The Lines of Blasphemy

The Disturbed, as he was called, was standing behind the Others who had blocked The Poet's way out. They had no idea of his presence but he knew the Poet did. He watched the Poet take off his sports jacket and begin to charge the Others.
"Time for some fun," he muttered to himself as he too started to run at the assailants.
He picked up the pace as he neared the first of them, who just happened to turn around and notice him a few seconds too late. His right hand grabbed the Other by the back of his coat and swung him on the ground hard. At that point the rest of them had noticed him and had split themselves up to deal with both The Poet and himself. Two of them came at him, one wielding a knife. As the Other lunged at him he grabbed his forearm and performed the same toss as he had with the first thug. Doing so left him open for attack and as he anticipated he caught a strong right hook to the jaw when he turned around. It stunned him for a second and that too earned him another jab, this time to his stomach. He'd had about enough of this and with a horrifying groan he grabbed the Other by his shoulders and proceeded to head-butt him several times until the crook went limp, at which point he let go.
Suddenly a sharp pain went down his spine and when he turned around he was the remainder of the Others he had thrown to the ground. They looked terrified at his presence, and for good reason. He was a monster of a man, even hunched over and the blood on his forehead. Combined with his long dirty hair this made him look something similar to a executioner, who he decided, he was about to take the role of. With one swift motion he pulled the knife stuck in his back out with his right hand and as it came back around he swung at the Other's throat. The blood poured out as the man tried to scream with an astounding look of horror in his eyes. He first dropped to his knees and flat on his own face. The final Other stood a few feet away from him, looking as if he were weighing his options. After several seconds of staring at the monster coming at him with a knife he took off into the night. The Disturbed smiled and turned back around to see how The Poet was managing. When he saw what was happening his mood became sour.
"Always gotta be all fancy and shit...fucker."
The Poet had one of the Others in a lock with his arm behind his back. Every time the Other tried to escape he would simply press down on his forearm and it was clear his arm would break if he tried any harder. The remaining Other had a gun in his hand and couldn't get a clear shot at The Poet because of his college in the line of fire.
"Quit fucking with them will ya?" The Disturbed shouted, garnering the attention of the Other with the gun in his hand, who now pointed it at the giant instead of the Poet.
"Oh you better not miss..." The Disturbed said, and he began to laugh when he was the Other trembling.
But that was all The Poet needed. In just a matter of seconds he released his captive and kicked the gunman hard in his left knee, causing the gun to go off, shooting at the rain above. With his right hand he grabbed the Other’s hand that held the pistol and pivoted him around to face his fellow delinquent and together they pulled the trigger. The Poet kicked the Other down to the ground and stepped on his hand to free up the gun so he could grab it.

“What’s with you and making everything so damn complicated?” The Disturbed asked as he came up from behind.

"Haha, what do you mean?"

"You could've just beaten the living hell out of them instead of using fancy disarming moves."

“Well I didn't want it to turn out like your mess,” The Poet commented, nodding to the two bodies who were covered in blood.

The Disturbed refused to acknowledge this and changed the subject, “So we gonna find out who these guys are?”

“We know who they are, I want to know why they’re here.”

A Damn Cold Night

He stood on the pier, peering out at the stars. It was close to midnight with a cold breeze in the air. Dark clouds were starting to gather, a sign that a storm was approaching. He adjusted his hat, making him look at bit more presentable than before. A drop of water hit his left shoulder though he had no idea because of the heavy sports jacket he had on. He turned away from the water and began walking, only to stop after a few steps.
There they were, five of them, the Others. They weren't going anywhere without him, he knew this. Beyond them he saw another figure, his face concealed by the dark but the hooded jacket he was wearing helped to further hide his identity. No matter, he knew who it was but wasn't sure what it meant. He took off his sports jacket and placed it on the ground beside him. Even without it he still looked like he was ready to attend some occasion of importance with his white button down collared shirt, tan khakis, dress shoes, and his hat. His hat made his character, he was sure it was the reason he had garnered the nickname in the first place.
With the sports jacket gone, he started to feel the rain.
"Great" he muttered.
He began to gather a steady pace which he turned into a slow sprint heading straight for the Others. He was getting past them, no matter what. As for the man behind him however, that was different story entirely.

A Damn Cold Night pt.1

A list of (some of )The Characters:

The Artist
The Soldier
The Musician
The Basket Case
The Train Wreck
Mr.Everything
The Genius
The Monk
Mr. Jaded
The Lost
The Brother
The Determined
The Damaged
Ms.Pink
The Disturbed
The Poet
The Tyrant
The Others
The Thief
The Suit

Be good to us, and we'll be good to you

It goes without saying that, recently, nothing of great excitement has occurred. Sure there are little bouts that each of us interact with every day but aside from those self sustained moments, life is boring. For us at least. This newest entry isn't designed with the purposes of being like the others. It's message is different, deeper perhaps because it does not pertain to a single being (myself) anymore. I hope to connect with everyone who takes care to skim over these blogs and by doing so, maybe help myself along with helping those who do, in fact read this. This summer has been for some, myself included, an experience worth remembering. Starting off with a trip to the hospital, pun intended if you know what I'm talking about, to the eventual trip to California in just a mere 14 days. This means I have another 2 weeks to learn about myself before I come in contact with a world I completely forgot existed. If you look at this from a point of view that says, 'he's simply being over dramatic' you are correct, but only to a certain degree. In this wide world of opinions and ideas, it's hard to ever really feel that anything we made a judgment about will last unless it is shared by the views of others. So, knowing this, I cannot see how a general consensus would form around this latest entry, acknowledging the fact that this blog is widely not spoken of, even from my own lips. In any case, back to the point of making a point, I have 2 weeks until I go to California and meet my father, a man who's never had a prominent role in anything other than 4 years of my life, which are incredibly hard to remember. Not because of any particular reason other than the fact that I was so young. When I think about how big of an effect this will have on me I cannot help but also wonder how alien this entire trip will seem to so many of you. I'm not trying to say that your sympathy will not mean anything, quite the contrary. It's just the fact that most of my friends, if not all, have had 2 parent figures, the mom and the dad, so I feel as though I'm attending this journey alone, despite the company of my own mother. These ideas swirl in my head about when I go to the door, will I panic and ask my mom if we can do it another day. Only to immediately take it back and realize there will be no other day than that to do it. I know that we already have come in contact with the future and as hard as that is to grasp, I know exactly how the door will look. I know exactly how the house that I can barely remember will look. And I can remember exactly how he will look, the only difference this time is age. I am no longer a child running away from him, and he is no longer the father who drank a fraction of his life away. We are now two different people from what we once were, but we still share a connection. Aside from the literal connection of blood and father-son, we share a darker emotion. A fear of death, as surprising as it may seem. It's been on my mind lately, and not to scare anyone who reads this I can assure you, nothing will come of these thoughts, they are only that, thoughts. Only as real as we let them be, and if kept in check, then they will amount to nothing. As I was saying before though, we share the connection and binding of death. I must ask fate, God, or myself this ultimate question, in hopes that someone out there can answer it.

How can it be that fate is so cruel in that, though this is my first time meeting my father, it will undoubtedly be my last?


It's with a heavy heart that I ask that. As such, upon typing it my mom came into the room. It was odd then that she knew not even to look at the screen but just come and say goodnight. She had previously come in to tell me she was going to bed but when she asked what I was typing, I was as I always am and said simply 'something.' She knows all to well my demeanor and didn't ask anymore. Back to the question at hand though, how can it be that this is the course fate has run. If there is no fate then can I truly blame myself for how it came to be like this? Some will argue yes, I can in fact see him after this chance encounter but only if I set my mind to it. Well I don't think like that and I never have. I'm not saying I ignore the basics of self-determination but, ah well, I simply do not think another encounter will be necessary in the short amount of time it will take. Perhaps I strayed for a minute here to ask a very personal question but one that I may actually be able to relate to others. I'll ask you another question, one that is obscured by its harshness as it is commended for its ability to strike an emotional response in ourselves.

Think about a moment, experience, or anything that made you so incredibly happy you figured it to be the best day of your life, where nothing could go wrong. Now, while keeping the image in your head, imagine the worst possible, most debilitating memory you can think of, a time when you no longer wished to breathe but simply die. Which of the two memories did you honestly feel more alive in?

I'm not here to promote sadness and upset people, no. I'm not here for any of those purposes at all. If I were here for that, I'd be doing a lot more than writing a blog detailing the chronicles of my life. I simply ask that question because I wanted to make people realize how I'm starting to feel and how I'm afraid I'll feel even more in the weeks coming. When faced with death, the horrors of it all we realize that we are in fact, alive. We are not the ones being laid into the dirt, but the ones who are watching it. I've never really become accustomed to death, aside from my share of funerals but I am starting to realize that when we are able to rise from a moment of complete sobering heartache we are better than the person who was not able to twenty minutes ago. Why am I bringing this up, you'll ask yourself. Why all the talk of death when it was supposed to be a passage linking my own conflicting thoughts with that of those out there who may not realize it is exactly that I'm feeling? Why bother to go into lengths detailing what I'm trying to say? Why bother at all? I bother because if you can make a connection from the first question to it's follower, you will realize what it is I'm trying to say. Take the best and worst feelings in the world and smash them together until you are left with such a mix of emotions you have no idea whether or not you want to rise from it at all. Seeing him, will be great. Knowing that as soon as I see him, I will probably never get the chance to again, will be horrible. The best and worst emotions you can combine, Love and Death. How cruel can life be to grant me my final peace of mind right before throwing me out and leaving me on my own, without him. Just as I am sick tonight, he is too, but for much longer than I, and with not much left of a fight in him. These next few weeks. These next few solid weeks. I can already tell what will happen. I don't know how exactly they'll unfold or if some will happen at all. But it's coming together, some of the puzzle at least. Somethings coming together.