spikeddeception

        Wednesday, December 19th 2011 I remember when Baltimore was safe. It was one of about five cities on the East Coast to combat the "infection" for longer than a day or two. Do you know New York fell in eight hours? Baltimore had the decency to last a month before those "things" started showing up. It was slow at first, sure... A sneeze here; a cough here. Occasionally, a dog would go missing or a chicken would wind up dead. No one suspected anything. It wasn't until a few people went missing that all hell broke loose, no pun intended. After the third person disappeared, we knew we had a problem on our hands. Four days later, they bro

        The possible answers to such a tiny, open-ended question are, to say the least, endless. It amazes me that even after all of my time on this Earth... So who am I? I am the physical manifestation of a romance long decayed, completely obliterated by Father Time and Mother Nature. I am the second son of my generation, born under my father's name into my mother's family, a metaphorical circus troupe with more problems than a calculus textbook. I am the youngest in age yet the oldest in spirit. I am the mediator; the medicine man; the healer. I am… Who am I? I'm the one with more answers than questions, yet more theories than proo

 I live in a fantasy world. The type of world where the unimaginable happens on a regular basis. The type of world where the most outrageous, outlandish thoughts a small child could possibly conceive can come true. The type of world where Sir Thomas More's idea of "utopia" isn't as unfathomable as we've deducted it to be. It's a beautiul world. A beautiful world full of rolling hills and mountains stretching off into the distance. Blue waters reaching out as far as the eye can see, full of aquatic life, engulfed in the blinding light of a rising sun. I may even go so far as to describe it as "the Garden of Eden with the touch of civilizat

 On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. The line blinks, repeatedly, almost as if it's intimidating me. The line that appears on my computer monitor, following text, continues to blink. On and off. It wants me to type something. It wants me to fill the page with characters, and form a story around a single thought, but it knows I can't. It knows that I am incapable of fulfilling its wishes. I can merely stare at the void the document creates, the feeling of regret that passes by as my mind rejects idea after idea, undecided. I can only imagine how far I would have carried one idea before another one comes along and is tossed aside, similar to the othe