Apocalyptic Thought

A lot of  failures are completely my fault.  Why can't I comprehend that I am the reason for my shortcomings? Different self-help books, social media...all make sense of why this would drive a  motive to become active and get one's life in order, though I can't get over the initial hill of accepting the blame. I can't look at the responsibility. That hasn't been enough o answer the call-to-action.  I have the instinct of inaction, numbing myself with distractions long enough to forgot about it, or think on different subjects, easing into the justifications that don't involve me. Let the external sources be the drivers, and that way I can feel better. That, or go get some ice cream.  I've failed my writing. I disguised it with the need to text faster, or write neater, or getting the skills to get a real job. Hell, I've convinced myself to be bum it out because I'm tired from a job in retail.  I am hella tired; though that's not good enough.  I cou

Photo by  Timothy Eberly  on  Unsplash She’s surrounded. Her initial plan was not quite like this. It was taking on one, or two of them, but four swords point at her, waiting for the first move to be made. There’s always an opening, just she has to wait for the right moment for it to appear. She could always create one, giving in for just a moment, but that maybe the riskiest more she can make. “Last chance.” Could she risk it? She might be able to take them, even if the odds are against her. She would have to move quick. “I’ll think about it.” “Too late.” The first man stabs, slower than she imagined. She gets the break she was hoping for. The opening reveals itself, and she enters the man’s space at a speed he wasn’t ready for. He reacts too late, swinging in desperation. Red bursts from his neck, and his hands drops. His body follows, and she already wipes her dagger clean with the back of his tunic. The rest of the men watch, unsure of what they sa

Photo by  Erica Li  on  Unsplash Thelon rolls a one. Not to believe in luck is a very structed way to live life. Working throughout each day, with some thoughts to how the day is going to play out, due to the work that is done, the preparation that were completed, and the resolve in how to function with one’s tasks. It’s not a hard concept, nor one that that would be deemed odds by any means. This is the way millions of play out their lives. This is not the case in Dungeons and Dragons . “Halarai throws the dagger. It soars over the last goblin’s head, who didn’t flinch by the miss. Goblin’s turn. The rest of the party groan in unison. “The Goblin runs up to attack you, avenging his slaughtered party.” The DM, Andy, rolls his die. He looks up Thelon, then the rest of group. “Natural 20— critical hit.” Andy takes his time to explain the next action. “The Goblin slides his short sword in to your side, lodging it just underneath your studded leather chest

Photo by  Matthew Henry  on  Unsplash It’s quiet. Brittney can feel the room around her. A chill leaks from what only can be a window. A dampness floats around her. A fear pains her chest, shortening her breaths. It tightens the skin on her forearms. She thinks of the hair on them, and how she always meant to shave them; the dark, long follicles that make her feel manly. She frowns. Nobody cares about the hairiness of a dead, black woman. The cloth around her eyes is soft. It does not allow any light, yet it’s the most pleasurable experience of the past few days. Her nostrils flare, defending her from the pungent smell of mold. Her stomach flexes, threatening to project what little food was given to her.   Vomiting has been a concern for the last few hours, but she whisked it away. Thoughts of puking pass, but something catches her attention. Her eardrums pick up the soft vibrations the rest of her body ignores. Her lungs freeze. Someone was in the room with her

Photo by  Jeremy Beadle  on  Unsplash “You there?” “Yeah, I’m here.” It takes a long time for him to get the phone in his hand. That’s mostly because of the concussion, and he feels a bit weak. A beating always wore him out. “Good. We got him.” He was excited to deliver the news. Clients happy, he’s happy, but he has to figure out a quick story to give to his wife. She hasn’t seen him like this in a long while. She always gets queasy at the sight of blood.   That’s the only thing that surprised him; he wasn’t expected so much blood. He can probably get it cleaned up well before she gets home, but it is disappointing. It does suck getting old. # “You’re so funny.” Chuck doesn’t know how he got here. He’s getting coffee with a beautiful woman, 10 years his senior, who’s engaged with him. She knows so little, so it’s not like she’s in it for the money. Besides, dressed in cheap clothes he ordered online, no jewelry, and nothing in front of him but a

Photo by  Clem Onojeghuo  on  Unsplash “Adam has been very good to me.” The room continues to watch. Chris isn’t good at this kind of thing, and the eyes make him nervous. The eyes in the front row are unfamiliar, which does help out. People on Adam’s side of the wedding are scattered through the reception hall. Every person he recognizes is a bump on the path of a good speech delivery. Some of the faces they made signal like they’re waiting for a typical, terrible, best man speech. That was the speech he wrote on a napkin at the rehearsal dinner. They were giving him the option to talk though it, but he refused. He didn’t need to make himself sick two days in a row. Even that crowd, immediate friends and family, made him dry heave a bit. Brenda looked so beautiful, and Adam is so happy. It makes me think why I’m here. “I don’t deserve a friend like him.” Chris hears a sigh in the back. “I’m sorry, I’m not that good at this.” “This is…more emotional than I expec