The Lonely Road

Four boys make their way across a desert using an old used sedan. The road is long – the desert goes on in all directions, and the only sign that it does have an end is the mountains off in the distance. The road isn't, however, lonesome; occasionally an 18-wheeler or a family RV come out of seemingly no where, keep up with them for a few moments, before going on and passing by.

The boys didn't care. They were in full spirits, making joke and comments to pass the time while one of them kept his focus on the road. The boys were old enough to drive but young enough to still be called boys. Old enough to start thinking about life, but young enough to not yet understand death.

But one did try to make the effort that very night. While the others stayed oblivious, he put his face to a cold car window and thought deeply for the first time about the world without him. It was a strange idea. A foreign one, one he didn't particularly like. And yet he kept thinking of it, kept trying to piece it all together.

“What do you think happens after we die?”

The question was just loud enough to stop the other three from laughing. They turned to the companion who had made their lighthearted romp reach a morbid conclusion.

“What are you going on about?” One of the boys pepped out.

The philosopher shrugged. “I'm just curious.”

The conversation would've ended there if it wasn't for his curiosity also infecting one of the boys who was driving, even though he didn't necessarily understand the question.

“I mean its a safe to say that we probably go to some place like Heaven, right? Well, maybe not Heaven exactly, but something like it. Like a place where people can all hang out with their previous generations.”

“No, I didn't say where we go, I said what happens.”

“What's that question supposed to mean?” The original skeptic pointed out. “I mean, we die, we're no longer in the world, that's it.”

“But, I mean, people miss us, right? Our families miss us, our friends miss us-”

“Hey,” the driver spoke up again, motioning towards the fourth member who had not yet spoken. “Think Lisa from 5th grade would miss you if you died?”

“Oh, I don't think so.” Though the fourth gave a definitive answer, he shrugged. “Well, I don't know. I mean, how is she gonna figure out I'm gone anyway?”

There was a moment of silence that followed in which each of the members of the car digested those words. Gone. Died. How could they apply to them? Then again, don't they apply to everyone?

“What made you think of this, anyway?” – That would be the skeptic's last question.

The philosopher, just like before, shrugged. “I've just been thinking out it. It's weird, y'know? I mean, when some old dude dies, its expected, there's just some family gathered around, but if it happens to one of us.”

The fourth now vocally addressed his opinion on the subject. “Can we stop talking about this, please? Jesus, it's like you're out to jinx us or something.” That didn't stop the philosopher from continuing.

“I just wonder like, have we done enough in the world to warrant us being of any real importance? Or maybe our deaths would be more important, cause a lot of people we know about are still around-”

The driver, one of the philosopher's original allies, now spoke against him. “Hey, maybe it's not the best time to talk about this, okay? I don't want to be stuck on this long car ride talking about this.”

And so the philosopher finally quit, but the car ride never did quite get back to the positivity they had beforehand. Now, they all had death on their minds. Their own deaths.

They say that, near your death, you begin to take these things into consideration. No one knows how the body and mind are able to predict these events, nor does anyone know whether it's really true that they can. Only one thing is for sure – a hell of a lot of men on their deathbed tend to find God in those final moments. You can only wonder why. 

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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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The Atmosphere of Souls

On a business trip I once made my way up to the Chinese province of Tibet. The place was, in my opinion, completely beautiful – richly decorated sculptures, murals fashioned in exorbitant detail, and fanciful shrines carved out of the stone of the sturdy Himalayan mountainsides. One day, when I was visiting one of these grand religious monuments, a local beggar stopped me in my steps and asked me, incredibly in English, if I could spare him some money.

“And what reason would I have to do that?” I replied to him.

“Because, I know within my soul,” the man gave a pump to his chest with his hand, “that you are a good man. And I know, within my soul, that I am a good man. And I know, within all our souls, all people are born good, and when their soul is still good and not yet soured, they commit good deeds.”

It sounded like a scam, so I laughed and took advantage of the moment to see if I could take the conversation down an entertaining path. “So, you believe all men are good?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I am good?”

“Yes.”

“And so you believe that I should give you money, because I am good?”

“I am not saying that, because of the purity of your soul, you are required to do me any service. Indeed, I did not beg – I questioned. I asked you, 'Do you have a dollar to spare'? I understand in your country that can be taken as a demand. But here, to me, it is the truth.”

“You still did not answer my question – what do you have that will make it worth my while to throw away my money to you? How do I know you aren't the town drunk, or a rambling madman?”

The man stopped, and looked at his chest. “Because I know that you can see the good in souls too. I know you are hesitant, but I also know that you know what I would do with the money.”

“And what would you do?”

“Give it away.”

“And what if the person you give away my money to isn't worthy?”

“Well, it isn't your money anymore, is it not? You have no reason to worry.”

I gave a chuckle. The old man was clever, but not wise.

“So, you believe everyone has a kind soul?”

“Yes.”

“And what of those with evil souls?”

“Anyone's soul can be persuaded to evil, just as any evil soul can be rehabilitated back to good.”

“But don't more souls turn evil than evil to good?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, stories of men turning evil are much more common than those of evil men turning good. If you are true, shouldn't men be able to convert back to good at the same rate that they turn evil?”

My question caused the old man to think for a moment. “Evil souls are turned evil by the atmosphere. If the atmosphere does not change, they stay evil. If the atmosphere does change, they turn back good.”

“So people do not change atmospheres often?”

“They can't change atmospheres often. Not many souls have that ability.”

I began to understand the point the man was trying to make. “So the money you want to give, isn't to the good souls...”

“...It's to the evil souls, to change their surroundings.”

“And you don't need the money, because your surroundings are clean?”

“Of course.”

I smiled. “Well, my friend, I'd say you won me over.” I pulled out a few silver coins and dropped them into the man's outreached hands. He eyed them carefully, and just as he made his revelation, I continued to speak: “They aren't currency. They are better than currency. There's a man who runs a restaurant not to far from here, by the bay. Give these to him, and he'll give you what you want.”

“And what is that?”

“A chance at changing the atmosphere of souls.”

The old man was reluctant at first, but eventually he clenched the coins within his fist and dropped them into his bag. “I know I can trust you. I can see your soul is pure. May we meet again, my friend.”

“May we meet again.”

Later that day, I went back to the restaurant at the bay. The owner, cleaning off one of the tables, turned and greeted me when he heard the entry bell ring.

I asked him, “Have you had any new customers?”

“Yes, indeed I did. One came in today.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Old, hunched back. Tattered clothes.”

I smiled again. As it turns out, the old man did come straight to the restaurant as he had said he would, and didn't give away the coins. I continued: “So, where is he now?”

The man I had partnered with continued to put his brush to the table. “On the path to Morocco. I still have a repayment to Fariq – when I saw the man it was the first thing I thought of.”

“What will he be used for? He's old, bony, frail, and has a bit of an attitude – he seems more of a liability for laboring work.”

The man stopped cleaning tables, and partially turned his head toward me. “I never told you, did I?”

“What?”

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“Fariq doesn't use his slaves as laborers. He has his own hired force for that. Instead, the man has a bit of a special interest.”

“What interest is that?”

“The consumption of human flesh.”

The image of it gave me a chuckle – Fariq, an old, fat, stout king nibbling on the legs of a hunchback while the frail wiseman rattled off some line from Confucius, Fariq barely listening. I suppose that is the fate of those who get their philosophies wrong.

Later that day, I went to explore another temple.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 4

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

Today’s prompt is: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 just by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1, while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10.

I've had this gift for awhile now.

I can't exactly pinpoint where it started, mostly because I didn't really believe it fully until a few years ago. It's not a literal numeric scale, but I like to refer to it as such for sake of implicity.

Basically, I can tell how much of a threat people are.

It's the same instinctual feeling we all have, that feeling of protecting your loved ones, except a few differences. First of all, its not just people who threaten my family, it's everyone. Second of all, it's always right.

I've tried looking at myself in the mirror to determine which one I was a number of times, but each time I got some result from 1-10, never straight. My mother is a 2 when around me or the family, but a 5 when around strangers. I took that this followed her sharp wit and unfortunate beginnings, as she could be quite a tough and intimidating woman when she needed to be.

My boyfriend, Pierce, is a straight 3. Don't see how, though – he honestly wouldn't even hurt a butterfly if he had to. I guess that it was something he kept in the back of his brain just in case the need arose, just like my mother. The rest of my friends are around 2-4, and the most “dangerous” man I've ever met is my principal who had a 6, likely due to his ex-army experience.

He was the most dangerous man. Until Wednesday.

The second the kid walked out of his parent's sedan I was already getting bad vibes. On the outside, he looked pretty damn normal: glasses, waved back blond hair, and a red polo. He practically didn't have any muscle. But as he got closer to the school, and to me, I began feeling worse and worse until the number finally came to me.

“Ten.”

“What?” My boyfriend asked it from my side. Besides my mother, he was the only one who knew about – and believed – my ability.

“That kid over there. He's a ten.” I pointed to the person in question.

“How? He doesn't look threatening at all.”

“I don't know, but I want to find out.”

And so I did, or at least tried to. He was a grade above me, so besides passing each other in the hall once, in which I saw nothing, I didn't really get to see what was up. I decided to wait until it was after school to get Pierce to spy with me.

We hid behind a bush, getting quite a lot of suspicious looks, but fortunately the man himself didn't notice.

It seemed still that he was entirely normal, and I was about to call it out until Pierce whispered to me in a shocked voice.

“Look, his hand!”

It wasn't much – not much for those paying attention to notice – but it was obvious. The kid's hand was on fire.

Instead of reacting to it in the way of, well, having your hand being on fire, he instead simply patted it down with his other hand until it was gone. It was at the moment that it clicked.

“He has a power, too.”

“Of what? Setting his hand on fire?”

“It explains the ten, doesn't it?”

That night I got to thinking how many more of us their could be out there. It's clear his power is much stronger than mine, so perhaps there is a whole group of people whose powers range from large to small. Maybe like me, the person doesn't believe they have the power. Or maybe, they simply haven't figured out what it is yet.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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LEVIATHAN 008

Leviathan Tape 004

Date Unknown

Location Unknown

Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE), commonly known as mad cow disease, is a fatal neurodegenerative disease (encephalopathy) in cattle that causes a spongy degeneration of the brain and spinal cord. BSE has a long incubation period, about 2.5 to 8 years, usually affecting adult cattle at a peak age onset of four to five years, all breeds being equally susceptible. BSE is caused by a misfolded protein—a prion.[1] In the United Kingdom, the country worst affected by an epidemic in 1986-98, more than 180,000 cattle were infected and 4.4 million slaughtered during the eradication program.[2]
The disease may be most easily transmitted to human beings by eating food contaminated with the brain, spinal cord or digestive tract of infected carcasses.[3] However, the infectious agent, although most highly concentrated in nervous tissue, can be found in virtually all tissues throughout the body, including blood.[4] In humans, it is known as new variant Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease (vCJD or nvCJD), and by June 2014 it had killed 177 people in the United Kingdom, and 52 elsewhere.[5] Between 460,000 and 482,000 BSE-infected animals had entered the human food chain before controls on high-risk offal were introduced in 1989.[6][7]
A British and Irish inquiry into BSE concluded the epizootic was caused by cattle, which are normally herbivores, being fed the remains of other cattle in the form of meat and bone meal (MBM), which caused the infectious agent to spread.[8][9] The cause of BSE may be from the contamination of MBM from sheep with scrapie that were processed in the same slaughterhouse. The epidemic was probably accelerated by the recycling of infected bovine tissues prior to the recognition of BSE.[10] The origin of the disease itself remains unknown. The infectious agent is distinctive for the high temperatures at which it remains viable, over 600 °C (about 1100 °F).[11] This contributed to the spread of the disease in the United Kingdom, which had reduced the temperatures used during its rendering process.[8] Another contributory factor was the feeding of infected protein supplements to very young calves.[8][12]

Source: Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. “Bovine spongiform encephalopathy”. URL: http://darkblackdesires.proboards.com/