Remember The Design

Empty… Isolated… Hollow…
You promised, my Lord, that it wouldn’t be…
Agony… Apathy… Irritation…
This adoptive family of faith surrounding me now, yet pulling farther away like threads of a thick rope splintering on the weight. Even as I sit here in their midst as they talk.
Coils spinning… Weight like lead… Bones creaking beneath them…
In silence, isolated by ethereal walls, it’s going to kill me from the inside out.
No one will know.
“Let’s go into the sanctuary and worship our father,” says a brother.
We agree and we move. I ache and stay at the back, close my eyes, and begin to beg:
Why is this happening again?
Why am I hurting again?
Why do I feel isolated again even when I know it’s wrong?
Why am I disconnecting all over again?
The air grows thick and warm, it is like I am floating in water. My feet can’t touch ground, my head is beneath the surface, and I am weightless.
I see from the back of the sanctuary, high up as if I am seven feet tall. I see myself, seated, bent over, my shoulders quivering as I cry in silence while my sisters and my brothers sing and worship at the alter. They dance and I fall into pieces.
But there stands an angel beside me in the isle.
He is as tall as the ceiling, his head just brushing the metal beams above. He has long, flowing black hair that tumbles down his back. He is dressed in glittering silver armour, a huge sword at his hip; the handle alone is the same as my height.
His wings are just light. ‘Just’ isn’t the right word though because it is breathtaking. Swirls of white and gold spill out from his shoulders, extending to either side until they touch the walls.
He kneels down on one huge knee, lowering to be somewhat closer to my insignificant height.
He places his large hand on my back and I enter into the sadness of my little body again as the warmth spills across my shoulders.
I feel that hand like a physical presence, resting between my shoulder blades with fingers spread out across them. It is there, real, corporeal, it is not just in my head.
The tears come still. My stuttering heart stops. I pull in a slow breath. The ache dissipates into warmth.
And the angel whispers in my ear, a deep voice like starlight, “you’re going to be alright.”
I physically feel the way that my mind pulls open, as if it were a purse being unzipped, and then my dear Father is speaking into me with gentle and loving words. He explains the way in which he designed me:

You are not wrong in your feelings. 

You were designed to be reserved. Not isolated; you are not alone. The family loves you and you are not being removed from it. 
But understand, it is not with your voice that you will see hearts inspired and led into your family. Your voice will be heard by few and it will inspire even fewer. You will not be a leader of a large group or a church; by instinct alone you will grow silent in greater numbers.
You were made to observe in these larger numbers, because it is in your written words, your books, your stories, that you will see the movement of the spirit. Your voice will not reach many. But your words will travel the world.
You are confusing reservation for isolation, and it is hurting you.
You’re not alone anymore, and you will not be again. Don’t be afraid when you feel your heart pulling back. It is not wrong. 
Be still, know peace.
And I find that I am tearing up again, but this is not sadness. It is relief. It is the coil and the weight releasing from within and it is hope spilling into my bones. My face is lighting up with a smile of raw joy and I don’t know if my brothers and sisters notice this shift, but I am renewed. I have been reminded of the hands that have molded me. I have been reminded of the purpose He has given me.
I will not be afraid.
I am going to be alright.

Part 1: Hollow Angel

This place had no windows. Instead, it used warm, artificial lights that were soft on the paintings. He examined each one with an appreciative eye; literally. One eye was covered with a black patch, the other shifting between shades of crystal blue, and violet.

This place had no windows. Instead, it used warm, artificial lights that were soft on the paintings. He examined each one with an appreciative eye; literally. One eye was covered with a black patch, the other shifting between shades of crystal blue, and violet.

He could only imagine the horrors in the artist’s mind to make such powerful, grotesque pieces. Some were paintings of world damnation; strange creatures frozen in the midst of epic slaughters where people were indiscriminately torn into pieces. Faces forever stuck in terrorized screams. These were pieces that were all chaos and mayhem, no need for subtlety. Just straight to the point and horrible.

As he moved on further into the room, he found portraits of happy mothers holding their precious infants, and young boys grinning in excitement, showing off their missing teeth. Onward still and he found more dark images painted of quiet suicides. A young girl with tears dripping off her chin and a gun against her temple. A man in a bathtub cutting the rope of a pully system keeping a large weight off his chest.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

A smile formed on his lips. He had been waiting for her to wake and join him. Not that she knew ahead of time that she had company, though.

“Well darling, I am here to kill you,” he declared through a handsome smile as he turned to face the girl.

She had soft, sloped cheeks and a gentle jaw. The face of a child, though his documents stated she was in her early twenties. Her storm washed eyes had an edge to them that spoke of a maturity her features couldn’t. Something sharp within their depths that was familiar with danger and isolation. They stood out against her dark skin and darker, thick hair. For as young as she was, she did not seem frightened with impending doom. In fact, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her shoulder against the door frame she stood in.

“Oh really?” She prompted with a deep frown on her pink lips.

His eyebrows rose, as did his amusement. In his silence, she appeared to realize the severity of her situation as her gaze fell to his covered eye. Recognition filtered through her face, chased soon by what he could only describe as awe.

“You’re him,” she stated, pointing her finger as if finally placing his face. “You’re the Hollow Angel.”

He was impressed, but not surprised.  He was well known as the guardian to a powerful family full of magic and dark secrets, which was why he was referred to more often as an assassin rather than a guardian.Though they were certain to make him hard to find, his identity was difficult to hide.

He complimented, “clever girl,” through a devious smirk and took two steps towards her. “My reputation precedes me. That will make this all easier.”

She chuckled, shaking her head somewhat and glancing to the ground.

“No, you don’t understand,” she whispered. “I have dreamed of you, Kivas. I have painted you.”

It was his turn to stand confused and frozen with awe. She stepped away from the door frame and turned her back to him; a sign of trust or blatant stupidity, he pondered?

“Come, I’ll show you.”

Into the blackness, she faded. A heavy frown caught his lips as his midnight eye narrowed.

The other room was much smaller, the walls cluttered with paintings of a much different nature. Some were crude, with harsh brush strokes displaying blatant urgency. Others were smooth, well blended by a calm hand.

It was all death and completely familiar. Every last one caught the very moment of that final spark in the victim’s eye. He recognized every face frozen just before death.

Directly before him was the man he’d killed last week. In the corner, a woman assassinated with her bastard son. Staring up at him from the left was the teenage girl, too calm for what he was doing that night. He remembered her smooth skin under his palm.

To his right he saw himself as an almost perfect reflection. The thick black hair curling about his shoulders. The sun kissed, olive skin and the square, defined jawline. The eye wasn’t covered though. He stared, bewildered at the perfect shade of faded creamy blue mutilated by thick scarring like spider legs reaching out across the flesh. He knew without a doubt; she was well aware of him long before her name was penned into doom.

This was why he was contracted to kill her.

“You are a seer, and your gift is fixated on my life.” It was not a question.

He seemed to suddenly become aware of just how small the girl was beside him. She barely reached the middle of his ribs and her skinny frame was being swallowed up inside of a huge hoodie that was three sizes too big. Her chin slightly trembled, but it was the only response that he received to his statement.

He frowned at her for a moment, calculating his next words with great care.

“You have seen who I am. You understand why I am here. Yet you do not fear me.”

She bit her lip for a moment, shaking her head.  “Of course death is frightening to accept. But I know how you do things, I understand your namesake… Why you’re called the ‘Hollow Angel’. And I think if I am to meet a premature end, I would rather it be at the hands of someone gentle.”

It was the single most absurd thing he’d heard in a long time. He almost laughed. Probably would have had the situation been any different. He let out a heavy breath.

“How long would you like me to wait,” he asked in a whisper. “Is there anything you need before we begin?”

She stared at him in silence for a long moment. Her pale eyes were in such incredible pain. What had this child endured all this time? Was she ready for this?

He realized her hands were shaking at her sides.

“It is strange…,” she started, slow, as if testing the words. “I knew that this was coming, I had prepared for it… But to actually live it now… I could have never calculated it.”

He gave her a solemn nod of understanding. One truly cannot be prepared entirely for death no matter how long they await it.

“It is not weakness to be afraid. I do not want you thinking that your final moments must be some kind of act,” he told her.



Let me welcome you to my mind, this is a nightmare that I had:

The first thing I notice about the prison is the stench.

The second is where that acrid smell is coming from.

The white floor beneath me is smeared with something brown that could be feces, but my brain decides to conclude that it is more likely to be dried blood. Old, dried blood.

From a long time ago.

The bars of the cells before me are all in various levels of rust and decay, some worse off than others. Within, though. That’s where I realize this is a nightmare.

Behind the bars are starved, bony figures that once fought to escape their isolation. Now they are no more than petrified forms with skin like dried leather and faces frozen in sleep. Someone died with their hand stretching out of the cell towards the body of a dead rat. The marks on the floor suggest the desperation they faced to reach the meal that teased them in its decay.

Two are still alive.

Continue reading “Forsaken”

About Posts

I will be taking down the previews of the novel for Sable and Gabe.

This is not for the sake of saying that you have to jump into my patreon and give me money in order to see them or further previews.

They will return.

The reason is because all of those scenes have been rewritten in my second draft and edited and made better (Hopefully…). So, I will be re-posting a few with the updates of their revisions. Some are a little bit long, so I have some reservations with bringing them back… for instance, the Kiro Breakout piece now covers two chapters, so if you don’t mind that much reading on here, I will certainly show you the new and greatly improved version. Let me know your thoughts!

(Note: the revisions I speak of are my own, the book will not be under professional eyes until May 23rd. No previews will be available of that version, it will go straight into publishing preparations afterwards.)

Some of my more cherished stories, I want to move over to Patreon, as they are pieces that I feel are strong in displaying exactly what I am offering to people, but these will remain freely available over there. As in: you will be able to read them without having to become a paying patron. The posts that I want to move over there are:

Illusionist’s Winter

Wild and Cruel

A Fool by Choice

These will not be removed from here, but will likely be revised or edited in their move over.

I have already re-posted Slavery (it is under a different name there.)

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Have a lovely day (or night) and I will be back soon.

Gabe Tries to Pray

Writing Prompt I gave myself: how would Gabe pray? Let’s find out together… Gives some insight on Sable’s Journey with him too if you’re watching close enough…

Gabe sank into the chair in his room on the second floor of his friend’s mansion. He frowned at his hands clasped in his lap, as if they might instruct him into his next action. They didn’t; he remained silent and staring at the long spidery fingers all interlocked.

An annoyed breath escaped him.

“She makes it look so easy,” he mumbled, his thunderclap of a voice seeming to roll to the floor like stones.

Raising his mismatched eyes to the ceiling, he pulled in one more long breath.

“What exactly do I even call you?”

He felt ridiculous and reverted back to looking at his hands.

“Sable calls you her father… and she’s taken to even calling me her brother. So, logically, that would mean I can call you father as well, right?” Continue reading “Gabe Tries to Pray”