From horizon to horizon, clouds, dark and heavy, like recently inflicted bruises, rolled in tortured pain across a heavy night sky. Their swollen membranes no longer able to contain their burden, cascaded a myriad of cool crystal droplets down onto the cold hard concrete of the city streets below.
On the curb of one of these streets, curled up like a ball, his clothes soaked through, his body shivering, is Paul Arnold. Tears, as hot as acid, run down his face, only to be extinguished by the ever falling, ever cooling, rain. Despite the tears Paul is happy, happier that he has ever been in his whole life, for he is about to get the recognition he has so long sought, so long deserved. What’s more is that at the end of it all, it was Mark who had made it possible. Mark Whitely, the best friend a man could ever hope to have.
Hearing the sound of sirens in the distance Paul shifted around a bit to look in their direction. They would be here soon. Even now the ear piercing sound was growing sharper and sharper as they closed in on his position. Flashing blue lights, magnified a thousand times by a thousand glass windows, suddenly enveloped the street. Each pulsar casting a ghoulish reflection of Paul’s image back up at him from the water covered street at his feet. There were only two vehicles at the moment but at this range it looked and sounded as if a hundred of them were closing in on him. And as the cacophony of light and sound screeched to a halt beside him, Paul found himself cringing away from them. He hated himself for this moment of weakness. Considering all he had just gone through he would have thought himself stronger than this. But now it appeared that his moment of bravery had been nothing more than that, a single solitary moment, frozen forever in that small primal part of his brain that dealt with all his masculine urges and ego. Still, what did bravery matter in this world anyway. Hero’s were many and cheap; they filled the graveyards of every town, village and city. They spanned the vast epochs of time; their dead lifeless bodies piled one upon the other. Their decayed matter and dried and shattered bones, supplying solid foundations for the weak and pathetic to build their cities upon. No, there were enough dead saps in the world already. Paul had evolved beyond mere bravery. He had moved into the realm of self-realisation, of international success and recognition. He had moved into that place in the world where all things became possible, and not by luck or bravery but by planning and foresight. By just a few simple acts he had assured his place in the minds of the masses. Of course he would need to nourish and nurture his new-found notoriety. Guide it, forge it, turn it, like an ancient sword builder, each word would be like a hammer on the soft, hot, malleable metal. Until, from the rough pig iron of its inception, something of beauty would emerge. Something to last far beyond the lifetime of its creator, something that would become legend.
As two men took him into the back of the van Paul could see the blood soaked pavement where he had awaited their arrival. The rain had helped to dilute a lot of the hot, red fluid but this just helped to spread it about a bit. Paul was still impressed by just how much of it there was. The long bladed knife was also still there, wet and sticky with the spill of red. As one of the doors to the van suddenly closed Paul thought he caught a glimpse of some small clots on the handle of the blade; these would really add to the pictures on the front page of tomorrow’s papers. As the second door to the van closed Paul caught a glimpse of more flashing lights arriving at the scene and- yes- there they where, a TV crew. He could relax now. Soon the TV reporters and newspaper photographers would out number the police. His fate was in their shallow hands now. He was confident they would not let him down.
Everything was working out fine, just as he had planned it. His world for once seemingly in order, he could relax a bit. But as the adrenaline began to ebb, he suddenly became nauseous. His mind began to swim. He felt hot and feverish. His eyelids began to flutter in an uncontrolled manner. Something wasn’t right. Suddenly pain pulled him back into reality. His body was wrenched as one of the men in the back of the van tightened the restraints, which bound him. But the aversion was only temporary and once again he felt his body de-robe the binding force of gravity which should have kept him still. All of a sudden his whole body felt as if it were at sea, with nothing but a small raft between him and the watery debts of forever. For a few moments he felt himself stabilise there, just bobbing up and down on the edge of reality and then quite suddenly but with sickening inevitability he felt himself slip below the surface of his conscious mind. And so he drifted deeper and deeper into the infinity that was himself. In desperation he lashed out in an attempt to halt his decent but there was nothing there for him to grab hold of. Then an image flashed before him, it was the face of Mark Whitely and reaching out Paul lashed himself to it.
They had been friends since Mark had first moved to their little town… well that was not entirely true but it was soon after, very soon. It had been in English class and Paul had been seventeen, when he had first clapped eyes on Mark. His teacher had stood at the top of the class reading a poem from one of the great Irish writers; Paul couldn’t remember which one. There was a knock at the door and in walked Mark Whitely. At the time Paul had paid little attention to the tall, blonde haired boy; he didn’t need to. Paul was several inches taller than everyone else in his year and about twelve pounds heavier. He was captain of the school soccer team and was the counties under eighteen’s, one hundred-meter, free style swimming champion. Paul didn’t have to pay attention to anyone; they paid attention to him; that’s the way it worked. In fact the only thing Paul did that might have been looked down upon by his peers, was play the piano but no one dared jibe him about it. He was far to powerful for something as small as that to upset his reign. He was good too. By the age of twelve he had reached level thirteen and now he could play Mozart and Beethoven to a pedigree few could match. His parents of course wanted him to play at the school and in state music competitions, just so they could glory in yet another of their son’s success’s but Paul would hear none of it. Playing the piano in the privacy of his own home was one thing but playing for an audience… even his credibility might not be able to stand up to that. But then something happened which was to change everything and it happened during recess on the day he met Mark Whitely.
Paul had just been hanging around, drinking a coke, when his friend Philip came up to him. “So Paul, what do you make of the new guy, Mark?” Phillip asked.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I hear he is a bit of a player. He is due to try out for the team later today and god knows we could do with a few new players.”
Philip nudged Paul’s shoulder. “It seems that’s not all he’s good at playing,” he said, motioning to a small group standing by the school fence. Paul looked over and saw Mark talking to two girls, Paul’s girlfriend Linda and her, ever present friend, Suzan. Paul watched them for a moment. They were both giggling a lot and nether seemed to be able to keep still. He watched as they bobbed from foot to foot, laughing both to Mark and to each other. Everyone in town knew Paul and no one would ever have dared to
On the curb of one of these streets, curled up like a ball, his clothes soaked through, his body shivering, is Paul Arnold. Tears, as hot as acid, run down his face, only to be extinguished by the ever falling, ever cooling, rain. Despite the tears Paul is happy, happier that he has ever been in his whole life, for he is about to get the recognition he has so long sought, so long deserved. What’s more is that at the end of it all, it was Mark who had made it possible. Mark Whitely, the best friend a man could ever hope to have.
Hearing the sound of sirens in the distance Paul shifted around a bit to look in their direction. They would be here soon. Even now the ear piercing sound was growing sharper and sharper as they closed in on his position. Flashing blue lights, magnified a thousand times by a thousand glass windows, suddenly enveloped the street. Each pulsar casting a ghoulish reflection of Paul’s image back up at him from the water covered street at his feet. There were only two vehicles at the moment but at this range it looked and sounded as if a hundred of them were closing in on him. And as the cacophony of light and sound screeched to a halt beside him, Paul found himself cringing away from them. He hated himself for this moment of weakness. Considering all he had just gone through he would have thought himself stronger than this. But now it appeared that his moment of bravery had been nothing more than that, a single solitary moment, frozen forever in that small primal part of his brain that dealt with all his masculine urges and ego. Still, what did bravery matter in this world anyway. Hero’s were many and cheap; they filled the graveyards of every town, village and city. They spanned the vast epochs of time; their dead lifeless bodies piled one upon the other. Their decayed matter and dried and shattered bones, supplying solid foundations for the weak and pathetic to build their cities upon. No, there were enough dead saps in the world already. Paul had evolved beyond mere bravery. He had moved into the realm of self-realisation, of international success and recognition. He had moved into that place in the world where all things became possible, and not by luck or bravery but by planning and foresight. By just a few simple acts he had assured his place in the minds of the masses. Of course he would need to nourish and nurture his new-found notoriety. Guide it, forge it, turn it, like an ancient sword builder, each word would be like a hammer on the soft, hot, malleable metal. Until, from the rough pig iron of its inception, something of beauty would emerge. Something to last far beyond the lifetime of its creator, something that would become legend.
As two men took him into the back of the van Paul could see the blood soaked pavement where he had awaited their arrival. The rain had helped to dilute a lot of the hot, red fluid but this just helped to spread it about a bit. Paul was still impressed by just how much of it there was. The long bladed knife was also still there, wet and sticky with the spill of red. As one of the doors to the van suddenly closed Paul thought he caught a glimpse of some small clots on the handle of the blade; these would really add to the pictures on the front page of tomorrow’s papers. As the second door to the van closed Paul caught a glimpse of more flashing lights arriving at the scene and- yes- there they where, a TV crew. He could relax now. Soon the TV reporters and newspaper photographers would out number the police. His fate was in their shallow hands now. He was confident they would not let him down.
Everything was working out fine, just as he had planned it. His world for once seemingly in order, he could relax a bit. But as the adrenaline began to ebb, he suddenly became nauseous. His mind began to swim. He felt hot and feverish. His eyelids began to flutter in an uncontrolled manner. Something wasn’t right. Suddenly pain pulled him back into reality. His body was wrenched as one of the men in the back of the van tightened the restraints, which bound him. But the aversion was only temporary and once again he felt his body de-robe the binding force of gravity which should have kept him still. All of a sudden his whole body felt as if it were at sea, with nothing but a small raft between him and the watery debts of forever. For a few moments he felt himself stabilise there, just bobbing up and down on the edge of reality and then quite suddenly but with sickening inevitability he felt himself slip below the surface of his conscious mind. And so he drifted deeper and deeper into the infinity that was himself. In desperation he lashed out in an attempt to halt his decent but there was nothing there for him to grab hold of. Then an image flashed before him, it was the face of Mark Whitely and reaching out Paul lashed himself to it.
They had been friends since Mark had first moved to their little town… well that was not entirely true but it was soon after, very soon. It had been in English class and Paul had been seventeen, when he had first clapped eyes on Mark. His teacher had stood at the top of the class reading a poem from one of the great Irish writers; Paul couldn’t remember which one. There was a knock at the door and in walked Mark Whitely. At the time Paul had paid little attention to the tall, blonde haired boy; he didn’t need to. Paul was several inches taller than everyone else in his year and about twelve pounds heavier. He was captain of the school soccer team and was the counties under eighteen’s, one hundred-meter, free style swimming champion. Paul didn’t have to pay attention to anyone; they paid attention to him; that’s the way it worked. In fact the only thing Paul did that might have been looked down upon by his peers, was play the piano but no one dared jibe him about it. He was far to powerful for something as small as that to upset his reign. He was good too. By the age of twelve he had reached level thirteen and now he could play Mozart and Beethoven to a pedigree few could match. His parents of course wanted him to play at the school and in state music competitions, just so they could glory in yet another of their son’s success’s but Paul would hear none of it. Playing the piano in the privacy of his own home was one thing but playing for an audience… even his credibility might not be able to stand up to that. But then something happened which was to change everything and it happened during recess on the day he met Mark Whitely.
Paul had just been hanging around, drinking a coke, when his friend Philip came up to him. “So Paul, what do you make of the new guy, Mark?” Phillip asked.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I hear he is a bit of a player. He is due to try out for the team later today and god knows we could do with a few new players.”
Philip nudged Paul’s shoulder. “It seems that’s not all he’s good at playing,” he said, motioning to a small group standing by the school fence. Paul looked over and saw Mark talking to two girls, Paul’s girlfriend Linda and her, ever present friend, Suzan. Paul watched them for a moment. They were both giggling a lot and nether seemed to be able to keep still. He watched as they bobbed from foot to foot, laughing both to Mark and to each other. Everyone in town knew Paul and no one would ever have dared to