Archives de Tag: society

He Did It Because Of The Sun -(short story)

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The light is reflecting on the hand gun still smocking from the bullet that just exited the barrel.

A dead body, a hole on the left side of the bare chest of a young man laying on the white beach sands. The blood, slowly coming out off the cadaver, is turning black at the contact of the air.

The sun beams gave the killer a headache. He never like the beach, never hated it either, he was just on it because it’s what people seems to do when they have nothing to do.

He hears screams in the distance, movements, but the shooter doesn’t move. He took a life, and it didn’t bother him that much. Maybe a little bit. The sun is still bothering him.

He doesn’t understand the screams. Why are they screaming when every day, thousands of innocents peoples die every day from gun wounds, caught in the middle of a war they never wanted. If he had an uniform, they would’ve probably praised him a hero, he would have received a medal, street would have been named after him. They should worries about the sun, it’s giving him headaches.

The insults that he start to hear are getting more and more distinct. Peoples are angry. Again, for something this common. Did they know the sun gives headaches?!

Lost in his own head, he let two men tackling him down. His face pushed in the sand by a hand. His arms were tied behind his back. Soon, a knee is pressing against his back. A cold metal feeling around his wrist, probably the police, he couldn’t know, his ears are full of sands. He couldn’t care less, sands in his eardrums or not. At least he doesn’t see the sun anymore.

Soon, a firm hand grab him by the shirt to put him on his feet.

There are the heroes of the day, two police officers. Overweight, sweating profusely, with the stereotypical serious, yet proud, smirks on their sun burned faces.

Civilians are running around the dead men, screaming. Because it is common knowledge that screaming and crying next to a dead body will bring it back to life. The other who aren’t busy crying over the dead body of an unknown person are shooting insult at the killer. Some are throwing sands at him, other try to punch him or grab him, but the police officers do their best to protect the killer. Not that they didn’t want their catch to be beat down, but because once you catch a big fish, you have to bring it home so you could show to the inhabitants that you are a useful individual to society.

Slowly, the trio is making their way throughout the angry crowds. It’s strange how peoples work, they seems to be ready to kill him. To kill a killer, therefore making them killers. By just killing one man, dozens are ready to kill him. And some of those peoples are considered good samaritans among theirs peers, some of them are even religious peoples, which make sens because their gods would forgive them if they beg him enough.

The young killer didn’t really know what will happens next, that’s the first time he’s being arrested.

In fact, he is happy, he will be able to continue is analyzing of human behavior under very peculiar circumstances.

And in jail, there’s no sun.

This short story was inspired by Albert Camu’s novel The Stranger.

Jaskiers

This world is ultra violence (It’s personal)

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Nothing new in the title of this article.

The world is ultra-violent.

And the more I think about it, the more I think that’s society is violent because it profits, financially, to the extra-rich.

« They’re busy fighting each others for crumbs, they don’t have time for fighting us. »

Our entertainment, musics, tv shows/News, movies, the internet, is fueled by blood. So we get depressed, low-key violent, and when a white guy in a suit and tie ask us to vote for him so this hell will stop, what do we do? We vote! And nothing really change culture wise, deep down, the mainstream culture have been infiltrated by violence. You need to dig out, by your owns, the artist who would show you, sing, write about something else than bloody murders, violence and sex.

And we’re so tired of all this hell affecting our brains that we just say « That’s how the world works. Can’t feel sorry for everyone if you want to live ».

As you’re reading those lines, there’s a famine going on in Ethiopia, we’re speaking about 22 million peoples, women, children and men of all ages dying of hunger. No doubt that this touch you, but you’ll move on with your life because there’s a certain violence in you own life that you have to deal with. Therefore, we all alone, fighting not with others for others, but for ourselves.

We, humans, have the unbelievable capacity to adapt to every situation. Today, we live in a ultra-violence one. The Corona brings some good things for humanity, solidarity for the essentials worker and medical staff. Today, as the virus seems to have lose it’s grip, we have forgotten about the essentials workers and the nurses and doctors on the frontlines. Hell, even our politicians, in France at least, seems to have forgotten all theirs promises. Nothing new there either.

In all that violence, we’ve learned that CEO earned and pocketed billions in theirs pockets while their worker didn’t saw a single penny added to their paycheck.

If we were mentally well, fit, first of all, the ultra-rich wouldn’t have taken this money in their pocket in the first place. But they did, if we weren’t mentally exhausted by the ultra-violence that occupy our consciousness and unconsciousness, those rich folks wouldn’t act like they do right now.

Just look at the 2008 financial crisis. Who paid for the trader’s greed ? You. The banks took your hard earned money to save themselves. They don’t care about you on a human level, you’re only a statistic, you are « how much money you earn ».

Money is becoming more and more digital. Credit card will soon become the only method of payment, therefore, the bank and their associates will have an eye on everything you’re buying. Along with tracking were, when, and how much.

Soon, the Chinese social credit will make it’s way in our democracy. It’s already starting with the carbon footprint. Carbon footprint is a term created by the biggest corporations to reject the responsibility of pollution and global warming to the individuals instead of them. Big corporations are responsible for more than 70% of emissions of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Global warming is caused mainly by those big corporations, but somehow, it is our fault…

But no, you are the problem. And you accept it because you’re tired and dazed.

The change could come, with real democracy, but we only vote a couple of time in a four or five years span. And we are ok with that apparently.

Shut up and work, obey, pay for the rich, die.

Jaskiers

Finding Beauty Again (Merci Proust)

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As I was reading Proust, the part when he is on a train on his way to a thermal station where he discovers during a halt a beautiful young farm girl. Just the sight of this beautiful woman gave him back the taste of Beauty, some kind of meaning in his life, I was about to experience first hand that experience a few hours after having read his words.

I was taking a break from playing a video-game, smoking on my balcony and watching peoples passing by. I love watching people. It’s sound creepy, maybe it is, but after staying for years, more than a decade in fact, in a little village with almost nobody walking by, (or if you saw someone, you’ll definitely know that person), after that dryness human experience of seeing little to nobody new, living in a city full of people that you don’t know and don’t know you is an exhilarating experience. It’s almost like you’re living again, reborn, back in society.

So, there I was, smoking my cigarette, observing life and society going about their life when I spot a beautiful woman. Not the first one that I’ve spotted, high up in my balcony, but after reading Proust, that sight was powerful and full of meaning.

There I was, experiencing what a man who died one century ago wrote about.

This is the magic of literature. Well, one of the many perks of reading a book.

That lady was walking her littler black dog, making me think of a Bob Dylan song, «A Hard Rain A-Gonna Fall» when he sings: I met white men who walked a black dog.

No, the simple sight of an attractive woman leads me to music. Life is strange, but art found a way to make it magic. Does art have a defined function? I don’t know, and I wish not, because it would put art in a shackle. We, human, have to categorize everything, it’s in our nature, everything has to be in a box.

Art isn’t in a box, well, it is in every box and a box itself.

And art was what I was seeing. I was looking at Beauty.

And that thought came out of my brain: go, talk to this lady, tell her something!

Hell no! Hell no! The time have changed, and for good, I think. We are living in a time where yelling at a lady passing by is not ok.

What if I was in the lady’s situation and someone I don’t know yell for me to give him or her my phone number? I would keep my head down and go away. We never know with people nowadays.

I kept watching her, I wasn’t hiding myself, it was already weird enough for me to look at her, if she ever rises her head toward me, I didn’t wanted to scare her.

And then, I started imagining her life. She was probably in her early twenty’s, probably a student, walking her family dog, taking a walk in the sun. Did she have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? How happy was she in her life? What was the cross she had to carry?

And then, she left, took a nearby street, disappearing from my eyes.

I rediscovered Beauty, at least for a little while.

Thanks to Marcel Proust, whenever I see Beauty, I feel grateful and alive. I’ve found an answer to a question I wasn’t asking myself before reading him.

Extract (in French) from Proust book; A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs :

«Était-ce parce que je ne l’avais qu’entr’apercue que je l’avais si belle ? Peut-être. D’abord, l’impossibilité de s’arrêter auprès d’une femme, le risque de ne pas la retrouver un autre jour lui donnent brusquement le même charme qu’à un pays la maladie ou la pauvreté qui nous empêchent de le visiter, ou qu’aux jours si ternes qui nous restaient à vivre, le combat où nous succomberons sans doute. De sorte que, s’il n’y avait pas l’habitude, la vie devrait paraître délicieuse à des êtres qui seraient à chaque heure menacés de mourir, – c’est-à-dire à tous les hommes. Puis, si l’imagination est entraînée par le désir de ce que nous pouvons posséder, son essor n’est pas limité par une réalité complètement perçue dans ces rencontres où les charmes de la passante sont en relation directe avec la rapidité du passage. Pour peu que la nuit tombe et que la voiture aille vite, à la campagne, dans une ville, il n’y a pas un torse féminin, mutilé comme un marbre antique par la vitesse qui nous entraîne et le crépuscule qui le noie, qui ne tire sur notre cœur, à chaque coin de route, du fond de chaque boutique, les flèches de la Beauté, de la Beauté dont on serait parfois tenté de se demander si elle est en ce monde autre chose que la partie de complément qu’ajoute à une passante fragmentaire et fugitive notre imagination surexcitée par le regret.»

Jaskiers

An Ode To A Fast Car (Tracy Chapman Inspired Text.)

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I was just a boy before I’ve met you.

I remember our first day as lover. In you flat, with your friend, I often felt out of place many times in my life but you made me fell welcome. This wasn’t easy for me to spend the day with you, at first I thought it would be. I was wrong, simply wrong. There is thing in life that doesn’t need explaining, like that feeling I had with you. If I could describe it, I would say that your love was my home. I haven’t had to force myself into playing a role, I was just myself. In fact, a better self, you had this effect on me, the only thing in the world that cured me from my mental illness, my demons, my fears, my sins. No need of pills or chemical treatment with you… well no, in fact, love do a weird chemical thing in our brain, that lead to happiness.

So there I was, with you and your friends, that were about to leave and all I could think about, is the night, our first night we would spend together. I was anxious for the night, but also looking forward to seeing another side of your love. I hoped I would enough for you.

We both talked about living with each other, so early in a relationship. The wise men say « fools rush in » and we were fools, but full of hope and of love.

That first day, we managed to visit some flat to live together. We hadn’t had much money, being together under a roof was already luxury for us.

Remember, that dusty old flat that we visited. With those creepy neighbors, telling us about how awful it was to leave there. We knew we wouldn’t leave there, but that feeling of a maybe, a future, together was so strong that we visited another flat. Same as before, we couldn’t say it was a roof that we would have above our head.

Then, a friend of yours wanted to see you, you and your new boyfriend. I was fine with it, as long as I was with you.

She started looking for trouble in the thrift shop we were in and we decided to leave her alone, in her mess.

We ran like fools, you with your high heels, your arm tucked under mine. I let you decide our escape route, we couldn’t stop laughing at the simple thought of your friend finding out we left her alone, with a pissed off shopkeeper.

And then, two straits dogs came toward us. They just looked at us and ran away. It was a sign to me, you, a dog, a home and that all I needed.

How could have we thought life would have kept us together? Happiness, some say, come at a cost. What do we had to pay?

I was in the light with you, I was ready to get up, no, better, rise up for you.

How could have I known that the car would not stop? How could I have known that somehow, this random car would take you away from me forever?

How can I live with your scream of agony, for mercy, for help, forever roaming in my mind?

I don’t thing about retaliation nor justice.

My soul wanders in the dark now, until we meet again.

Sorry wouldn’t be a word that you would have like for me to say to you.

I will hold on to your memory, your love, your light that I will search all my life.

Never, ever, I’m sure, I will meet someone like you.

But I know, deep down or high up, there is a place waiting for us both, and not a miserable flat.

We could call it heaven, if being with you is what’s waiting for me at the end of my road.

Jaskiers

Once Upon A Time, There Was America

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Have you ever heard that old saying, it was ‘better back in the good old days’?

How hypocrite and stupid is this saying! If you are reading this, if you are a white and straight male, trust me, today’s world is the same as it was before. Maybe a little (slightly?) ‘better’, for those who haven’t been born privileged.

There was a time, my friends, where being black was more difficult than today. And even as of today, it is still awfully difficult for them.

Being homosexual? Back in the ‘good ol’ days’? Let me give you a friendly reminder, it was illegal to be gay in America until 2003.

Being black, or gay, or both, life was about being outcasted. Wait, hold on, more than outcasted, they were lynched, insulted, threatened, and even killed. And you couldn’t ask the law to help. You had to pick up yourself and go on. If they didn’t kill you of course. It’s still going on today…

See, I’m an old, old man now. My job, all along my life, was reporter. Working with prestigious newspapers, doing real investigations. Of course there wasn’t any internet, everything was… slower. But we, reporters, on the ground, behind our typewriter, we were spreading informations, real ones. If you were fake my friend, no newspaper wanted you on board. The news rooms were battlefields.

Hunter S. Thompson, who breaked the codes and the boundaries, Woodward and Bernstein and their detective works pushing Nixon out of the fucking White House, you named it.

Those were the day when journalist, writer, poets were Rockstars along with Jim Morrison, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, The Rolling Stones. It was a revolution.

God, it was as violent as today. Maybe a little less, considering the amount of mass shootings skyrocketing right now.

But ‘back in those good ol’ days’, protest could turns into slaughter. For example, the four of may 1970, when the National Guard killed four students in Ohio while protesting against the war in Vietnam.

This was also the discovery of a new type of horror, serial killers. I won’t mention their names, you probably know some. But let me tell you, today, we do not have serial killers, well there is, but now, schools shootings seems to have taken the place of those monsters.

It’s terrifying. A bunch of people, mostly women, loved serial killers. Now, people admire school shooters. Those are mostly young men, white and with a simple access to gun. They kill as much as serial killer on a shorter period of time. And it’s spreading all over the country. Never ending.

Politics ask for thoughts and prayers, but no laws about restraining or even banning guns. And even if such laws pass, it barely does anything. Because, the NRA got some high profile politicians on theirs paycheck. In my opinion, this is legal bribing… Therefore, it will not end soon. Kids in America go to school like their in a war zone. All this for Freedom… kids pay that American Freedom by dying in classrooms…

Man, America is violence. It begun by the massacre of Native American. We live in a bloodstain soil, in violence in it’s purest form. Something got to change. We thought that a black president would change things drastically. It didn’t. A beautiful symbol of course, a powerful step forward but… nothing have changed.

We all needs a new Martin Luther King, a Robert Kennedy, a Malcom X before is assassination, someone need to help the black community and make the whites understand the tragic situation that the blacks and other minorities are facing. We need someone to gather us, to show us that we can live together and that we being divided and manipulated constantly for political gains… Why? Because a polarized and divided country is easier to govern. Divide and conquer. We should talk about sexism, the meetoo movement, women denouncing the sexual abuse and assault they face in their life. Powerful men who thought they were untouchable had to face justice. Femicids are on a all tome high. The fight need to go on. Equality is far from being reached.

Back in the ‘good ol’ days’c I was in the newsroom when Doctor King died. Same as for the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

I was at the scene of the murder of his younger brother, Bobby.

This was America sacrificing a potential peaceful and brighter future.

Today is better than the past. Come on, let’s not being grumpy, you, old folks dreaming of the past reading this. But it is far, far from being perfect. Because, like I’ve already said before, from the get go, things were already extremely bad. We need to care for each others, to stop being scared of our neighbors. Tolerance, respect, communicate, sharing! We need to be together so bad. Let’s not live in fear, this is not a life to live frightened. Neo-nazism is back in force, we need to face them, block them, and fight to keep our democracy.

I will live this earth soon, for a better place, I hope to at least. But I doubt this world is going in the right direction.

It was just the rambling of an old man. Sometimes, it’s good to hear what they have to say.

So, stand for what’s right, for your rights, for you life.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 3

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FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

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The need for a smoke came back stronger than ever before since he stopped smoking. He needed to blow off some steam.

Once again, he had to face this inner demon of temptation. After all, just one, to cool off. But this is the cliché excuse to get back to smoking.

He took a glass of water instead, risking drinking it from the sink, with those terrible drought that had been hitting California recently, there was a risk of infection drinking water from the tap. But, this was better to drink a potentially cancerous glass of liquid than to definitely inhale cancer right into his body.

He laid back in the bed, looking at the spot on the celling. He couldn’t see anymore animals in it. This was proof that his brain was tired.

Dosing off once again, he fell into a dream, a nightmare in fact.

He was back in the fancy hallway of the Monclar Hotel in Colorado. Alone, he could hear a scream, a women scream along with terrifying scritching noises.

The hallway was well lit by a big crystal chandelier hanging from the roof to a few inches above the floor. Jack T. was almost blinded by the flashing crystals lights marking his sight with purple spots on his retina.

He tried to yell his wife name, Clara, because the screams he could hear sounded like her voice. But the only sound coming out off his mouth was an animal like groaning. The more he tried to yell, the more the groaning was loud and disturbing. When he decided to put his hand in front of his eyes to stop the light from burning them, he realised that his hands had became those of a beast.

Long and thin fingers, with long and thick black nails, his skin was covered in dense black fur.

By reflex, he took a glance at his lower body part but nothing had changed.

He tried to move around, going up the set of stairs on his right, the one that leaded to his room. He moved pretty fast. Too fast even. He could not control his pace. When he finally managed to reach the top of the set of stairs, he took the direction of the corridor leading to his and his wife room. He ran so fast that he blew past the long corridor, pulverising the window of his bedroom, breaking the room’s window and ended up in the snow, outside of the hotel that suddenly exploded.

Jack woke up in sweat. Maybe because of the dream, but also because the TV was on fire. He got up of the bed, coughing from the poisonous fumes filling the room and ran to the door. Of course, it was locked. He remembered, for once, where he had put the hotel room key; on the TV stand. But the television and the stand where devoured by thick black and red flames. The key was definitely lost. He prompted himself to the window but he could not understand the mechanism for opening it. Why do hotel room as those complicated windows opening mechanism along with weird shower malfunctioning?

As he was thinking about this, he felt like writing it down on his notebook. His precious notebook! He didn’t really cared about his wallet and laptops nor his trousers. He didn’t want to have his precious notebook burn, with all these wisdom, thought and ideas going up in flames and destroyed forever, never to be recovered. Jack never trusted his memory, writers have a tendency to forget things pretty fast because they often think about the thousand of things they could write. Their brains are often on maximum overdrive, keeping them up at night, pushing them to daydream.

Even more interesting stuff that he had to write about on the pages of his beloved notebook that was just standing on the bedside table.

He quickly leaped next to the bed to pick it up. But the notebook was stuck, impossible to grab off the table, like it was glued to the wood.

The writer tried his best to lift it up, planting his nails on the woods, bleeding. The effort made him suffocate even more. He wouldn’t give up, nails were coming off the fingers, shards penetrating deeply in his fingertips.

He felt a hand on his shoulder yanking him.

He woke up, laying in his bed. The young hotel manager was seating next to him.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 1

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FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

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Jack T. had landed in Los Angeles, California, at 3 AM from a red-eye flight from Seattle.

After renting a car, he drove south, toward San Diego, where he had a book signing session on the afternoon for his last work, « Travel With A King ». Not his proudest nor his masterpiece. It was a book with no soul, just for the money.

Since this incident in this fancy hotel in Colorado a couple of years ago, he didn’t felt that the writing mojo he used to have was still there. It disappeared in the fire, along with his favorite typewriter, that good old Adler, his loyal comrade since the beginning of his writing career had disappeared. He also lost his wife and little boy. They aren’t dead, they just don’t want to see him ever again since that dreadful day.

On the interstate 5, driving while Jim Morrison sang lyrics that matched the present moment about driving down a freeway after midnight, Jack felt the heavy weight of sleep affecting his eyelid, therefore his driving. He decided to not taunt the devil, and to stop at the first motel with available vacancy to catch a shower and sleep.

After passing the camp Peddleton, he arrived at Carlsbad where a motel with a view on the Pacific Ocean was available.

He parked his car and took a quick look at the hotel. It was a reflex of his job, he used to think, to take time to watch how things looked and made him feel.

This hotel had nothing really noticeable. It was a regular motel, on three level. The picture perfect of an American west coast hotel. No balcony, doors aligned on three levels directly accessible from the outside. You could stay and watch every tenant going in or out of their room.

At the desk, a young man raised his head from his phone as Jack approached.

« – Welcome to the Mo’Hotel. In need of room? He said in a atone voice.

  • Well… yes. It’s say on your billboard that their’s vacancy available. That’s why I’m here.
  • Yeah… so?
  • I’ll take a room buddy.
  • Alright. Sea side view?
  • Yeah, why not.
  • It coast more with a view on the sea.
  • Yeah, give me a room. I just want a good night of sleep.
  • Room 313, the third floor. Here’s the key.
  • Thanks.
  • It’s 35$.
  • Yeah, alright.
  • Also, it’s a weird room.
  • Sorry what?
  • It’s a room with… things.
  • What are you on about?
  • Previous clients complained of noise, knocking on the door. They found their clothes and stuff in a mess, things displaced and weird things like that.
  • Well, that’s sound fun. Do you have some creepy weirdos as client lately?
  • You want my opinion?
  • Yeah…
  • It’s a ghost! It’s been going on for a bit now. Every time I have to go in this room, I do a little prayer even thought I don’t believe in God.
  • Jesus! You surely know how to ease a client!
  • There’s a weird feeling to that room. You’ll probably feel it.
  • Alright. I just want to sleep, maybe a few hours of sleep will not disturb anything that linger here.
  • Well, I hope for you. I’ve seen your face somewhere but I can’t remember where I saw it. Are you famous or something?
  • No. I just write on papers for a living. Anyway, good night buddy.
  • Yeah, good luck… night mister.
  • Thanks! »

Jack started to think that hotels weren’t his things. Everytime, something weird happened when he rented a room, one time, it coasted him his mariage.

As he climbs the series of stairs, a feeling of dread took over his body. Every cells in his body was telling him to leave.

Jaskiers

Somewhere In The Middle Of Nowhere (A Short Story)

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FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

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You know the saying : searching for a needle on a haystack?

Well, I am the needle, and the haystack is hundred and hundred of miles of snow, and I doubt someone will ever try to look for me, ever. They’re absolutely nothing except a gigantic blanket of thick white powder.

See, I’m an explorator, this isn’t my first time being all by myself, far, far away from civilisation.

But how the heck did I landed here you might ask.

Have you ever heard about the Dyatlov Pass mysterious incident?

If not, here the big lines for you : a bunch of experimented explorators take upon themselves to explore a deep, snowy and, of course, deserted area of the Oural in Russia in 1959.

Those guys never came back. When authorities finally decide to go search for them, they found a ripped tent, bloods, naked dead explorators, some badly injured, one near a tree with shredded feet, he probably tried to climb a pine tree, and the others are ether dead or missing.

They’ve investigated the area and they can’t explain what happened. A wild animal attack? No trace of bites nor lacerations. Lost? No! Like I said, those guys where experimented.

One of them going haywire? Probably.

Why naked? See, when you’re in serious hypothermia, something happens in your brain that make you loose your mind and confuse the coldness with hotness. And, in your tormented mind, you strip yourself from all of your clothes to try to cool yourself down. And you die. I’ve heard from survivors that hypothermia wasn’t the worse way to go. Once you lose your mind, the departing is painless. And, you know, the snow and the cold weather keep your body intact. So if you die in that way one day, your loved one will found your body preserved (if the snow hasn’t melted because wild animals and Mother Nature will feast on your body) and know that you departure was relatively peaceful.

Nah! Don’t thank me! I see the positive side of things whenever I can!

But wait, let’s go back to the dead explorators. What about this guy, found with atrocious injuries?

Well, this is not a normal thing. Did one of his comrade did this? Did he do that to himself ? Your guess is as good as mine.

During the investigation, some people living near the area said they saw a green light, a big one, flashing in the area where those poor dudes were supposed to be.

This wasn’t the first time they saw this flashing green light over there. And strange tales have been plaguing the area about what was behind this beam of light.

Military experiences? It’s Russia after all. they need to test their future death weapons somewhere! Every country as their own little testing ground for their weapons of mass destruction tries.

Those strange phenomena were occurring since a while back, from ways before the creation of weapons of mass destruction.

Those creepy tales where the reasons that this area was never explored.

What are those tales about? Strange creatures, strange noise… and like everything humanity can explain rationally, we blamed extraterrestrials beings.

And your truly narrator, respected mountain climber, explorator and all that jazz got caught in some stupid project.

Which was ; let’s try to understand once and for all the reasons of the death of these explorators.

We have gone, myself and five other adventurers, to fulfil this mission, sponsored by a big energy drink company, to solve these mystery.

At the beginning, all was fine. This isn’t mountain climbing. Just walking in deep snow for miles to a designated area, wich we reached.

While prepping for the night, we’ve heard this deep humming sound. It was resonating in our body.

And then the green light.

Screams. Of terror? Surprise? Excitment?

Well maybe, I remember swearing profusely until… I only remember being surrounded by green, a warm feeling and… nothing.

Until I woke up here, in the middle of nowhere. I have no clues about what happened to me or my pals nor where I am.

As I wrote those lines, I’m feeling very, very warm.

Too much warm !

I’ll take my cloths off, and go back to writing after cooling down.

I feel at peace.

Jaskiers

A Rider On The Storm (A Short Story)

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FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

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As the wind blows threw my hair (yes, I’ve lost my hat in the firefight. Better this than my head !), I’m pushing Ernesto at full speed.

Brave horse, brave boy. Never scared of a gun shot nor roaming at full pace trough the dark night filled by a storm. Thunder, heavy rain and that brutal winds that push colds rain drops on my skins like thousand of needles prickling me.

It maybe sounds awful for you to imagine yourself in that situation but my friend, a storm is a dream gateway setting for running away from a bank heist.

The law can follow me, it’s impossible to see at 25 yards around. Can you really see what’s the thief even looks like in those conditions ? I can tell you, it’s like trying to find a shadow in the darkness. It’s dangerous for me to, but I trust myself and my horse, we make a great team, we complete each other.

The only things left to do for them ? Waiting !
Waiting ! The worse beginning for a law man trying to catch a thief.

I’m rich, yeah, of course from the money I’ve stoled, but I also have the luxury of time !

Every minute is a wasted one for the sheriff and his boys. I’m gaining more and more ground, they’re losing more and more opportunity to ever found me !

I bet ya’ that I could go back there one of these days, minding my own business, sip a whisky at the saloon and speaking with the local and they’ll never recognize my ass !

But I won’t do that, let’s not tempt the devil. He has been good to me so far, or maybe it was God.

Will God allow His sheep to be robbed of their money won honestly, through the hardship of a precarious life dedicated to provide for their families ? I don’t know. I’ve seen many poor bastards begging for His help before dying. He never got to help them with one of those miracles we hear He can do from those preachers everywhere.

Maybe God is on my side, after all ! He let me rob a bank to show His followers that money took too much place in their life, in their heart. And I’m just His pawn.

I’m not complaining about it ! Thanks God ! Help me whenever You want from now on ! I will gladly serve You if Your plans for me is: to rob more greedy cunts without any single regret. I won’t go to church thought. I have my limits too !

Heck, I can’t imagine everyone discovering that God will be on their side if they choose to rob from the rich and powerful.

Those rich cunts, never rich enough ! They seem to always want more ! Watch ‘em go to church to clear their guilty souls from the sins they commit on a daily basis.

Does God let us create gunpowder to watch us destroy one another, to judge the brave, the coward, the sinner, the poor and the (filthy) rich? To see where what kind of extremes we can go for one of our antic? Or maybe the devil gave us those tools of destruction. Like Prometheus who stole fire from the Gods to give it to the poor bastards that we were without it.

Of course, if you look at it closely, all religions kinda look the same.

But what am I boring you with?

Let’s conclude with those words : This is America, land of the free. This is God’s country, and I’m nobody to judge Him.

Now that I’m far away with that money, watch me wasting it on booze, alcool and gambling.

God, the hunt for money is not over for me, may I serve You well by stealing. I’ll dedicate from now on every stolen dime and dollars to You !

And for you dear friend don’t step on my toes, bank robbing is my thing, found your own way for your redemption !

God Bless America !

Jaskiers

This someone in the mirror (A short story/reflexion)

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FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

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Have you ever had this curious sensation, when you look at yourself in the mirror and wonder who is it that the glass is reflecting?

Of course, it’s you. Here you are, this is you, physically at least.

You move your head, you realize that you’ll never have the possibility to see yourself with your own eyes, you need a mirror or a photography.

This is a curious and powerful moment. Everything that is happening, everything you lived through, every damned second of you life have been happening in that head, that head reflected by the mirror. This is you, your physical entity.

While thinking about this curious feeling, your thoughts lead you to the infinite of space, the universe.

You realize how futile the human body is compared to the apparent endlessness of our world.

After this weird feeling, which started to become an overwhelming one, you are confronted with death.

Am I really alive? Is this really my reflexion in that mirror or what I think I look like? Is it someone else? Am I really alive? What does « alive » mean? Living? I can see my face, it’s physical, my existence take it’s form in that body of mine.

And what if I die? Am I already dead? What if it was all a lie? What if this life I’m living is just my imagination? Do I really understand that I am real?

As you asking yourself those hypotheticals questions, imagine you see the reflexion in the mirror moving, reflecting you, but it’s start to move on it’s own, it is not reciprocating your movement but live and act on it’s own accord.

Imagine that you follow the movement of that reflexion.

You are becoming the mirror.

You are the reflexion now.

You’re in the wrong side of the glass, if there ever was a wrong side.

What are you really when your one true self is looking at the mirror?

Other than that, when your independent reflexion leave, you are nowhere, in a place where existence isn’t real, imagine space but you can’t move and at the same time you’re drifting slowly. You can see but you see nothing. You only really exist when the other you present itself in front of the mirror.

But let’s go back, you are yourself now. The reflexion in the mirror is living its life.

It’s something frightening to see your body living a life of its own. A feeling of loosing control slowly overwhelm you. What does your body do? What’s life in this reflexion for the other you? How do you think you’ll feel? Like this is not really you? This other body that look exactly like yours live a life that is completely different from the real one. Yet it’s your body that you can see. Is that other physical life completely at the opposite of what your current existence is? Are you the same entity?

What if that reflexion start noticing you and realize that you are his reflexion? Do you think you would talk to each other? What kind of questions would you ask to that other you? What kind of question will he ask you?

Imagine seeing this reflexion of you passing through the mirror, touching your face.

You can join them or let them join you.

What will be you decision?

What if life was nothing but a very long and painful hallucination? A farce? A joke? A simulation?

A simple, yet sophisticated, reflexion of you own thoughts?

What if since the beginning, you don’t exist? Never was and never will be?

Your physical being is just a reflexion. From a mirror, a photography, someone eyes. You only really exist inside your mind. So, should we really put this much importance towards apparence? Shouldn’t we trust what we feel instead of what we see?

Our world is inside our minds. Individually and collectively.

Jaskiers