randomphreak

randomphreak

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All my former dreams had fallen by the wayside in hopes that this one would come true. My girl left me, taking my children, and my officer's commission had been stolen from me by dishonorable discharge. All I had ever wanted was this life of a military man, a woman to come home to, and it's all gone. But the paper in front of me is blank, and my pen is full of ink, and though my life's ambitions were gone, the dreams that haunted me in the night still stood by me, and always would, for better or worse, written down or kept in my mind.

A single click, with perfect lighting, could make or break my career. Years of living with these beautiful beasts, years of avoiding their aggressive charges, years of my camera being drug through the mud and sludge and water, and somehow through it all, it survived long enough to take the picture that could define my life, put my name up there in the ranks of great photographers, like my hero, Ansel Adams. I saw the light rise over these creatures, the few stars left brightening just for me, the trees casting shadows over the sleeping elephants. A single click, and I grinned. I've seen my future, and it's here, with this camera, and the beautiful assistant who doesn't mind sleeping in tents with me and keeping me warm.

Another glass rolled down the slippery surface of the bar, spilling errant splashes of the strongest whiskey they offered on their way to the old man with the short, short haircut, and the empty, sad eyes. It was like he never left the place, always sitting in the fourth stool from the left, staring off into one of the bottles' elaborate pictures of the jungle. His eyes moved back and forth, following his internal scene's shouts coming from either side. "Colonel, it's safe over here!" "Colonel, NO, RUN!" "Run over here!" His face occasionally sank as he took the final swig of his glass, the explosion ringing in his ears bothering no one else in the place but himself, the visions haunting no one else.

The smoke plumed out wildly, each small burst adding to the complex beauty of the sight before us. Explosions continued, and we knew they would, but the glass ceilinged bomb shelter made it all okay, since we could watch the immense destruction from the angle of a cockroach, unkillable, and yet still mortal, and still so small when compared to these commonplace massive events.

Another day, another failure. I packed up my stuff, my smile, in the embossed briefcase they gave me when I signed up for what was called "the most rewarding job in the world." A long sigh punctuated my chipper sales pitch echoing through my mind. I can't take it much longer. The boss walked in, with the same forced smile as the one I caught a glimpse of in the reflection of my golden 'Employee of the Month' plaque, and handed me a stack of papers. "Thank you for being such a hard worker!" His words rung in my head, aching.

The church's roof had ripped open, water pouring in like a waterfall cleansing the entirety of the top floor, while still leaving the most immense mess I had ever seen. It must have been a sign. Our pastor, Anthony, just a week before had died suddenly of asphyxiation, and he'd always promised us he'd let us know when he got wherever he was going, and I'll be damned if he didn't, though we might be damned right now that he did. The picture of St. Anthony floated past our soaked pant legs, staring into our soul.

How funny that this word comes up today. How unfortunately appropriate. Why is this the only thing I can think about? It's just a stupid username. That's it. The toaster popped up, making the woman jump nearly ten feet in the air. What a funny, coincidental word.

The riot police linked arms to brace themselves from the brutal bashing of the protestors frothing at the mouth. Their shields, which they were taught were indestructible, cracked at their homemade explosives, and they screamed out in agony as open wounds had gravel, bodily fluids, whatever the protestors could find thrown into them and beaten once more. Their barricade was about to fall, though, as orders had come in from their sergeant that the shipment the frothing protestors were so desperately fighting for had come in. They were told to hold off until the sign went up, but the people had finally broken them, and they were trampled as they stormed the shiny glass storefront with clear, neat signs advertising the latest iPhone. They had finally gotten what they came for.

The guard fell silently as the pill shot into his mouth took effect, and the compound's security was finally completely compromised. We sent our scouts out first, then followed behind closely, fingers poised on triggers, ready to shoot first and ask questions later, since we've been working for five years to escape this horrific hell.

I stood on the edge of the famous fjords, looking down longingly at the rushing torrents below. I know it's cold, and salty, and it's a death sentence to jump, but I felt my feet shuffle their way forward slowly, silently, my mind abuzz with every wrong thing ever said, ever heard, every reason to jump. The air rushing up my head was exhilarating, and my eyes closed as the water sank into my pores, finally filling the emotional voids.

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writing since 2012 · 49 entries · 49 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Samantha showed up.

6longest streak

49days written

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on this day 13 years ago

Samantha wrote about suicidal
“It never leaves. The darkness permeates my every pore like water filling my lungs slowly, dragging me deeper with every breath I try to take. The pill bottles stare back at me wistfully, as if to say…”

the words Samantha reaches for

eyeswaternowwordsmindfacebettereffectbeautifulcoldlovefinallywordsmiledeathparents