I'm hoping people don't mind that I'm tossing them unedited stuff. Anyways, Enjoy!
Zach : April 8th, 2010
The sound of wings buffeting, swords clashing, the smell of flame, the taste of sulfur, the bright flares of intense powers at work pummeled his senses, overwhelming his confused thoughts.
I’m dreaming again, Zach thought to himself as he tried to get his bearings. Overhead, winged creatures made of shadow flung themselves at angels wearing glittering golden plated armor from wing to toe. The sky was a mix of gray and red, dirtying the sun’s rays that attempted to penetrate the chaos. It’s always the same dream.
Ahead of him, the battle raged. Hundreds of angels on the other side, all wearing the same glittering armor, doing battle with the shadowy legion that stood in front of him. Flames erupted from the ground on both sides, magma shooting into the air, spraying both forces with molten earth, as if the earth itself was angry at what was happening on its fragile skin. Bolts of lightning erupted from the sky, flashing brilliant hues of unnatural color as they splashed into the armies.
Lodged in the narrow valley between towering peaks, each force had little room for maneuvering. Flanking was not an option and neither was going around the mountains that went on for hundreds of miles.
The only way any side would win was by brute force, to push the other into retreat, and crush the other force into submission.
His forces had been pushed back into the long gorge. His army needed this victory. Too long had he met one devastating defeat after another demoralizing defeat. He needed to win this one, or it was all over.
He looked down at himself, admiring the dull gray plate armor that was forged in such a way as to be a mockery to the opposite side’s glittering golden abomination they called protection. He reflexively reached for the sword at his waist, placing his hands around the softened leather hilt, comforted by its cold feel.
To his right stood his right-hand, his brother. He wore the simplest of armor, preferring loose, flowing crimson robes. He had always marveled at how his brother controlled the elements, moving in a rhythmic flowing pattern as he weaved destructive patterns into the air. He suspected his brother wore the robes for dramatic effect, as it seemed to enhance the swirling and patterns he created from thin air.
The battle was not going his way. A section of golden angels had managed to form a wedge deep into his forces’ holding line. His side was losing the aerial battle as well, judging by the increasing number of angels landing to join the battle on the ground. The inevitable appeared more likely as his forces continued to lose ground. He looked at his brother, who sadly nodded, knowing the question before it was even asked.
He sighed, lifted the brass horn to his lips, and blasted two notes that ordered the retreat. Immediately they turned and began making their way opposite of the battle, looking to escape while they had time.
I don’t escape, he thought to himself. The golden cherubs manage to force their way through the lines, led on by their glorious leader.
“I have seen this too many times to count,” he whispered to himself. To his surprise, his brother turned to him, his dark eyes flaring with intensity.
“You were always too brash,” his brother sadly whispered back. “You didn’t heed my warning that when God gets pissed, his wrath towers over anything you can possibly imagine. We both paid an awful price for our betrayal that day.”
An alarm went off in his mind. This had never happened before, in any of the previous dreams. His brother never talked in any of the previous dreams. Panic gripped his chest. This should not be happening.
“Why are you talking?” he shakily queried. “You have never talked before. Is this a different dream?” His brother laughed.
“I have these same ‘dreams’ as well, but they are not dreams as you think they are. They are memories. You are remembering.”
“That’s not possible. I-“
“You are not what you think you are,” his brother softly said as he stepped close. “The real dream you are in is the other life you lead.” His brother reached up and kissed his forehead. “I will find you again, and soon we will be reunited. Now, you must wake up before His forces kill you.”
With that, his brother turned around and walked away, leaving Zach befuddled.
And nervous. Very, very nervous.
The sound of church bells interrupted the dream as his alarm welcomed him back to reality. Zach groggily swung out of his bed and turned off the gratingly annoying alarm.
“7 am is far too damn early,” he said to himself as he rubbed the sleep from his amber eyes and scratched his hairless chest as he meandered over to his bathroom. After relieving himself, he came back into the rest of his studio apartment, greeted by his black tabby cat meowing for breakfast.
“Morning Jericho,” Zach smiled as he picked up his purring cat, scratching under its chin before setting it down. He picked up his stereo remote, turned it to news radio and headed towards his small kitchen to make coffee and prepare Jericho’s breakfast of choice.
“-no llamas were harmed, despite the horrendous fire,” the reporter on the radio spouted. “In International news, isolated and unidentified reports coming out of Australia-“
Zach ground the fresh coffee with one hand as he scooped some dry cat food into Jericho’s bow, washing out the stereo for a few seconds.
“-Prime Minister issued a strong warning against any such actions, even as the newcomer, whose name we have not discovered yet despite our best efforts, continues to peacefully unite villages and cities behind his banner. As I had mentioned, reports are sketchy at best-“
Zach walked over to his bathroom again and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to get hot.
“The dangerous political situation threatens to bring down the peace and prosperity Australia has had for so many years. The shock of it all is how quickly it has occurred. Keep your dial here, on 580 Vegas News for all updates as they happen. On other news, President Obama held a rally in support of his plan to-“
Zach hopped into the tiny shower. When he got done cleaning himself, the news was still rattling on about President Obama’s struggling poll numbers. Talking heads for both parties were yammering on in their pretentious ways about how they were right, and their opponent was dead wrong. Zach had always wondered if it were better to have political pundits duel it out in a gladiator’s arena. The thought of Sean Hannity wearing gladiator armor and holding a gigantic 2-handed axe, facing off against Keith Olbermann, who sported his own armor and wielding a long spear, to fight to the death brought a smile to Zach’s unblemished, sharply angled face as he dried his short black hair and put his work clothes on his lightly tanned, scrawny and scraggy frame.
Zach had two jobs: His first job was the day shift manager at a locally owned, mom-and-pop fast food joint in Henderson, Nevada. The owner had run the place for many years before, lovingly cooking the highest quality burgers and french fries. The place reminded Zach of a time forgotten in American culture, where patience was a virtue in life and cooking, and those who upheld that virtue were rewarded in their lives and taste buds. Shakes that towered over the edge of the cups, sloppily spilling their contents down the side; tater sticks (which were essentially flattened tator tots, but far superior in taste) served with homemade fry sauce (ketchup, mayo, and secret spices;) chili burritos and corn dogs, vanilla cokes, hamburgers served on lightly flavored buns that barely fit into the wrappers designed for such things; to Zach, it was worth the mediocre pay to work at a place that sat on the edge of extinction in American society, and to help that place thrive and succeed against such odds seemed so pure to him.
Zach’s second job was at a guitar shop in Green Valley. He mainly worked there for the discounts on guitar swag, and it was entertaining to meet the occasional local rock band that was trying to make it big. Today he had to work at both. One of his primary duties was to get down to the restaurant and cook all of the day’s bacon. Dressed in his work jeans, stained black t-shirt and Harley Davidson boots, he turned off the radio, wished Jericho the best, and left his apartment.
Zach lived in a dirty, run-down forgotten-about apartment and studio complex just outside Henderson. No one there had nice cars, not because they couldn’t afford it, but the fear of having anything nice in such a shithole get stolen drove away any thoughts of owning quality cars, televisions and furniture.
Zach owned a 1989 Honda Civic hatchback. It was a rusty red-or rusted red, depending on what part of the car you were talking about. It had more miles than Mellville’s Moby Dick had words. Every couple days he had to re-tighten the distributor, or the car wouldn’t start. On the plus side, there were no car payments, allowing Zach to live in such a pristine part of town. He thought about looking at other places to live where you could own possessions worth holding onto, but for reasons he couldn’t divine, something in the back of his mind told him this was the perfect place for him at that moment in time.
He unlocked his car, backed out into the numerous potholes that were efficiently placed near parking stalls, and stuttered off to work.
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