Omen

A man faces the same wall, spreads his fingers, and places both palm and head on the bricks. No matter the age. The intended era. Or the records may state. The suffering of time will crush the sea. Waves dying before teaching the shore. The fear of tsunamis lost. The wall shivers with relief, but that single man knows a little bit more. A needles sits there, and the bubble may very well mistaken temporary stillness for defense. The bubble will pop. The bricks cascading down, and only the wind will enjoy relief. Unobstructed sky ways grasping freedom.

Mankind sits in the middle. They face the demons within. The creatures of the deep. And the gazelles are hunted. Bucks shot down by glints in the wasted wilderness. Primordial is a joke when our hands touch that wall. We feel. We think. Construct to obscure fading alleyways. Walls closing in. History nipping at those demons. Feed the flames. Coals glow bright.

Then in the middle of town. A saga sings. Tavern drinks. Sheltered malls. Religious fervor. No. Not of religion. Not of price. Of forgemen tutting evolution with steam and pulley. Every mouth breathes in the fumes.  All there. All copper and brass fading. Steel shinning forth. Attracting the titans. Old barreling towards the town. Gazing at the metal, these swelling clouds have a desire. To give the masses something massive and grand. Electricity struts among the vapor. Lightning crackles a smile. The thunder chuckles hiding its glee. A puff of the cranky formations snorts from all the laughter. Rolling its eyes. Too many personalities in one mass. And now. The clouds look down.

The dresses swish like gazelles eating among the meadows. The men freezing in place. Their mature hearts twitching with panic. Townsfolk looking across the street. Mary sue. James Henry. The typical merchant. Shopkeeper trust is losing to the bottle. Depression striking some. Foolish Mack and Mobious settling those tribal feelings. Ignoring all incoming signs. A sigh escapes the air. Ta ta. Ha ha. Let it all flow. Let the drums strum before the first slight. The first molten flash will give these fools a decent warning.

The man by the wall leaves. His anxiety slipping away. Showing its face by peeking forth. The shadows reach for him. Aching to claim. Seeking for his skills. The man’s cloak picking up the sighing wind. His ring curiously tightening. Facial hair a giant question mark. No trimmed style from the aged stress. All the joes then walk by. They gawk at the shattering weight made by those confused eyes. The breath expanding. Beginning to gasp.

A siren wails off. In the distance. The costal hills. A mile away. One city with their legions marches. These states that laugh at country men and relish the merchants. Foreigners. The shadowy man briefly crashes his next step. One ear snapping to the side. Trying to pierce the storms. One nostril twitching. Smelling the panting sea. And now his eyes to the west. Facing the twilight calm. Where the small army gathers their arrows. Dotting among the men are cannons. The warfare is evolving. The sea is raging. And the winds of change sparking something metallic. Change will flash but will leave behind tremendous thunder.

Now he is running. Sweeping down steps. Briefly pausing down town square. And with the wave of his hands the shadows leap. Encasing him. The wind laughs. The storm strikes. And the sea stops teaching. And it begins to rush.

Cannons fire. Arrows with their fire. Starlight magic. Wizard staffs. Punk steam as the town panic. Racing all around. Racing to their homes. Dads gather resources. Mammas grab their young ones. And older children gawk from a distance.

Wartime is no epic tale. Wartime is no perfect game. Rules are only spoils to rot in history. Among many lies and super grips. Tightening down mourning. Rejecting all good. His speed increasing. The shadow man senses the governor residence. The parties have grown louder. The rich seated with their drinks. Little smiles trickling with baited mist. Shadows drifting down. Touching and carssesing rich noblewoman. Stroking their ego. And the mist stroking their hearts. Men aching for their swords and daggers. Wanting to prove their investment. However. The shadows sense the hooded man traveling. The invisible sound chattering. Deciding how to utilize the incoming actor. An agent unknown to the forces behind the warring states. Behind the curtain. Behind the seas and storms.

Unless the magics are involved and the serious spells spoken by parted lips and with sharp teeth. Craters making short work of the noble. Then survivors are doomed. And the shadows will claim its final rule. In this divide. It gleefully waits. They know when to grip the noblewoman. Make their sweetness turn coal and dark light. The men pushed to forget their gentle attire. Its time for war. Time for the world to shudder and give in.

The hooded man will have to change. Change the game. Change the rules of self. Claim the shadows? Or become one with the wall? Hands spread as he picks up his strength. And dark magic collapses to the invisible spectrum. Lighting there as shadow art. Forming symbols. Tracing pathways. Preparing for his ultimate choice. Reaching his intended audience. He slides out and into the party candle light. Lanterns winking out. The grim eyes turning purple black. The fiery red trimming his face. Scaring the candles back. All light is shrinking.

A backwards omen shows. Addressing the world. The shadows are jealous. He took their initiative and collapse their constructed mask and fabulous grand reveal. Displeasing the shadows instantly. Causing their silence to hiss to every ear. Gasp of fear. People shudder, but the shadows grow. They will claim him. Take his beating heart and squeeze all good. Until it wrings out. And then. The actor becomes the played. The agent carefully prodded down a predefined pathway. They always take down these hooded wannabes.

They are the ones speaking. They are claiming all choice. And war the medium of their desires.

They are shadows before the moon dies. And gravity will pull in. Chaining all.

- Experimenting with a different style of writing. I wanted a more, moody filled story. It was fun to write. Thanks for reading!