(Feb '16) Prompt #2 - Eternal

[Naraness]

February's second prompt is the word "Eternal"

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If you have any questions about how to participate in this event,
please visit the rules thread or PM Naraness.

Happy writing!

[Dnafein]

Spoiler: The Eternal 

I wish to begin this by thanking whoever received this history for the time they took reading it. Many will discount this as a work of fiction, and some may dispose of it as a childish prank. However rest assured this is the truth of my life. Please keep this in mind as you read it, wherever possible I have made mention of events that I was present for that can be researched even to this day. Even the most basic computer that exists should be able to locate my presence in the few surviving photographs.

Currently I have been calling myself Oscar Nemo Atreides. I am, as of the writing of this document, a Captain in the United Earth Alliance's Colonial Marines. Their files if queried should reveal that I have been listed as dead or missing for six months, three days and eleven hours as of the time this was sent. That means that I may, finally, have received an injury I could not recover from. Some history, and explanation, are due for the last line.

You see I was born in an era of heroes. Nations claimed to have been founded and sired by great heroes from legend. Boys of all ages looked up to these men you would come to know as myths. Diomedes, Herales, Odysseus, the list goes on. My mothers personal favorite was Achilles, and it became her obsession when she realized she was pregnant.

As you may have surmised she was unable to locate the river Styx to dip me into. That did not however prevent her from seeking alternative means to protect me from death. She sought out oracles, soothsayers and witches seeking aid, and then made use of the information they shared with her. On the day I was born she refused to give me a name. When I was brought forward to be presented to the gods, I had no name. To this day, millennia after my mothers death, I have no name that belongs to me.

The information that was given to my mother by those she visited was mostly unhelpful. The River Styx was only reachable to the dead; Charon the ferryman was only able to be summoned near the sites of a great battle or tragedy; Et cetera. However each of them gave the same information. That there was nothing to keep my name from appearing in the book of the dead. And so, the wise woman she was, my mother refused to name me,

You might think it would be hard to grow up without a name. The truth was it was remarkably easy. People would simply call you boy, child, or youth. Occasionally a you there and then they'd give you instructions to carry out. My life was relatively no different then that of my friends, and like them I dreamed of being a hero. Like the greatest of heroes, the surest path to glory lay through military service.

Names mattered little in the military, instead you were called recruit, soldier or the ever constant boy. Even after I proved to be talented in my training my lack of name never bothered my commanders. However as was often the case in those particular days, a stronger military force invaded. I was twenty-five years old when it happened, and I stood proudly at the head of a division of troops as we faced the invaders.

The battle was bloody, and brutal in every way imagined. The men I commanded fought fiercely, defending our wives, children, and homes. The enemy was fiercer still, and cut us down. My fate was sealed on that battlefield when two feet of spear erupted from my back, placed there by a Punic soldier who himself died moments later. The last sound I ever thought I'd hear was the screams of men dying.

I woke hours later to another form of screaming. The wailing high pitched screams of mothers and wives who have lost someone they cared for. My own mother shared her cries with my wife, cries of mourning that became screams of terror when I instinctively reached out to comfort them both. Quick thinking as ever my mother claimed it was a gift from the gods that brought me back from the dead. Even then I had my doubts, still I was thankful for the chance to hold my children and to love my wife again.

I'm going to take a moment here because no doubt you have asked, "If these people meant so much to you why have you not named them?" Sadly it is the result of my apparent immortality. Simply because I am incapable of dying, does not mean I am more human then you. Can you remember the clothes you were wearing when you had your first bite of your favorite food? Can you remember the last name of the first person outside your family you kissed? Can you remember the first vid you were watching when your parents gave you your first pet?

These are aspects of memory that fade as you grow older. Imagine attempting to answer those questions some six thousand years after they happened. That is why many details are absent, because after all this time the events I am capable of recalling the clearest are those that have the sharpest emotional ties to them. My first death, The fall of Rome, The battle of Okinawa, The Nuclear Cleansing of the Martian colonies, are some of the most vivid; Namely I think because my life should have ended during them. There are other happier memories that remain detailed, some are personal and will not be mentioned, whereas others will.

Returning home, the only to survive on either side of the battle, I was given a heroes welcome. My home a small town outside the settlement of Neapolis (Now known as Naples) tried to create a heroic edda about me. Unfortunately it is hard for a story to develop into myth when the hero has no name. Ironically the truth of my story will outlast every embellishment that was grafted onto the version they created.

My mother died before the curse that accompanied the blessing she gave me became appearant. I remember only that it rained the day of her funeral, I remember because I thought that the very gods cried over the loss to the world. I was foolish in my youth, I was optimistic when it came to the gods. The day that changed I cannot say; Nor can I tell you if the change was for the better or worse.

Years passed since the battle and there were two things of note. There were still more battles, and I no longer appeared to age. The people who once honored me began to alienate and fear me. My wife and children included. I began to feel alone and empty and so I left seeking to fill the hole growing inside of me with the only thing i could think of, Glory.

I sought out battle, be it against marauding invaders or beasts stalking the countryside. Like Heracles I traveled the known world facing man and monster. Unlike Heracles I did not always win, I did however always recover like Prometheus on his mountain prison. If I succeeded before I fell I would return to bask in the glory however short lived, if I failed I would skulk away in shame.

I do not know how long I moved from conflict to conflict seeking a challenge hat would allow me to join the other immortals in their high home; Or failing that finally stumble into the waiting arms of the underworld. I remember the conquest of Alexander, I remember marching with his men, I remember the battles that carried through history and the defeat caused by the monstrous creatures of the east. I did not earn glory that day, for I fled from the elephants myself.

Again the years blurred, and the Roman empire came. There was more marching, more conflict and then another family. In my memories my life seems to slow when I have a family, perhaps it is because of something other then what has become a constant in my life, war. Or perhaps it is because of the presence of love. Unfortunately, love always seems to end badly for me.

We lived in Rome, a city I firmly believed to be safe from invasion. A belief I had only once in my long life. We had fought the Visgoths off twice before, and so we had no fear that we could fight them off again. The siege proceeded as the previous two did, small futile attacks by the invaders. Small skirmishes attempting to force the invaders to leave. Unfortunately, the Porta Salaria was thrown open and the Visgothic invaders flowed through. I lost track of the number of times I died in the three days they savaged Rome. After they left I successfully reached my ruined home. To this day I do not know if my wife died in the fire or if she was carted away by the invaders.

I realize now that it is visibly written before me that I have in a few pages covered over eight hundred years of human history and barely touched on any of it. To my eternal shame I remember little of it beyond what I have typed here. I oft times find my dreams tormented by my memories, and even there they often blend. I occasionally find myself storming Okinawa in full Roman imperial battle dress while the Japanese mercilessly fire upon me with their rifles and machine gun emplacements. Conversely I have also stood on the walls of Rome firing upon the Visgoths with the standard issue pulse rifle of the UEACM.

Too much of my life has been war and pain. From the fall of Roman to the Christian Crusades, to being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. I have experienced much, but most of it is a blur. One day I am a Roman soldier, the next a Crusader, the next a man accused of heresy and witchcraft. And seemingly when it appears that I am about to lose all that makes me a man and become instead another immortal monster roaming the countryside someone comes into my life to stabilize me.

Were it not that some part of me insists I do not have a soul I would swear that Elisabeth was my soulmate. I met her after I escaped the Spain into the french countryside. I can't remember how I escaped a country that tortured me because I could not die, nor do I remember where our little hovel near the woods was. Her father claimed he found me unconscious in the fields and brought me home. She tended to my injuries, both physical and mental. She is one of the few happy memories I do not fear I will lose. I can recall to this day her crystal blue eyes, her raven locks and her alabaster skin. The peals of her laughter remain my favorite music. The red blush spreading through her cheeks the moment I told her I loved her remains my favorite sunrise.

Elisabeth was the only woman I had any sort of life with. She never alienated me when it became apparent she would age while I would not. I never saw fear or envy in her eyes when she would look at me. She never treated me as anything but the man she loved. And that remains all I could ever ask of a woman. I believe I spent a century alone, mourning, in our home after she died.

I left France for England, It wasn't to forgot the woman a part of me still mourns, but it was to better honor her. France feels even today like a holy place. While in England I heard of colonization efforts and so joined to experience a new world, far from the tragedy of the old. Once there I managed to successfully get myself a small plot of land and avoided what is now known as the French-Indian wars. I did however assist in the birth of the United States. No matter what she later became, I remain proud of the idea she started as.

I bounced around that great nation for centuries. When my condition started to become apparent in the east I'd join a wagon train moving west. When I began to attract attention in the west I'd move east. I spent the Civil War in what would become California, and I spent the gold rush in New York. As technology advanced and laws changed I had to begin fabricating who I was in advance. No longer could I just cobble together a name upon arriving, I had to begin forging documents.

It really wasn't difficult at the start, a little time among the the records before I left a place and I'd have a birth certificate and social security number of a child who, sadly, never breathed. It never occurred to me that this would be wrong. Instead the truth was that I saw it as a way to honor the poor thing. To live a life for it, wearing the name allowed the child to live through me. Allowed honors and respect to be heaped upon it from my successes; And allowed the name to be used as an example should I fail.

When the world was plunged into the second world war I was wearing the name John Smith. I was a staff sargent when we invaded Okinawa. I left the small island as Alexander Worthington, a friends name. A friend who died next to me, and wasn't identifiable. I know that should I ever find myself wherever the dead meet that I will have many things to answer for. I simply hope that Alex like Elisabeth will greet me warmly, and not enraged.

The period of time after world war two was uncomfortable.It blurred together until the sixties. Those years blurred together for a different reason. I died a number of times during this decade as well, though these deaths are not memorable. It occurs to me that perhaps it is not my age that hampers my memories but instead the copious amounts of drugs I did during the free love era of American history.

I remember little between the nineteen seventies and two thousand seventy. I believe I had to lay low during this era, advancing technology made forging new identities and hiding my history harder. After all if someone accidentally could believe that Matrix guy was an immortal vampire surely someone could find actual evidence that I had faked my death months before. However leaving for Mars changed that.

Mars was an adventure I hadn't had since the colonization of North America. I proudly admit to influencing it's burgeoning government. I was even the voice of the revolution. It is my speeches studied even today that inflamed an oppressed colony to stand against her tormenting tyrant in 2776. The truth is that though it is my voice they are not my words. The heart of each speech was recalled from the American Revolution. Though I don't know how. Perhaps all memories are buried deep in the subconscious and in the right situation they can be recalled from there.

It was the Cleansing of the Martian colonies that established both the colonies freedom, and my six month rule. I was present during the nuclear strikes and was even caught in the hit on the Arcadian University. Luckily much of the planet had been terriformed, so I wasn't trapped in an environment without oxygen. It did however take my body six months to recover from the blast. I now believe that if I can recover from a nuclear strike in six months that I should be able to prevent this from being distributed in a little over that period of time.

The centuries that followed my recovery used the substantial reparations given to the surviving martian colonists to by a ship and join the burgeoning exploration of the galaxy. I'd arrange a trust with my remaining money each time I left and upon returning I'd add the payment for my charts and upgrade my ship. Unfortunately, technology reached a point in which such a life had to come to an end. Before I could reclaim my funds and buy myself a small planet to live out eternity upon war came from an unexpected source.

An unidentified intelligent species began attacking our colonies. They have weapons that appear able to decentigrate a human body. I believe this may be my only chance to finally leave this cursed existence and be reunited with those who love me. And so I joined the Colonial Marines. In the four years since joining I have faced these invaders a dozen times and have not died yet. Tomorrow however is the first time we have launched an invasion on a planet of theirs.

This document was created on the nineteenth of January, eight thousand ninety seven. I have been alive for over ten thousand years and tomorrow I may finally know the eternal peace of death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finishing the document Anthony quickly turned away from his personal workstation and immediately called his editor.

"He- Hello?" A groggy voice said.

"Mike, You have to give me the front page tomorrow." The reporter started. "I have the Sto-"

"Tony?" Mike interrupted. "Elvis Presley, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"It's 3 in the morning Mike, wake up" Tony answered before saying. "I. HAVE. THE. STORY. OF. A. LIFE."

"Yeah, yeah everyone thinks that at 3 in the morning Tony." Mike responded. "Well what is it?"

Tony gave a condensed version of the story he had just read, he then admitted to doing research while reading the story, and found confirming proof that the voice of mars had the exact same vocal pattern of Staff Sargent Atreides. Additionally there was an attached file with over a dozen additional names, names of people who look exactly like the Sargent. Names that go back to records from before Mars. And the best of all Sgt Atreides has been missing for 6 months and 5 days exactly.

"So you're saying you think this is real?" Mike asked a bit skeptically.

"Without a doubt Mike," Tony replied, "You know how hard it is to access much less tamper with those old files."

Mike sat quietly for a minute, he checked the nearby calendar and finally sighed. "Look, dig deep get empirical proof that this is the real deal and You'll get front page Sunday with a full hour long report Monday. I need the article by Saturday though, you got a week."

"You ARE amazing Mike. Thank you so much. I really appreciate." Tony's tone died as his editor cut the circuit from his end. "This."

Turning back to his work station Tony typed out the title of his article. The Eternal.. The hours flew by as Tony gathered more and more evidence of the stories authenticity. His fingers a blur as he retyped the tale he had been told and sited the evidence that accompanied it. They stilled however when his com chirped at him.

Turning to the device he glanced at the caller id. A blinking i]UNKNOWN[/i] met his gaze. With a frown Tony said, "Hello?"

"Mr. Herbert?"

"This is he. "Tony said. "May I ask whose calling?"

There was a clear amount of discomfort and hesitation on the line before the voice returned. "You may know me as Staff Sargent Oscar Atreides."

[Griff]

Spoiler: eternal-ish 

Staring at the ornate church, one would guess that is was old, a relic in the community. That would be accurate seeing all of the stained glass windows and crosses adorning the inside, along with the ancient pews and altar. It smelled like, well the way you would describe a rotting house. A bit of mold, and a lot of wood. Like a sawdust smell that never seemed to fade. The outside was rather huge, with ornate geometric designs and a tall spire topped with a cross. It looked as if it had been painted many times over, some parts being faded off-white, and some being outright brown. The church was certainly odd.

Many people went to the church, or, at least, used too. It shut down a few years back. A notice wasn’t even given, people just showed up on Sunday and were met with caution tape and signs telling people to leave. There’s a lot of theories, but no definitive ones. The closest one to the truth has been all but distorted into a tall tale now, with teens breaking in and trying to last a night. It’s juvenile and rude.

It all started about a year after it closed, an old coot claimed to have seen things at night when he walked by the church. Everyone dismissed it and called him a devil worshiper. It was a typical response to things people want to forget. Everyone in town missed their old church, its comforting bells and shelter.

Another woman said the same thing though, and another young man. Soon, people were starting to whisper, and not before long a story had been made up to explain it. So, when people first tried to go to the church, they were told no, even cops were there. Nothing was published in the paper, it was odd. Even distinguished members of the community tried to ask what happened, and they were denied. That was unheard of before this.

Once a boy snuck his way in, and he claimed to see spirits. Like, actual spirits! He was crazy, but the young people seemed to believe him. A couple of writers even wrote stories about it, “The Lovers of Saint Lucia” was one of the most popular editions. It was a beautiful tale--even though everyone was sure it was fake.

It followed two lovers who went to the church. Apparently they were at the church when it was closed. Something about a murder, or something stupid. I’d never read too far into it. It was blasphemous and a disgrace to our community. Anyways, to be more detailed, they both died in the church. A case of betrayal, or something dumb like that. Admittedly, the story was good, but that’s all it was--a story.

The woman that was shown in the tale, Eliza, I think it was, was described as a tall young blonde--about 20 or so. Her description doesn’t match anyone that the town remembers, supporters of the tale just shrug this off and say that it was changed to protect privacy.

The man, Sam, was a short African American boy, long black hair. Another description that didn’t match any of the people in the small town. It was frustrating.

They were both at the church that night, someone came after them, killed Sam, killed Eliza. Pretty basic and mundane. The young folk here think there spirits came back, eternally doomed to live as ghosts forever. Alas, it’s another boring Romeo and Juliet story. Far too generic for me to tell the entire tale word for word.

After contacting the person that wrote it, they said they got the story from asking around town and the people they asked all said stories like that. It was dubious at best and suspicious at worst. How did all of the people say the same thing? It’s not like the story was true.

It took many frustrating interviews and unhappy nights until I finally went to police to find more about the rumors and the story. Long story short, police aren’t that helpful. It was just a chain of short unhelpful conversations that led nowhere. Typical. They all basically repeated how they were just rumors, and whenever I tried to get more information or find out why the church was closed, all I got was a lot of “no’s” and “come back later”. Annoying, and only succeeding in fueling my drive more. I had to know what happened.

The next interview was with a pretty obstinate child practically screaming at how the story was real. Her short grimy back hair practically falling off every time she made an over exaggerated head movement--which by the way, was all of the time. Another young boy ran up to her and joined the argument halfway through, his constant spitting and lisp made the conversation ten times worse. It wasn’t a fun day.

That night was spent looking up constant articles from the newspaper, blogs, even rereading all of the crappy books. It was informational, however. Most of the articles were about the church closing and the mystery surrounding it, with titles like “What happened to the Church?” and “Losing Lucia”. The more “out there” ones had conspiracy theories, the titles included “Police Hide Church Cover-up” and “Is Lucia Haunted?”. They were all the same though, just confusion and people trying to find out what happened to the church.

Eventually, I just gave up. The next morning I intended to walk to the church and see for myself. I got up bright and earlier, dressed, and eat a nice large breakfast. I got up and felt the crisp chilly breeze of the early morning air before starting to walk. I passed several stores and houses, none of them being open as it was far too early as I walked on the cracked uneven concrete. Pulling my coat closer to me, I walked up the steps of the empty church and pushed the creaky door open with a loud bang.

1001 words...
*dies of exhaustion*
Writing with writer's block is hazardous to your health

[Price]

Spoiler: 1023 words. My first time doing this. I hope you like it... 

Lives inside of memories, lives as an angel. I’m sure of that much. I feel her every time the wind rushes through the trees. Forever live on, forever soar across the skies as my angel, rest in peace.

Those words are mine. I shout them from the elevated platform of an elevated platform down to the massive crowd below. I alone am the muse, and their eyes are drawn to me like moths to my flame; but there is no flame. There is only my bleeding heart, chest cut open, nude emotion in my vulnerable of moments on display for their consumption. I am a poet, but I am more than a poet. I am a wordsmith, but I am more than wordsmith. I am a human, but I am more than human. I am Seth Hood, but I am more than Seth Hood. I am a soul, an entity wrapped in thought and cocooned in energy. I am a collection of thoughts, emotions, and ideals bonded, grafted, and fused cohesively together through the eternal force of the spirit. I am guided by the spirits of those that have since left me, and those with whom I am connected. I am connected. We are all...connected.

My heart spills from the stage, words leave my lips and echo off the hollow walls of the auditorium finding their way home into the ears of the audience...my audience. They sit and listen to my words from my mouth, and our hearts mingle. As they connect with me, our souls graft together. As they hear my voice, they realize that it is the voice of the vulnerable. I am naked before them, exposed for all to see. I am weak before them, and in that weakness I am strong. As I speak, my heart races before them. Electricity flows through my body charging through my veins. I look past their faces and into their eyes. I see our souls unite in the most sacred of marriages. It is then that I know that they understand. Our hearts are the same, we are the same. Unique, yes. Uniform, no. Yet...we remain the same.

For in this moment, although brief in the scale of eternity, our hearts beat in the same rhythm. Our souls sing the same song. This is more that just relating. This is connecting. This is realizing our place in the universe. This is realizing that beyond the unique qualities that separate us, beneath the backgrounds that threaten to decide us, we are all one. We are one people, one body underneath one sky...the same sky. We are not alone, and we have never been alone. It is not our strengths that unite us, it is not our skills that unite us, it is not even common interests that unite us! It is our weaknesses! It is our vulnerabilities! It is the essence of our souls! For although our body is fragile and will wither, our souls will live on for eternity.

Lives inside of memories, lives as an angel. I’m sure of that much. I feel her every time the wind rushes through the trees. Forever live on, forever soar across the skies as my angel, rest in peace.

Those words are mine. I shout them from the elevated platform of an elevated platform down to the massive crowd below. I show my broken, battered and bleeding heart, chest cut open, nude emotion, my most vulnerable of moments on display for their consumption. In that moment, that beautiful moment, I am weak. I am vulnerable. I am naked, exposed. In that moment, I show my heart in its bleeding, battered, raw state. In that moment, that perfect and beautiful moment, I let down my walls....and in that moment, that sacred and magical moment, I inspire everyone who hears me to do the same. Our walls are destroyed, and we set ourselves free from the inhibitions that have bound us for so very long. My tragedy, her death has become a source of new life for the hundreds who sit before me totally spellbound. It is in this moment that I am whole. It is in this moment that I am complete. Nothing else exists in this one, eternal moment.

The poem concludes. My words sink into their hearts and their souls as tears stream down my face. My song is over. Moments of awe struck silence pass by as I lock eyes with my audience who return my gaze. We are enchanted by each other, we see each other’s soul. In this moment: we know that we are both broken and weak, we know that we are both vulnerable, and we know that we are both beautiful. After those precious moments, the room erupts into applause. I am overcome, my insecurities and demons temporarily fade into the background to be deafened by the union presenting itself before me telling me that I am not alone. I bow my head in thanks and disappear from the stage. I do not see most of their faces again, but I know within my heart of hearts that we are connected now.

I am a poet, but I am more than a poet. I am a wordsmith, but I am more than wordsmith. I am a human, but I am more than human. I am Seth Hood, but I am more than Seth Hood. I am a soul, an entity wrapped in thought and cocooned in energy. I am a collection of thoughts, emotions, and ideals bonded, grafted, and fused cohesively together through the eternal force of the spirit. I am guided by the spirits of those that have since left me, and those with whom I am connected. I am connected. We are all connected; and it is this connection, this eternal connection, that unifies us. If you have made it this far dear reader, then lend me your hand, and I will give you mine. Lend me your heart, and I will give you mine. Show me your soul, and I will show you mine. So tell me, what do you say?

[NnightStalker]

Spoiler: Eternal. 1026 Words. 

"My name is Rylouth and I am eternal. I have the ability to change my form into any animal and any human. Any elemental, and any other thing that is living." As if to show the people the people in front of him that what he spoke was true he changed into the form of a large red and black dragon. The faces of the those who watched were mixed, some were filled with horror while others were filled with awe. He had finally found a continent with which he could call home, and be worshiped as a good. Little did these puny humans know that he was really just a shapeshifter from another dimension. As he changed his form back into that of a human he stood there in his fine silk robes. "Bow before me, or fear the mighty death that I will bring upon you for your defiance." Truth be told as they started to bow, he had no real love for killing. Living eternally got boring quickly. Sure you could never die which was often nice at time but what do you do, when you have done everything? He had taken to ruling simply so that he could live comfortably while he played with the humans. Using them to wage wars on other kingdoms playing a large game of war with other beings that claimed to be gods. They all knew that they weren't but these puny humans would believe in anything that showed them true power. It didn't take much really, just show them a little bit of something that they can't really understand and they call It magic or the power of a god. Then they want to make sure you're not a witch so they attack you. Then you take the wound and you heal it right in front of their eyes and then they all believe that you are a god. So simple and so easy. As they continued to bow in front of him he finally rolled his eyes. "Up my followers, we have work to do. Buildings of worship to build, armies to make, wealth to hoard. I'll shall make you the wealthiest, largest, most powerful kingdom. Come and we shall spread the word to everyone. If they choose not to believe that I am the one true god then kill them for they are a heretic. As long as there is a heretic still alive in these lands, from coast to coast, your god shall not be happy." He turned back into a dragon and flew forward from the field he was on, turning into a hawk mid flight, landing in the middle of them in his human form. "Come and touch my body and let my godliness fill your souls. Those that touch me shall become my holy paladins, charged with the duty of slaying the heretics of this world. No matter whether you are beggar, or noble born, you shall become a paladin and shall be filled with a holy fire that which you have never felt before. You will be rich for the rest of your life and your kids shall gain faim because of you. Your daughters will be given to me as priestesses, and from them I will choose the most beautiful and make her my wife as well as making her the high priestess. Your sons will be given to me as well to become paladins just like will become and they will be charged with slaying heretics. Then when they have kids they will follow in the footsteps I have laid out for your kids. Together, paladins, and priestesses you shall be known as the Order of the Blades." As if to prove a point he used some basic magic to summon swords, bows, arrows, shields, staffs, armor, all the things needed to fight in a large pile near the group. "Go and equip yourself. Go and spread the word. In one fortnight bring all those who believe here and we shall build a new city, one that will rival all others. It will be here in one fortnight that I will give you books to use as knowledge in the war against those who will be heretics. Those who touch me now that are women, stay here with me until the paladins return, and I will protect you, and shower you with love every night until one of your daughters are chosen to my high priestess." With that order the men rushed to the pile to start to get equipped and the women rushed to him, forming a circle around him, each one wanting to touch him just once so that they could stay with their god and have their god love them. Almost as if to make sure that no bandits come to steal his women he lets out that of a howl of a wolf and as he does so, packs of wolves come out from the forest. He gives them the command to gather other animals and to start gathering wood to make a makeshift wall using the women. While he waited for that he moved to a large boulder and sat on top of it. Then he motioned for the women to come and come they did. Surrounding the boulder, some sat down, others leaned against it, and some climbed to the top of it so that they could be kissed and loved on by their handsome god. He then motioned for the men to leave and leave they did, taking their new gear to spread to all the nearby towns, villages, and cities to spread the word of their god. As they left all he did was let out a simply sigh as he started the cycle of being a god again. Some would consider him lucky being eternal however after having done this hundreds of times he was quickly getting tired of it. Maybe next time he would pretend to be a mortal for a while, just to see what it was like from their perspective.

-Observations of an Eternal Being

[Kris]

Spoiler: Not so sure it's safe for work, that's why it's hidden 

(I've Based my work on this: The Rendezvous Storyboard Animatic)

I have passed through this door so many times before, just to see you. You only appear in my dreams, when I escape my horrible reality; My abusive self focused family, the lame social life, the horrible school experiences.

You are there, calm, willing, wanting. My whole world, in a meadow of nowhere and everywhere. Just us two, in a fragrant pillow of flowers.

How often have we go through this cycle? you always show me the way back to the door and it's so bitter sweet. I can't wait for the next time we meet.

***

Ever since I found you, my sweet drug of freedom, many moons of happiness passed by me. I am lately unable to rest. The stress of life and growing, and the increasing pressure and horrible experiences making me restless.

I am often thinking what is wrong with me, and can't bring myself to adjust. Even if I try a little I am pushed back. Your lovely image, my prince, has almost cleared itself from my mind. I don't wish for it, my drug, my tranquility... help me find the door to you...

***

There, through the door I am here, in our field. It took forever to finally rest easy. So much stress, so much to bear and endure. You don't ask. Maybe because you know? Maybe because you don't really care? Maybe you just want us to spend the time we have together by sharing good and honest memories, rejoicing with the fun and easiness, forgetting the horrible pain that is bound with the mortal world.

It's hard to live, you know. It's hard to reach so high and be above it all. Maybe that is why it's so hard to find peace...

I have overworked myself in everything to reach high ground and be so exhausted -- so I could just collapse the moment I reach my bed. Open the door for me, do not make me work so hard to get to you... to that happiness... to the pure memories and safety...

Why is it so hard to live?

***

I've... begun using a more... radical means to get here. My legs barely carries me to the door, but it's so easy to pass into it once you find the way.

I've hurt myself not once... just so it will be easier to sleep... to reach you... to reach here...

Often I wonder if you are the reason I find this world so much better. I think it is, because you mean the world to me... so this world is so much part of you as it is me...

Once again, you don't ask. Just accept me the way I am...

I only wish the others were the same...

Why is it so hard to live?

***

I think... I think something about you grow sadder each time I come here... as if... as if you know that I'm using indecent methods... or maybe... maybe you don't want me here? Are you like... all the others...

Are you judging me?

***

Maybe because the way I acted... or maybe because it was too often... I've been found out... They taken all my means to reach my world.

To reach you...

Oh my prince of dreams, if you only knew.

They make sure I breathe, sleep, eat...

Why does it matter to them now?

They were unbothered now... I was passing by them as if I was air, my cries never reached them. You were my escape, my freedom, but now, in a new twisted and scary way they have bound me once again, abusively forcing me to their ways... even my small escape is now a thing to look down upon.

Why are they acting like this of all a sudden? Because people know? Because it was brought up to them by others?

Why my cries were never heeded?

Why only the opinions of others mattered?

Why my suffering not good enough to be heard...

And their ways... They never talk... They never try to talk...

They are shackling me... bounding me to machines and strangers that do the work for them. I've tried to escape... so many times...

I've tried to reach your world my prince... our world... my world... so many times...

Why is it so hard to live?

***

Why are you crying my prince?

Yes... yes, this is the door... the door you always walk me back through when the dreams end. Aren't you happy? I finally did it! I finally reached beyond. We can be happy... together... in our world just the two of us, in happiness...

You make me look around and for the first time I'm... dreadful.... and scared... of this world...

I watch my door back to my... other world... shatters and breaks...

Have I overdosed?.... Cut too deep? Drank too much?

Stop with the worried face, I slam on your chest, be happy, I am here, you are here... no more goodbyes, no more cruel world.

You kiss me. For the first time. Honest... loving kiss... I can feel you are sorry... worried... loving... but also... cold...

So cold...

Why are you cold?

Your visage and my garden washes away as the last trail back is gone. No more door. Only you...

And you are... not a prince... but death...

Cold, crying death, unwilling to accept me as a soul to be planted in this garden. You never wanted me here because you wanted more for me, knowing that we will meet eventually.

Tell me... are they crying for me... in my other world? Are they missing me? Are they smarter? Do they even care? Do they want to listen to me now?

Death... twisted... cold... and loving... like a grave... I don't mind... I wanted this after all... warm and accepting... a womb to be reborn... with a meadow of nowhere and everywhere.

You are not as pretty as I thought you are... but you are not rejecting me anymore are you... death... Eternal prince of dreams...

I kinda... wish... to live....

If only I could live...

[m139]

Spoiler: Eternal - part 1 of a later story 

"Do you know how hard it is to live? How hard it is to know you cannot escape this earth? We can deal with life's imperfections while there is hope for something better. But once you start growing tired, once you begin to realize your hope is growing thin... I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this one. I just wanted to grow up, live a normal life, and die. Oh, if only I knew that then!"

Those words of his filled my mind. I had not seen him for over ten years, but that image of him, standing on the balcony facing the waves of the ocean- that image was just as vivid in my memory as if it had happened only moments ago.

I remember walking up behind him. It had been at a massive party for the son of a friend of his. We were all young, just out of college, and having a wonderful time. There was food, drink (although I did not partake), loud music, and the house- a vacation home isolated on the lake- was all to ourselves. Or so we thought.

It is sufficient enough to say that the party was wonderful, and memorable in the way most parties are- talked about for maybe a couple of weeks- a month if you are lucky- and then, it slowly fades away, especially when you do not see the people all that much after. Yes, we had been together for some four years, but slowly, the ties of friedship began to fade, and the strings began to grow fragile, until all but a few really strong ones remained.

I doubt I could even tell you the names of everyone there that day without the aid of a yearbook, and even then, I do not know if I could. Yet, despite it all, I remember the man on the balcony.

It was getting later... Well, I mean for us kids it was. For normal people, the time would probably be described as approaching sunrise. Yes, the night was mostly over, as was the party. The last of the party was pretty much over, and the only ones who remained were those who were passed out and those of us who were attempting to but the house back into some order.

I was going around, picking up cups and other trash. I let myself out on the back balcony. The illumination lights had been turned off, and I did not bother to turn them back on, as the light filtering out of the house, combined with that which rimmed the sky, was enough for my purposes. I leaned down to grab an empty cup, and as I looked slightly up to put it in my bag, I saw the shoes of someone standing near the railing of the balcony.

My first though was that I could not remember who was wearing those particular dress shoes at the party. But as I continued to raise my eyes, I realized why I did not recognize them: this person had not been at the party. And then, I remembered seeing his picture on the wall. Oh shoot. The owner had arrived.

I straightened myself back up and took a silent breath. I should apologize for this mess he was coming back to. Internally prepared, I began to walk towards him. I was about half way there, when he spoke.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be old?" he asked. His voice was flat and monotone. I could not tell exactly whether he spoke to me or not, as he never turned from looking at the waters and sky (which was gradually brightening) in front of him.

I halted my movement. Was he talking to me? Was he speaking to himself? Should I respond? Should I quietly exit?

The answer soon became apparent when he spoke again, "Well?"

"I, uh,... no... Sir."

He chuckled, still looking out over the water. "Neither did I, at your age. But that was so, so long ago." Then, he turned and faced me. "You must be one of Greg's friends. Not as drunk as the rest, I see. It probably was not you who messed up the house, and yet, here you are, cleaning it up."

"Yeah, um, sorry about that.. uh.. sir."

He let out a laugh. "You really do not need to call my sir. Especially in this day and age. Although it does remind me of the time, long, long ago. As for the trash, I'd tell you not to worry about it either, although... judging by the fact that your still here you probably would feel bad for doing that. But you really do not need to bother. I am leaving this place." He turned back out to the waters in front of him. And then, much more softly, so much so that it was barely audible, he whispered, "I just wish I could leave this earth."

I stood there, not knowing what he was going to do. Was he thinking of killing himself? I could not let him do that, even if he wanted to. Maybe I should talk to him? Maybe I should-

He must have known what I was thinking, for then, he spoke again, still facing away from me.

"No, I'm not going to try to die, life is to precious for that. Besides, I don't think I can..." he sighed, then continued, "Come over here."

When I was by his side, he looked at me, and paused, as if debating something. Then, he turned back to the water, and spoke, "Let me tell you something. If anyone ever tells you they can give you they can make your mortal life last into eternity, or prolong it for more than a couple of lifetimes, tell them you don't want it. For one thing, they might be crazy. But if they are telling the truth... well, you really do not want their product. There is a reason human beings die. Life, here at least, is meant to have an end.

Do you know how hard it is to live? How hard it is to know you cannot escape this earth? We can deal with life's imperfections while there is hope for something better. But once you start growing tired, once you begin to realize your hope is growing thin... I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this one. I just wanted to grow up, live a normal life, and die. Oh, if only I knew that then!"

For a while, there was silence, and I just stood there, not knowing what to do. While we stood there, the sun rose, throwing its colors all over the water. As I watched it, the long gold streak reflected on the water increased in thickness, and the clouds in the sky began to change into the bright shades of the morning, while, further out, they faded to blue. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard a bird waken and sing its morning song. It was a beautiful morning, and I felt joy in the mere fact of being alive.

I turned to the man- but he was gone. On the railing, underneath a boat shaped paperweight, was a letter. On the outside were the following words:

"For you. Take it, and take the boat, too. Do not open until tomorrow."

(to be continued some other time, when I feel up to it)

[~N~]

"It's not about living forever, Jackie. The trick is living with yourself forever." ~ Capt. Teague

These fingers curl back to me like the centuries. I study them, the glimmer in my nails feigning a ghostly reflection of who I might be, or once was, or maybe will be, or...

The years roll back like an eternal tide, as though they've always done this (of course!) but we both... we both know that's not entirely true.

Everything starts somewhere. I started... one... two... three... four... five... centuries ago. Five centuries on five fingers, all curled back. (Well, four fingers and thumb, technically, and that fits. It hasn't been quite five full centuries, yet.) They used to read fingernails for portents of the future. Fingernails, lines on your hands, entrails. Seems like anything could tell you what's to come at some point in human history.

When you're "immortal" everyone expects you've been around forever. Since the beginning of Time. To be honest, I don't even know if I'm truly immortal. I just haven't died. Permanently. Yet.

The breathe escapes my lips in a sigh, passing over those shiny nails like life and years...

I was originally born in 1549. I am technically English according to my birth, but my father had an Italian father (whom he referred to as "Roman") and he met my mother on a pilgrimage he was making north through the Holy Roman Empire, claiming he wanted to see the world. I learned later that he was actually escaping debt that he had owed lenders in Florence. He married her shortly after visiting Canterbury and I was born in the town of Dover, which of course is right on the south eastern part of England in the region known as Kent since the island had "regions" at the time, and still does in some ways (Hint: Google "Heptarchy"). The family was predominantly Catholic, after the Italian lineage (Rome being the seat of the Catholic Church as it had been for centuries before), so understandably, things were a bit strained when King Henry Tudor the VIII, decided he was forming his own church (which my father considered wholly blasphemous). That became the Church of England, which, in true Church fashion, proceeded to take all of the lands that belonged to the one "true" Church. (When Churches attack, the medieval edition.) When Mary (yes, the one historians call 'Bloody') died in 1558, my father demanded that we move from the country to the mainland when Elizabeth took the throne. I was just 9 years old at the time.

You might ask, "If you moved to Italy, and lived there, how come you don't speak and write Italian?" Turns out that when we sailed across the channel into Calais, my father had apparently encountered a traveling merchant who had connections with his lenders back in Florence. We were there but a few days before he was assaulted in a struggle in the middle of the night at the inn in which we were staying, the White Carriage (no it's not there anymore). We were on the second floor, and my mother pushed me out the window when there was banging and shouting at the door. I broke my ankle in the fall, and never saw my original parents again after that night (I've pretended to have others since then). I suppose they took my mother too, because I never saw her afterwards. I only learned of the circumstances many years later when I came to research the whole matter and traced my father's name back to Florence.

Of course, it wasn't long before an urchin like myself was picked up and put into an orphanage. I passed through two families in the course of six years before I finally found a couple to take me in when I was nearly sixteen. You might ask, "If you were in France, how come you didn't learn French?" Well, if you look it up, (again, avail yourself of the wisdom of this Internet thing you people use nowadays for all of your knowledge) you'll soon discover that Calais was populated almost entirely by English people who spoke English at that point in time, and so I never had to really learn anything else. My third family was the Grays, Thomas and Jean. Thomas was a lawyer, and Jean did what women did at that time and embroidered. They happened to live in London, but were visiting in Calais, so I was taken there where I was put to work in a clerk's apprenticeship; it was more printing and type setting manual labor than anything. I worked as an apprentice until I was 21, when I decided I couldn't stand either London, the drudgery of printing, or my foster parents anymore. There seemed to be little future in remaining in a clerkship, beyond making enough money to survive, put food in my belly, and clothes on my back. So I set out on my own sort of pilgrimage, to see the world beyond London walls. That was in the autumn of 1569, before winter struck, which seemed to me at the time as good a reason as any to journey south into the Continent.

Everything then was about Houses (Royal Families) and the Reformation/Schism. Habsburgs, Bourbans, and Tudors. Protestants and Catholics. The Spanish were Catholics, the English, under Elizabeth had once again embraced the Church of England after that brief liaison with Catholicism under Mary, and the Dutch were being as feisty as ever, fighting for the most secular system the world had ever known, giving Spain, the Holy Roman Empire (which was really ruled by Spain and Rome) and Catholics in general lasting migraines for the better part of the century (much moreso than England ever did, though the fact that both the Dutch and English decided they weren't going to pretend to be friendly to the Spanish anymore really set things in motion). Officially, I pledged myself a Catholic when I traveled down through France, and told people I was on a pilgrimage to Rome, of all places (which was, in a sense, true!) but the conspiring Huguenots (particularly the Calvinists) appealed to my young sense of rebellion. Things got dicey though in 1572, leading up to the St. Batholomew's Day Massacre, and I had departed for regions of southern France, crossing into northern Italy when I had got word of the events that transpired. It was dangerous business being a Protestant; fun, but dangerous. I had picked up various jobs off my clerkship experience which put me under the authority of more than one Cardinal, Bishop, Abbot, or Deacon, so it was in my best interest to support the Church on many occasions, but that didn't stop me from sabotaging daily activities like the pressing and production of various notes, writs, and summons, which gummed up the works and forced entire reams of documents to be redone. I made off with a number of these documents to the underground gatherings of the Huguenots which pleased them utterly.

As I said before, however, the situation was becoming dangerous, and when I was 23, in late 1572, I headed south to Florence, where I picked up the pieces of the trail left behind by my original parents, and in particular, my father. Before I would leave, I would be introduced to a new kind of society in the catacombs of that city....

But that's another story for another time.