New short story soon!!!

Working on a short story: The Parable of Adrian. Get excited, or super depressed... a product of a bender of emotions, demons, and lack of angelic grace

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The slow methodical typing permeates the silence of space as the writer, artist, lost soul stares at the computer screen. The fury of the typing rallies with a wave, then slows, then stops, then starts. There is no rhyme or reason to the pace, but the symphony of Click…Click…Click never ends. There are pauses, minutes, days, hours, but the end is never in sight. This is the curse, yet the curse possesses a boon. The musician, scribe, self-loathing asshole keeps clacking away at the board with an intense hatred. The hatred, sadness, misery pours from his heart, through his membrane, down through the eyes, where a little escapes, but not all. The spider web of infinite sorrow continues down the face. He attempts to kill the evil with a cigarette. Rising from the ashes of a desk molded to a human-like form, he floats across the room to the door. A humanoid can walk, this is something different. Almost inhuman. Reptilian in transformation. The tears are those of crocodilian thoughts. He, if he can even be called a he, maybe it is a better personification of the emptiness residing in this pathetic vessel. It levitates across the hallway, down the elevator of this stronghold prison: A five star cage mocking him with beauty, elegance, and love. He walks down the walkway through the gate, to the stall. Surrounded by filth, he feels at home. This is where he belongs. With the rats. The people around are still better than he will ever be, and they look upon him with a mix of envy and pity. The strangest of circumstances. He orders death on the menu, and the shop owner looks disapprovingly, wanting him to order more. He bends over to the conflagration tied from the ceiling and attempts to set his soul on fire. He sits down in the mud, shit, trash, and disease. He breathes in heavily, attempting to kill the storm inside. Hoping to appease some inward demon that wants to cause pain and suffering. “See?” He screams to himself. “There, you have it, I am killing myself. Slowly painfully, just grant me respite from your torture.” A deeper breath allows a moment of solace in the hurt. Physical pain is nothing compared to what the inner demon, a personification of the evil residing within you can imagine, devise, create, and unleash. He orders another, the shop keeper, now with the eyes of a devil, laughs, and hands the death over. “Didn’t work the first time?” his smirk speaks. Letting the man see the evil within my eyes, he falls into silence. Death does not come that night. He wonders what the sweet kiss will be. If in a time such as this, the kiss will be a welcome respite, yet if she came at the zenith of light heart, the terror would be inapprehensible.  He begs to Death for that moment, seems better than any other. There would be no running, only a forced sad drenched smile, and not about the kiss, but about the pain. The smile would be sincere. A welcome home and loving embrace, and then the great emptiness. Who knows the afterlife by name? The only truth is in moments such as these the name must be sweeter than that of now. He flings death to the shadows. Today, Death is not going to welcome him. Another repudiation. Another shudder. The waves crash into the rocks. The smell of salt, piss, and shit stirs his nostrils. The blackness within rises to begin its continued journey. Circulating the guilty, poor soul. He stands slowly, nodding to the silent shopkeeper.  

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The heels of his old, worn dress shoes click the marble. Back he walks into the prison. His place was outside, not inside, yet the irresistible urge to fight lives on. He moves. The palace can almost hear his walk, yet the levitation returns. The floating, the inhuman capability to move without movement. The small portion evil escapes briefly from his eyes, yet the miniscule hurt will not be missed, there is an eternal source within. He opens the door and takes a seat. There is no numbing, no agent of refuge.

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The typing begins anew. The story is the same, the story will have an end. The pain everlasting, but the words will wear thin, the story will break. There always is an end. He prays for salvation, yet none appears. As he abandoned God, God has abandoned him the same as Death’s abandonment. Anything, anything but this. Yet the evil trickles out of his hands continuing the perpetual journey, a deluge of anguish and agony with no end in sight. Yet everything comes to an end, even if that end is a gift from Death.  And when the monsoon ends, when the watershed stops, when the fingers die, then emptiness resides in the hole no longer filled.

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