*As some of you may know, I've been working on a novel for awhile. I've made a lot of progress, despite having very little time to work on it. Unfortunately my real life is very busy. Anyway. When I first began working on it, I posted a brief portion of the first chapter here to get some feedback on it. Since then, I've revised that portion significantly and completed a lot more of the story. I decided to post the first two chapters this time. If you have any input (you know, like whether or not this is something you would be interested in reading all of), please share it with me. I'm not including the title of the book or the chapter titles (paranoia, I guess, since my site is completely public), but if you have any interest in hearing more about it, feel free to send me a private message.

Without further ado:

And there shall come a day when Lucifer’s son will embark upon the Earth and seek to be the new Christ. He shall speak as the Son of Man, yet with forked tongue and hatred in his heart. All who follow him will be condemned to the same hellfire in which the one true God shall cast him. – The Gospel of Light, Chapter 2, Verse 24, by The First Patriarch

Chapter 1:

597 A.L.

            As he stood gazing out the window, his eyes drinking in the brilliant flames of this final sunrise, he felt surprisingly empty. Were he anyone else, this would seem a strange thing. Were he anyone else, he would be scared out of his fucking mind.

            Standing there, empty, he harbored no bitterness, no fear, no longing for something different, and especially no anger. No, his soul was filled to overflowing with that now so familiar void. He'd spent fifty years molding it, shaping it, and refining it, until it became a symbol of the perfection he had never attained on the outside. It had become his life, his mother, his sister, his brother, and the father he had always longed for. It was the lover that kept him company on the small cot that had room for no one else. Those nights when all other voices were silent, he fed the void with his longing for the touch of the one he used to love. He fed it abundantly, and often.

            And now, standing there, straining to see beyond the bars, it comforted him with its ever-present nothingness. He had no need for the whimsical desires others would be begging for on a day such as this; the desire for one last kiss from his beloved, the passionate heat of his embrace, or even one last tender, mouth-watering steak marinated in Jack Daniel's whiskey. His newest and oldest friend had consumed all of those desires for him. The void felt the pain he should feel with their absence. As the warmth of the golden rays poured over him through the window, he quickly fed that to the void as well.

            It's hard to miss something you haven't felt in decades.

            To give in to the warmth now would only mean that they had truly defeated him. It would only have been natural to drink it in, basking in the immeasurable pleasure as the heat rolled over his skin in so many tiny waves; but no, better to give that warm feeling to the emptiness; quickly, because any moment now they would take him from this special room they had given him.

            You have to laugh when the word "special" is applied to a room with barren, concrete walls riddled with chips like small canyons and decorated only with a melon-sized window covered with steel bars.            

            They had said they wanted him to enjoy one last sunset and sunrise. He knew it had nothing to do with joy. They wanted him to feel regret. To feel remorse. To feel anguish over the things he had missed and the things he would never again enjoy. He knew the game they played.  He had seen it before countless times.

            When you spend fifty years in a place like this, you tend to see it all.

            He had seen men broken and weeping as they walked up the gallows, all because they'd been granted that one last look at the sun in all its splendor.

            But he wouldn't go down like that. No, when he made that final plunge and became one with the void, he would still be clinging to the one thing that he had left: his dignity. While the void stripped him of everything else, it gave him that in return; a real bargain for a man in his situation. No matter how hard they tried to take that away from him, it was the one possession he would always keep close by his side. And oh, how they tried. The night before, as he stood watching the sun sink down behind the crimson horizon, they had sent that man, that man who called himself a man of God, to his room. They had said it was to provide him one last opportunity to make his peace with God. As if the void allowed for any emotion, least of all peace or turmoil.

            "I'm here to listen to your confession, my son," the priest had said in a voice dripping scorn like so much spoiled honey.

            The priest was the only one who would refer to him as anything but Number Forty-Three. It was all part of the game, but he refused to be beaten. They were easier to read than those old pop-up books that used to be given to children before they, too, were censored out of history.

            Taking away your identity is but one of the many plays they have in their playbook.

            "I'm not your son. My name is Gabriel," he had replied in a monotone voice.

            "Everyone is a son or daughter of the Creator, my son. If you'll but confess, you may be granted a reprieve in the life to come."

            The priest always was adamant about his needing a reprieve in that afterlife nonsense.

Chapter 2:

527 A.L.

            Another scream echoed through the bedroom door, shaking the small house to its foundation with the intensity of it. To the ignorant listener, it might seem like the old days, when skin was ripped from the flesh of the living, or bodies were stretched out upon the rack, or those suspected of witchcraft were given a taste of hell's flames just before their souls were eternally condemned to fires hotter than even the one melting their skin and scorching their flesh. Oh, how the screams of those victims, like the one still bouncing off the walls behind that rotting door, had ripped through the Earth like a massive cyclone, tearing to shreds the hopes and dreams of those that created them and striking fear into those that heard them.

            Of course, the old days were gone, existing only in the memories of the people who risked imprisonment and death with their refusal to forget. Few people possessed that kind of audacity in the Age of Light. Inside that tiny room there was only one, and it would be years yet before anyone knew what he would become. Even he himself could have no idea who or what he was. It's hard for an unborn infant to have that kind of knowledge or understanding.

            The screaming continued. His mother once again cursed the day of his conception, as the midwife called for her assistant to bring in another wet towel.

            "Quickly!" she cried. "She's burning up!"

            It's amazing the urgency you can put in your voice when someone's life your reputation is on the line.

            The assistant, a pretty, young girl by the name of Becky, came rushing into the bedroom with a handful of wet towels. She was eager to please, and thought that perhaps if she brought more than the one towel she would be appreciated more in the future. Of course, that was a pointless thought. The midwife had little appreciation for things that she considered to be her due.

            "Put it on her forehead,” the midwife ordered. “We’ve got to get her cooled down.”

            Becky scrambled forward to do her bidding, placing the cool towel on the pitiful creature's forehead. The woman in front of her was truly a mess. Her hair lay thick and sopping wet around her head, a pile of decaying rope replacing the halo of the Virgin Mary, her patron saint, that had been given her on the day of her christening. Between screams the only sound she dare make was a low groan, an ever-present reminder to those tending to her that she remained in pain. Her limbs flailed wildly, as if she were caught in a hurricane and would soon be ripped apart and swept away by its thunderous current.

            Sometimes your body knows more about the future than your mind can handle.

             She lay upon sheets that were now stagnant with blood, sweat, and urine. The smell of these combined with the arid odor of the mold infesting every wall of the dilapidated house. The air in the room was heavy with the mixture's stench, making it difficult to breathe without being overwhelmed by the desire to vomit.  The midwife had tried changing the sheets twice already, supposedly to make his mother more comfortable, but Becky knew it was really because the midwife was growing weary of the smell. Of course, the reason didn't matter. The end result every time had been fresh sheets turned filthy with his mother's excretions. Now there were no clean sheets remaining. The only option left was to ignore the foulness and focus on less pressing issues, like the woman perishing before their cold eyes and the infant struggling to emerge from between her bruised thighs. His time was coming.

            The midwife suddenly exclaimed, "This is pointless! There's no way we can save her life without aborting the child. She's too far gone and don't have the strength to keep this up."

            Becky looked at her sharply and said, "You know better than I do that we can't harm the child. You know the law. They'd lock you away just for mentioning it, if they heard you talk!"

            Becky sometimes wondered how the midwife had survived in her profession this long. She had an awful habit of saying stupid, forbidden things.

            His mother groaned suddenly, and with a violent shudder began screaming, "Don't hurt my baby! Don't hurt my baby! Don't hurt my baby!"

            These were the first understandable words that the other two women had heard from her in quite some time, and now they spewed forth without ceasing. The midwife suddenly became a soothing presence, gently stroking his mother's ivory face, leaving streaks of sweat and dirt behind every touch. She was, no doubt, worried that by some miracle his mother would survive this night and report her to the Agency. Naturally, such a report would have to be investigated, and the midwife would likely spend years in prison whether it was determined that she was guilty or not. The Chosen Ones were always happy to use people as an example of what a life of sin could lead to.

            After all, you know, someone had to keep the teeming masses in line.

            Becky knew, however, that the midwife was worrying over nothing. At least, she was this time. His mother could not possibly survive. Blood had been pouring out of her without stopping for hours, now, and she was so dehydrated that it wasn't likely she'd live through the hour, let alone the night.

            Becky had no sooner finished processing this thought when his mother suddenly let out a low, intense groan followed quickly by a high pitched scream that shook the house to its foundations and made the hearts of the other two women present quiver with something akin to agony. A quiver that, unbeknownst to them, closely mirrored the one that all citizens of The Chosen Nation would eventually feel when presented with the child that was now emerging into the world.

            And he had emerged. The midwife reached out with both hands to catch him, while Becky rushed forward quickly to cut the umbilical cord. It wasn’t until they had this procedure finished and were about to begin cleaning him off that they noticed how strangely he was acting. He was silently staring up at them with the most beautiful green eyes either of them had ever seen on an infant; or on any human being, truth be told. There was no crying, no screaming. Only that intense, burning gaze directed upon them, as if he were, quite successfully, peering into their very souls. Both women felt very unnerved by it all, and thus worked very quickly to get him cleaned up and wrapped in a blanket. The midwife hurriedly handed the boy down to his mother, who was still quivering and gasping for breath on the bed.

            "And what'll the boy be called, dear?"

            His mother seemed to be struggling to find her voice amidst fleeting breaths and a still-present, gnawing pain. The momentary silence dragged on for what felt like hours to the two women standing there watching and waiting. At last, the dying woman finally managed to utter her last three syllables.

            "Gabriel," she rasped.

Sorry, no poetry today. I'm in a very reflective mood right now, and when I get like this I like to sort of pour my thoughts into a blog. Hopefully you can live with that.

I've been thinking a lot this morning about what I consider to be one of my strongest positive attributes. I'm not trying to brag about myself or make you think that I'm perfect or anything, I simply believe that it's healthy to know something good about yourself. It keeps me from feeling bad about myself and helps me stay out of the depressive states that used to plague me so often in the past.

The reason I was thinking about this is because today I actually managed to find someone awake that wanted to go get something to eat with me. Now, normally this person isn't someone I associate with. She and I used to be a part of the same student organization when I was still in school. At one point in time, I was President of the chapter at my school and she served on the Executive Board with me, so I had a lot of exposure to how she behaved and carried herself professionally. I didn't like her. I disagreed with a lot of things she did and a lot of things she said. I didn't think (and still don't think) that she carried herself in the professional manner required by her position in the organization (and for the record, I'm not alone in this...most of the Executive Board at the time felt the same way).

Anyway, my point is that even though I don't necessarily like her or agree with her on a professional level, I still decided to go eat with her. She expressed that she was lonely and wanted company, and I felt the same way, so I ignored my first instinct (which was that, since I don't really get along with her on a professional level, I wasn't going to hang out with her) and told her we could hang out. And you know what? It was actually a very nice breakfast. I enjoyed the conversation quite a bit.

That leads me back to the strong positive attribute. Despite the fact that I disagree with a lot of her professional opinions and mannerisms, I still was willing to give her a chance socially because I believe all human beings are worthy of respect and love (until they've done something heinous enough to prove otherwise) and a chance at friendship.

I'm like that with pretty much everyone. I'd like to say I'm like that with everyone, but hey...I'm not perfect. I screw up as much (or more) than anyone else.

I have great deal of people in my life with whom I disagree. For example, the vast majority of my family are devout Christians. This includes my parents, grandparents, all of my siblings (I have four), and all but two of my aunts and uncles. I am the only person in my family that is not a Christian. I will passionately disagree with my family's beliefs, but do I love them any less because their beliefs differ from my own? No. I still love them all very much (with the exception of my father...he is one of those people who has done something heinous enough to not deserve respect from me or anyone else in the world) and would give my life for any of them. I have many friends that are the same way. Most of my friends follow one religion or another; I have maybe five or six who are either atheist or agnostic, and I don't know anyone personally that has exactly the same beliefs that I do (I'm an agnostic deist). I may passionately disagree with them on all things religious, but I still love them, respect them, and want them to be a part of my life for the rest of my life. I do not and will not mock them or degrade them for their beliefs, and in turn I expect them to not mock or degrade me for mine. But even if they did, I would still love and respect them (two wrongs don't make a right, after all).

My respect for the beliefs and opinions of others is not limited to opinions of a religious nature; it extends to any belief or opinion on any topic that is not harmful to others (for example, I do not respect the opinion of a serial killer that his need to kill is okay, or the opinion of a pedophile that his need to have sex with children is okay, because both cause harm to another human being).

The reason I bring this up is because as I have become more active on Xanga again (I was away for quite some time), I've actually started reading the blogs of the more "popular" Xangans. Many of those blogs are about controversial topics like religion or politics. It saddens me to see the blatant disrespect in some of the blogs and many of the comments. I understand disagreeing; hell, I've disagreed with a lot of things that people have posted recently. And yeah, I've voiced that disagreement and attempted to rebut arguments made about things like same-sex marriage and obesity when I disagreed with those arguments. I won't say that I was 100% respectful, because I think that is partly relative to the person reading my comments or posts, but I will say that I did my very best to be and that my intentions were pure.

I suppose I just wish that people would stop and think before they spoke (or rather, in the case of Xanga, wrote). I wish people would try to put themselves in the other person's shoes, try to see where the other person is coming from, so that perhaps they would be more likely to understand WHY the other person feels the way they do. If you try to understand the why of it, I believe it makes it easier to form your response in a more respectful way. There's no need for all the hatred, mockery, and disrespect.

I'm sure I'm coming off as a long-haired, pot smoking, peace loving hippie driving around in a 70s VW van painted in neon colors, but...I don't care.

What's wrong with having a little peace?

Blah. I'm sorry if this was confusing or I rambled entirely too much. It's after 10:00AM...way past my bedtime.

Adios, Xanga.

*I'm very angry right now, both at myself and at someone else. When this happens, I recycle this:

What's it like to be a fly on the wall
I wonder
if such a creature could ever find
any happiness
or if the constant coming and goings
of those wretched human beings
would eventually lead to its demise

A quick slap of the hand, and all is
over, dear
You see, sometimes hearing is never
enough
and knowing too much can leave
you smashed
against the wall you sought to call
your home

So fly on, sweet insect; fly on into
the dream
that once upon a time you knew would
come true
because the star told you that it would
and stars never lie, do they?

Not like your bastard father or his
infant wife
or the sweet, pious uncle straight from
the papacy
that is far too busy fondling genitals
upon an altar
to tell you what is right and what is
just fucking wrong.

Sometimes seeing is better than hearing
and knowing is better than listening
So open your eyes and close your ears,
oh, you fly on the wall.
Why don't you get a fucking clue?


~Stephen K.

So despite how much I wanted to call in sick at work, I decided to do the honest thing and show up for my shift. Yeah. That was a bad idea. Apparently on my two days off they didn't have anyone scheduled to stock my department, which means that tonight I have to stock Wednesday's, Thursday's, and tonight's freight. In all they gave me 18 full pallets of freight that they expect me to finish by 5am. I realize you may not know how much that is, but trust me, it's a LOT. I've been at work 4 hours and already I'm exhausted.

I'm on my lunch break right now, jamming to some rock tunes in my car, smoking, and drinking a Monster while subjecting you to this little vent session (sorry about this, by the way). You can blame Verizon Wireless for making a deal with Apple back in February to bring the iPhone 4 to their network (cuz that's why I'm able to get on Xanga right now).

Anyway, the lesson in all of this is that sometimes the reward for trying to be a good, honest person is having a steaming pile of shit heaped on your head. Ha. Life isn't fair, indeed. On the plus side, "Thistle & Weeds" by Mumford and Sons is playing right now. My mood = improved.

Have a good night, Xanga. I'll catch up with you at 7:30am when I'm home from work. :)