some speculation on where she went. It doesn't last. Within a week, the woman from down the hall is forgotten.
The resiliancy of the elderly surprises me. They cling to memories of an age long past much like a drowning man clings to a lifevest. The present scares them. The past comforts them.
I have walked these immaculate halls many times. I have seen the empty lives that reside in forgotten rooms. It is a place of masked death, a grim reminder to the frailty of life. As I walk these halls, I recall a quote by William Hazlitt:
"We do not die wholly at our deaths: we have moldered away gradually long before. Faculty after faculty, interest after interest, attachment after attachment disappear: we are torn from ourselves while living."

And So We Begin

I can't claim to be very organized. I don't work with schedules or calenders. I mark time using the sun and good 'ol imagination. I usually can't tell what day it is unless my favorite tv show is on, and even then I have doubts that the tv executives are screwing with me. As a result of the forementioned faults in my planning, I can't expect this blog to be edited very often. But I will try, dear readers. But that damn procrastinating nature of mine may plague this work with an unfortunate demise. But lets look on the bright side of things. At least I started.

I want to be a writer. Author. Wordweaver. Master of ceremonies and poems and all that jazz. And I figure that since I have at least a modicum of talent, I may as well give it my best shot. Hence the start of Writer's Block. I will (in theory, mind you) frequently update with new works and random thoughts that I have so that you, reader, may read an enjoy. Or throw tomatoes and pepper me with boos. Either way. Most of my writing exploits will probably be fiction. And at first, they may not be very good. But that is why I am practicing! You know the old saying, 'practice makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise' or something of that nature. Hopefully, my plan is to update every week, but considering my schedule and decidedly lazy personality, I may be lax in my writing. However, if you want me to get off my lazy ass and get some writing done, you can verbally abuse me at my facebook page. Because facebook makes the world go round, doesnt it? I digress.

Well, this seems like a suitable introduction to me. But considering my standards, thats not exactly comforting. But I guess I should wrap it up. If you have any comments, advice, or insults about my sexual orientation, you can email me at kyle_brown113@yahoo.com, where I will stage a suitable response or witty repromand to your kind and/or painful words.
Thanks,

Kyle Brown