About Me

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Writer, soldier, thinker, and science fiction lover. I just can't seem to find a way to divide my adventurous self of constant outdoor activity and exercise from my nerdy self playing games and going to conventions. So why not just be both?

 I am a young professional living out of Tallahassee, Florida for the past five years. I have been on a deployment with the United States Army and continue to work outside of my other occupations to better myself mentally and physically. My passion for writing is driven by my passion for everything I find entertaining in life, and of course by my friends and family.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

One Level Below Hell (continued 2)



James flipped over in bed, being awoken by a ringing phone, an anger rising in him like a hunger. The voice on the other side settled that hunger.


James was still waking up when he arrived at the crime scene. He wrung his hands as he surveyed the image before him. His black skin rough with callouses. His left hand slightly gimp, the flesh pulled tight and dry. The jerky flesh of his left hand the result of a fire when he was younger. He remembered his mother saying afterwards in the hospital, the world is a sea of pain. 


That could be said for what he was looking at.


“Is it definitely our man?” James asked as Connor approached. A heavy man and an honest racist, James and Connor got along. 


“Has to be. The poor woman was skinned, and the skin is nowhere to be found so we can only assume it was taken. You don’t seem like you buy it. Something up?”


“Profiling problems, something is off with this guy. Most serial killers collect specific parts for reasons. Eyes, organs, and skin, I’m just trying to put it together.”


“Well, nothin’ is putting her together.” James didn’t acknowledge the humor. “Well I’ll send it to the boys in the lab, make sure Dr. Shen personally has a look, that dink knows his bodies.”


“Keep me posted on anything will ya’?”


“Of course.”


James found himself in his office early that day. His office a melting pot of education of his work, Holms just one of the many names present. Despite it still being light outside, he sat in the dark with his single desk lamp and computer being his only light source. There came a rapping at his door. 


“Still empathizing with the killer?” A tall lanky man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway lights. James did not need to hear the voice or see the face to know it was Thomas. 


Coming in uninvited he was dressed in his usual manner. Well-tailored coat and pants, at least of moderate worth. Yet skipping on the finer details, a cheap thin white shirt, almost transparent was haphazardly tucked into his waist line where a cheap black belt was used. It was a sore to see that the belt wasn’t even a dress belt, but simply a plain black belt. 


“I would say you’re mistaking understanding for empathy.”


“All the understanding hasn’t even given a lead yet.”


“Did you come in here for something? Or simply to rattle my cage?”


“I didn’t know it was so easy to rattle you.” A rat smirk slinked across Thomas’s face as he turned to leave James’ office. “By the way, that reporter from the Insight was asking about you. I would say he will be dropping by to give you a visit.” 


James leaned back in his chair. It was true what he had told Thomas though, and he had not even realized the profound fact he stated. It is too easy to mistake empathy for understanding. Being in a society where people seek empathy so readily. Perhaps it was understanding the difference which threw men into manhood or casted them to be mice. It’s a hard truth to know someone can understand you without liking you. But men are cursed with only being able to learn so much and live.

James looked at his desk, an organized chaos. He would have to deal with the reporter.       

Sunday, November 9, 2014

The Individual



Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for the views, and again I'd like to hear what you think in comments and know what you like! But I digress. Below is a small snippet to a train of thought I'd like to turn into a full length story at some point. I have begun writing on the story, and considered putting this in as the end but realized it did not fit the character whatsoever. So, enjoy!

Have you ever felt surrounded by familiar faces, yet still alone? I have, especially walking along these worn out places, along with the dirty streets. The faces seem so bright for the rat race that they will continue to trudge along in.

Somehow, in the last few years, individual rights had become subject to votes. The smallest minority in the world had its rights stripped from them, the individual. I have learned that governing powers only retain one true “power” and that power is the ability to punish the criminal. I have learned that if there isn’t enough power to quench that thirst, the powers that be simply create new criminals. I have learned that the patriots continue to use tears to fill their glasses. And no matter how complex a situation, there are only two sides, the right, the wrong, but between the two there is undeniably an evil.  

As a young couple passes I hide my face under the brim of my hat, wishing to drown my sorrow. Wishing there was no tomorrow. Their smiles are only momentary. It’s not like it once was. It once was that men could take a step down a new path armed with only their drive to succeed and their knowledge they were free to. But when a power retains a monopoly of force over the innocent with the justification of the law, men stop taking steps.

But not all men stop.

I seek truth, always have, but perhaps I never realized I was. Truth is not for all men. Truth is only for those willing to seek it, particularly when there are high costs.

The only power the people had was to vote for those they felt they could trust. To use those individuals to vote and if need be, filibuster that which was to hamper individual prosperity. But three years ago, they abolished the ability to do so. The one who vote for the greater good, the betterment, “progress”, for equality, for evil.    

I would say it’s all kinda’ funny, but mostly I can only tell you it’s all really sad. How government “help” is more disastrous than persecutions. The persecution of millions. I would say that the path to hell is paved with good intentions, but power is far too purposeful of a pursuit.

The dreams of which I am dying are the best I’ve ever had. To see people thriving. To see freedom come. Freedom to progress on their own, not to beg for hand outs and or simply be content to exist.

I do find it hard to tell you, but worse is I find it hard to take. I watch these people pass by, so much potential locked away by bars of fear. So many people accepting guilt to a crime of a crime they are victims of. The mass acceptance of a contradiction.

I can see now children running in circles. Children waiting for the day they feel good. A school had let out and now children were rushing to play or get home. A single child has his birthday being celebrated by classmates. The tune of happy birthday ringing out in the chants of tiny voices.

Yes, happy birthday dear child.

A pair steps by me, looking back at me. Look right through me, look right through me.

The only way government can assist in prosperity is to keep its hands away from it. So now I stand at the end of a street. The street dark and crisp with cold air. I have learned this, if a rational man is confronted with you in a disagreement use reality. If you are wrong, you will learn, if he is wrong, he will learn. Regardless, both with profit.

So now I hold in my hand the final disagreement. Using a lighter I light the wick which leads into a glass bottle. The bottle full of slick oils which are apt to set fire. My face a glow in an orange light. There is no difference between a state seeking to fill its welfare and a totalitarian state. So now I will throw this bottle into buildings, I will fire the shot which will end this nation. I will throw this not because I look down on society, but because I look up to it, and hold it to such a higher standard. I will fire the shot not out of anger or in hopes for growth of political power, but because I love you, all of you.

But I must first teach you, to say I love. And the first lesson in saying I love you is to understand there is not a we, an us, or a them. There is first an I, the individual.