THE fog was thick at the center of the bridge where the man stood leaning against the rail. Although the streets of New York were scarcely a hundred yards away, he might have been in a little world of his own. For the only light in the midst of that cloud of black night fog came from an arc light on the bridge. A taxicab, carrying a late passenger home, shot through the mist. The man stepped away from the rail and crouched beside a post. He saw a flash of the red tail light on the cab; a moment later it was lost in the fog. As the noise of the motor died away, the man stood up again and placed his hands upon the rail. He listened, afraid that another cab might be coming across the bridge; then, reassured, he leaned over the rail and stared downward. Mist; thick, black mist - nothing but mist. It seemed to invite his plunge. Yet he hesitated - as many wait when they are upon the brink of death - until, with a mad impulse, he swung his body across the rail and loosened his hands. Something clamped upon his shoulder. An iron grip held him - balanced between life and death. Then, as though his body possessed no weight whatever, the man felt himself pulled around in a sweeping circle. He staggered as his feet struck the sidewalk of the bridge. He turned to confront the person who had interfered. He swung his fist angrily, but a hand caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back with irresistible power. It was as though the man’s strength had been wrested from him when he faced a tall, black-cloaked figure that might have represented death itself. For he could not have sworn that he was looking at a human being. The stranger’s face was entirely obscured by a broad-brimmed felt hat bent downward over his features; and the long, black cloak looked like part of the thickening fog. The man who had attempted suicide was too startled to speak. Fear had come upon him, and his only desire was to shrink from this grim and eerie master of the night. But he felt himself pulled across the sidewalk, and at the curb he stumbled through the open door of a large limousine, which he had not seen until that moment. His arm was freed, and he shrank into the far corner of the car. The door closed and the car moved onward. Fear still clutched the man whose life had been saved against his will. Rescued, he sensed that the grim stranger was in the seat beside him. He expected new evidence of that weird personage’s presence. The evidence came. A voice spoke through the darkness. It was a weird, chilling voice - scarcely more than a whisper, yet clear and penetrating. “What is your name?” It was not a question. Rather, it was a command to speak. “Harry Vincent,” replied the man who had been deterred from self-destruction. The words had come to his lips automatically. “Why did you try suicide?” It was another command. “Melancholy,” said Vincent. He was speaking of his own accord now; somehow he wanted to talk. “Go on,” came the voice.
“It’s not much of a story,” replied Vincent. “Perhaps I was a fool. I’m all alone here in New York. No job, no friends, nothing to live for. My folks are all out in the Middle West, and I haven’t seen them for years. I don’t want to see them. I guess they think I’m a success here, but I’m not.” “You are well dressed,” the stranger’s voice remarked. Vincent laughed nervously. “Yes,” he said, “I’m wearing a light overcoat, and the weather hasn’t scarcely begun to be chilly. But that’s only appearance. Everything else is in hock. I have one dollar and thirteen cents in actual cash.” The mysterious stranger did not reply. The car was rolling along a side street; the bridge was now far behind. Vincent, his nerves somewhat settled, stared into the opposite corner of the limousine, vainly seeking to observe his companion’s face. But the shade was drawn and he could not even detect a blotch amid the darkness. “What about the girl?” came the voice. The penetrating whisper startled Vincent. The single, and most important, item that he had omitted from his brief story had been fathomed by this stranger whose cunning was the equal of his strength. “The girl?” questioned Vincent. “The girl? My - my girl out home?” “Yes.” “She married another man,” said Vincent. “That was the reason I was on the bridge to-night. I might have struggled on for a while if I hadn’t been so hard up. But when the letter came that told me she was married - Well, that ended it.” He paused, and hearing no reply, added to his confession: “The letter came two days ago,” he said. “I haven’t slept since. I was on the bridge all last night, but I didn’t have nerve to jump - then. I guess it was the fog that helped me this time.” “Your life,” said the stranger’s voice slowly, “is no longer your own. It belongs to me now. But you are still free to destroy it. Shall we return to the bridge?” “I don’t know,” blurted Vincent. “This is all like a dream; I don’t understand it. Perhaps I did fall from the bridge, and this is death that I am now experiencing. Yet it seems real, after all. What good is my life to any one? What will you do with it?” “I shall improve it,” replied the voice from the darkness. “I shall make it useful. But I shall risk it, too. Perhaps I shall lose it, for I have lost lives, just as I have saved them. This is my promise: life, with enjoyment, with danger, with excitement, and - with money. Life, above all, with honor. If I give it, I demand obedience. Absolute obedience. You may accept my terms, or you may refuse. I shall wait for you to choose.” The car rolled on comfortably through the side streets of upper New York. The motor seemed noiseless; Harry Vincent began to understand how it had approached him unheard upon the bridge. He was wondering about his strange companion; this being who had whirled him away from his fatal plunge as though his hundred and seventy pounds had been nothing; this personage who could read his thoughts and whose questions were commands. Harry turned again toward the darkened corner, and hope returned to him. After all, he wanted life. He had come to New York because he had desired to live and to succeed. This was his opportunity. He pictured his lifeless body, beneath the bridge, and he realized that he could make but one choice. “I accept,” he said.
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In what started as a whim and became a much more involved process than I anticipated, I have completed and published a dinosaur-featuring novel. It’s an adventure tale told in an older style, but with modern sensibilities. Sort of neo-pulp fiction.
The book features Isaiah Visscher, an antique book collector and reluctant adventurer, who leaves turn of the century Chicago for the southern mountains of Italy to investigate the work of a long-forgotten artist. His studies, however, are interrupted by discoveries that lead him to the Hollow Earth where peril, conspiracy, romance, and more than a few dinosaurs await.
Rose.PA.16 the day after Xmas
Lover of musicals (bare & heathers are top 2), music (the 1975 & young the giant are amazing), loads of movies ranging from lilo and stitch to pulp fiction, writing, & although I don’t play on a team rn, soccer & basketball ball are always fun to play. I am in my schools colorguard though. Can’t do boring. Lover of bfast dates, busy weekends, & neon lights. And my dog knight. Really love my dog.
Hmu @wi1depaint if you wanna talk (i forgot my url last time) or ask or send anons.
He could see it in his brother’s eyes, Sam was scared. Not that he blamed him, he himself was terrified.
They’ve dealt with all sorts of supernatural shit, but this was different. Exorcism wouldn’t work on bad guards, a devils trap wasn’t going to stop a gang of bullies from beating them into a pulp…or worse.
And Sam, his sweet little brother with his scared eyes and delicate soul… As tough as he was, Dean hated knowing Sam was heading straight into danger.
They were spending their last minutes, maybe seconds together before they’d be under the constant supervision by the agents and then prison guards.
“Dean, what’re we gonna…I mean how do we…?” Sam asked in a small, desperate voice.
“It’s gonna be okay, Sammy, I promise,” Dean said. It was an automatic response to Sam’s distress.
“How? Nothing about this is okay!” Sam exclaimed.
“C’mere,” Dean sighed.
“I can’t,” Sam frowned. “We’re handcuffed real good in case you haven’t noticed.”
Dean rolled his eyes. It wouldn’t be Sam if he wasn’t at least a little insufferable. “Just move closer.”
Sam leaned in and Dean did the only thing he could think of. He pressed his lips against Sam’s, both to shut him up and to calm him down. To reassure him. Hell, to reassure himself that they were going to make it, they still had each other and it was going to be okay. It had to be.
He didn’t pull away, until he heard the door open as the driver and the other agent got it.
“It’s going to be okay,” he offered Sam his best smile. It probably wasn’t much.
Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded.
Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus on the memory of their last kiss. It would be all he had to hold onto for a while.
Today I want nothing more
than to give in to the grey desolation
that lays in wait
for that moment when
battle worn and weary
to the decay
slowly creeping up along
its crumbling fortress walls.
Too tired to fight.
Too tired to try.
Too tired anymore to give one flying fuck
about what comes next.
Because whatever does
will just be more of the same.
more bullshit by any other name.
…of the same.
until a bruised and bloody pulp
before life’s bully pulpit
repentant in our defeat.
Nothing prepares you for the ugly life slings…
no holy book,
no college course.
or pestilent war.
Only the hope of something better
Someone to love
…someone to fight for
And there has to be
This life can’t only be about survival
because if it is
Right now, I’m failing