The Following Document Was Extracted From The Portal. It Appears To Be A Prelude, Possibly To A Book.

I died years ago. I was murdered in a sense. I just don’t know which one.

I was sitting at home on my couch indulging, or binging, when someone killed me. I think I knew the person. I think I knew them very well. Strangely, I didn’t realize it was them when it happened. It didn’t feel, look, sound, smell or taste like them, but it was them in a sense. Again, I just don’t know which sense it was. Clearly not one of the standard 5 I had been taught in school if that makes sense.

Anyways, they entered through the front door. Why it was open, I don’t know. In hindsight it doesn’t make sense but neither does a closed door. So, as I mentioned, they entered the home through the front door. Gun in hand.

Rather silently with no resistance and no emotion by anyone involved, the barrel was pressed against my temple pushing in with enough force to cause a pressure canyon to form in my skin, before slightly tilting my head to the side, bending at the neck. Click. I felt the explosion in the chamber of the weapon. The deceptively clever design of the firearm (genius level engineering in truth) coupled with that exact explosion propelled the projectile through the floor of the skin canyon.

As mentioned, this was unexpected. Not in the sense that I didn’t know it was going to happen, but in the sense that even my soul didn’t know it was going to happen. I’m not aware if god even knew it would happen. Regardless, both my body and my soul, we were not prepared. So, just as the unexpected arrival of hot metal energy in the previously fully occupied space of my skull caused a spontaneous eruption, pushing a shock wave of a ripple through and a white and pink speckled explosion of red out, my soul was thrust from my body, unusually exiting in the same direction as the red mist. Sideways.

Unbound by reality, it hurled itself through the wall, the same wall the blood like matter stopped at, sprawling itself across the canvas of bare suburban eggshell white before posing for a photograph; the type of photograph that would later claim motive was evident beyond any type of reasonable doubt.

Enough with photos and the physical. As the soul that had either once been mine or was now finally becoming mine, emerged from the wall on the other side, it looked to the door. It was closed after all. Always had been. Had this been an inside job?

This is where the story begins. Think of that as the melodic interlude. Contributing in its presents. Forgotten in its absence. It’s own story when presented that way.

The story begins just after, on the other side of the wall. The previous story becomes a past event with significance so minimal I couldn’t even tell you what city I was in. So we begin. Right here. Right now. Making this story: The Present.

You may unwrap.

#shortstory #blog #prelude

A Document Extracted From The Portal. Possibly The First Chapter Of A Book.

The morning air was thick with fog. I could smell the odors that would typically be absent in their rise or fall as they hung in the wetness. Neither good nor bad, they were just present. The sun had began to rise. Blocked by the surrounding steel structures, it was only made evident in the peaking rays of light that began converting total darkness to scattered shadows.

Today, the world looked different. Fresh. Crisp. Clean. I had an appreciation for things that before would have probably gone unnoticed. I walked through the city with absolutely no destination. Enjoying the journey.

Focused on the moment, I knew where I was. “I’m right here.” By any standard definition of the word “where,” I had no clue. I had never seen this city before. At least not from this angle.

I had woke in a house full of things. My house, I guessed. When I went to the dresser in the corner of the room, I found an identification card. “CITIZEN,” it read in bold letters across the top. I looked in the mirror and then looked at the card. “That looks like me,” I thought.

I could read all of the information on the card, yet it seemed foreign. The language was mine. I could understand that. The collection of names, numbers and locations printed on the card had no significance to me though. No attachment whatsoever. I left it on the dresser and took to the street.

As I continued my walk, I noticed a park about a block down the road. Lush trees, green grass and a small pond, it was an oasis in an otherwise manufactured city. As I made my way into the park, the sun had begun slicing through shadows, illuminating the world more and more, little by little. The fog was still thick though, so it was difficult to fully grasp the vastness of the park. Sun, fog and shadows dancing in unison in the mystic wooded wonderland, all in the heart of the concrete jungle. It was quite the scene.

After about ten minutes of strolling and absorbing, I came across a garden. Unlike the standard urban garden: tomatoes, carrots, strawberries, parsley all laid out in meticulously over planned orderly rows, this garden looked to have been designed by nature. Rather than the human imposed segregation design, which I’ve always found to be humorously similar to the grouped and sorted aisles of a grocery store, or of anything human for that matter, this garden appeared to be growing in harmony.

Tall trees with gorgeous yellow fruit, so bright they appeared glowing, grew small branches out of their trunks, which served as a trellis for berry baring vines. Leafy lettuce like plants surrounded the trees base, all composed of various rainbow like colors. Small sprouts stuck out of the ground, so young and fresh that dirt still lay on their leaves from their recent push through the soil. Surrounding these fletching plants were the most vibrant and thriving rose bushes I had ever seen. We all know about the thorny nature of rose bushes, but these were different. The thorns were more than ten times larger than any thorn I had ever seen on any plant. They all pointed outwards, in what appeared to be an effort to protect the still young plants from any type of creature anxious to try a bite before the fruitful future.

The vibrant forest garden spoke, “Feed yourself.”

“Are you sure?” I questioned

“We’re here for you. For your nourishment. One yellow fruit is all you need. Don’t take more than you need and for you we will be forever abundant.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as I so gently plucked the fruit. At the same time, the tree let out a slight exhale signifying the sacrifice it had made.

Eyes closed, I pushed my teeth through the fibrous flesh of the fruit. A spritz of the most magical juice landed on my tongue.


The fruit fell to the ground.

“What are you doing man?” A voice gasped. I looked to my right to see a man. Blue polo, khaki pants, brown shoes, leather belt, glasses, white skin, brown hair, not in shape, not out of shape, 40 in human years maybe.

“Huh?” I had a hard time focusing on him initially as my mind transformed from blissful peace to a state of confused disturbance.

“What are you doing? You some type of crazy guy?” His tone seemed alarmed and concerned.

“What?” I responded.

“Are you ok man? Look at you. You must be starving. What’s going on?” He nodded his head towards my feet. In my blissful engagement, I had slipped off my shoes. I was standing in a garden oasis in the park shoeless eating a piece of fruit. Other than my shoeless feet, I was fully clothed and appeared tidy and well kept by any standard I was aware of.

“I was just eating a piece of fruit. The tree said it was ok.” In my confusion, my statement trailed off as if I was asking a question.

“O no man. That trees wild. You can’t eat that.”

“Why not? What is it?”

“I don’t know man. Do you just go around eating things in the wild?

“I. I don’t know.” One of us was absolutely mad. I knew this but which one.

I observed the man. Finger tip to brim of glasses. Adjustment. Nose wiggle like a rabbit. Little click chirp gesture with mouth. Head shake. “Ok. It’s him. He’s snapped out of it.” I thought.

“We need to get you some help guy,” he said. His sound of genuine concern was now an overly friendly tone. Like I was a child.

Thoughts formulated again, “He HAS NOT snapped out of it. What is going on?” I stood in silence.

“You must be in rough shape to be out here like this.” He dug his hand around in his pocket before pulling out a crumbled wad of dollars and loose change. “There’s a convenience store down on the corner. Go get yourself a donut. A candy bar maybe.” Still fidgeting he pulled out another dollar. “Here you go pal. Get yourself a soda too. You can’t be doing this. Out here in the wild eating stuff. It’s crazy.”

He handed me the money. Caught off guard by the unexpected show of generosity, coupled with my realization that, at the very least, to him I was the mad one, I extended my hand to shake his. “Thank you,” I said.

“O. Uh. Yeah. Ha. Ha,” He nervously uttered while waving his hands in front of his chest as if trying to decode what to do with my extended hand before choosing to ever so gently and quickly pat me on my shoulder with the tips of his middle three fingers.

“You just take care of yourself guy. Ok? It’ll be ok,” he remarked as he slowly backed away from me, creating enough distance to assure himself I wouldn’t attack, then turning and walking into the mist.

I glanced down at the fruit and kicked it towards the rose bush and out of sight. I glanced up at the tree. It let out a long, heavy, sorrowful sigh much more pained than when I had plucked the fruit from its body.

I turned and left the park.

#shortstory #book #chapter

A Document Extracted From The Portal.

It was All Hallows’ Eve in the desert. The full moon would be visible by night.

When I saw the lizard filling the gas cans, I knew we were close. He filled the final can and placed it into the open trunk. There were 3 total. SLAM. I waited until he disappeared into the opening in the wall of dust, the mouth of the desert.

I proceeded on a slightly different course, of course. The portal was discovered at noon. Better yet, the key, which hung next to a stone angel, was obtained at noon exactly. The key was the portal, but the note, which contained only a name and a number, told me the treasure waited on the island. I collected the key and drove east.

A 3 or 5 day journey: the path was simple, though the journey was treacherous. Things would grab and pull at me the entire way. It was somewhere near the arch where my battle would occur. Kicking and screaming, I was drained. Beyond my survival, that story contains no further significance.

I knew I had reached the island when I came to the bridge. It hung over a marsh, the likes of which I had never seen, and a beetle, about the size of my hand, fingers included, hung above the bridge. The beetle, unusually large, was enshrined in pure gold. Frozen in stillness, his buzz still hung in the air.

Proceed to the cabin and unlock the door. Use the key. The key is the portal.

The key made a sliding noise as the locking mechanism was rolled to the left before, “CLOCK,” the bolt removed itself from the equation. ENTER.

I entered the cabin. One room. Wooden floor. White walls. Sun lit. And a treasure chest.

It sat in the center of the room. I collected the chest. Holding it in my hands, thick black ink leaked from the cracks between the wooden pieces that assembled the container. Soon my hands were covered. The ink dropped from my hands onto the previously pristine floor. A puddle formed around my feet.

Excessive amounts of black ink pooling around me. I began to sink. I opened the chest. I stared inside. It’s contents clean, no signs of the black ink.

When I looked up, the shine was bright, and it was hot. Sand now replaced the ink puddle where I stood. Furthermore, it extended further than I could see in every direction.

The key is the portal; I was now uncertain what side of the portal I existed in. I would hang the key next to the portal and I would return with the chest.

NOTE: The document, “Black Paint Drippin,” another document extracted from the portal, contains similar mentions of a black ink/paint like substance.

#HVMXNBYND #100DaysToOffload #shortstory #Blog #BlackPaint #Portal

A Document Extracted From The Portal.

It has been 5 years since I left the glass house. The wolves waiting, watching. Never would they expect such an opportunity. They had accepted a life of waiting. Their hunger staring through the translucent barrier.

As I stepped out, they attacked. Other occupants had followed me through the front door, stopping within the safety of the porch. They cast stones and cast words against my back.

The wolves pulling, ripping, devouring. It had been ages since such an opportunity was given them. Ripping, shaking, and blood covered, they would run off in ravenous delight before fully finishing the deed.

I would crawl. A hole would provide refuge. A hole is where I would wait. And wait I would.

Now is the return. The wolves crouch at my approach. The fiery energy about screams, “Bite and you shall burn.” They understand. They wait.

The glass homes stand side by side. Visually, not much has changed. Same people occupy the same space, yet something is different. The comfort of the home, a trap in the face of fear.

Whispers of a changing world. A change not worth facing to some. They remained in their comfort, never again leaving. Doors sealed. They sat waiting.

When the first eyes fell upon my approach, all became aware. They stood staring through the glass. My curiosity and survival was a threat to the stories that preserved their existence.

They began to cast their words. Silent mouthings through muted glass. Simultaneously, the words echoed throughout their structures. As their hate returned, it struck their eardrums with a thunderous boom. The sharp burning pain made them angry.

They gripped their stones from inside their fortress. All at once, they cast the stones from within.

With that, their fear born ignorance stopping short of its target, crashing into the glass walls of protection. Crash, the glass fell like rain.

They stared. The wolves stared.

Fear strengthens the brave.

Fear devours the fearful.

Wolves will eat.

#HVMXNBYND #Wolves #ShortStory #Fear #Poetry