The Last Scoop

He lay on the ground, in a pool of his own blood. After being shot numerous times he was beginning to lose consciousness. He squints his eyes, focusing on staying awake, and for a split second wondered if it was the great loss of blood or the stabbing pain in his chest that were dragging him into the unconscious dark abyss.

The aggressor was still present, standing at the doorway casting a long silhouette down the room from where he stood. The shadow seemed to slowly encroach on our bloodied hero, slowly but steadily engulfing him. The aggressor stood on the doorway between the light behind and the darkness that was then our hero's only universe. Smoking gun still clasps in his hands, there is no knowing when he might fire again at the downed protagonist.  

Our hero too, realized that was a possibility, if carried upon him would spell his doom, and that room, shall forever be his tomb. With a broken right hand and a crippled left, the insurmountable pain creeping up his spine, he could not stand up, nor was it a wise choice to play dead as the aggressor would definitely see through the feign. 

Our hero now knows for a fact, his only redemption lies in his own already lame hands.  

Clasping his pistol, our hero raises his left arm, which felt as if it was being pushed down by a massive ghostly force, stopping him from aiming the gun at the aggressor. After much struggling with his inner demons and the ones from without, or hero finally levels the iron-sights, aligning it with the silhouette, who was still standing at the doorway.  

Taking a deep breath, a ritual to summon his entire might onto his palms and index finger, our hero squeezes the trigger gently, not to over exert his near-death body. 

The sensation of the trigger pushing against the gun's handles felt like victory, felt like salvation, but it did not sound like what he had expected. Instead of the loud cry of victory the gun would have made, it merely clicked.  

The gun, that would have been the difference between freedom and death, was out of ammunition.

----------------------------

"Is that all?" said the little girl in the yellow dress.

"Yup" said the man with the stained apron, standing behind a wheeled box with a rainbow umbrella.

The girl looked down at the cone clasped firmly in her benign palms, topped by a white round icy dome.

"It doesn't look very tall mister", she proclaimed to the man.

"Thats all you get for 2 pence, besides thats the last scoop, I don't have anymore, have a look see." The man tipped the wheeled box towards the girl, and she at the same time tiptoed to look into an empty ice cream box.

Satisfied with her plea, but not the results, she had no choice but to walk away.

"Enjoy your ice cream!" said the man, in doing his best to cheer her up.

She walked some distance, found a ledge by the park, overlooking the lake where the fog earlier in the morning has lifted, she dusted the large grey brick with her free hand before sitting down.

Swinging her legs wrapped by long white stockings back and forth, as if already forgotten she longed for more, she licked away at the ice cream, savoring every last drop as she knew it would not last as much as she had hoped. 

She paused for a moment, and relived the moment she first grab hold of the cone she now has in her hands. But almost instantly she was satisfied, contented with what she had when she was reminded of the bleeding hero, who only needed one, but got none.

Welcome to Chicane City

“Welcome to Chicane City- The Monoliths City”

A dove soars in the air above the concrete jungle which its denizens call Chicane City. The brilliant sunlight of dawn reflects and resonates through each and every facade of the city’s skyscrapers. Spires of gothic cathedrals pierce the sky like archaic daggers on a bed blanketed by silken blue sheets- a morbid reminder that amidst the beautiful, seamless, near perfect works of modern architecture and civilization, there lurked a primitive and primordial force which is innate to all that is seemingly faultless.

“Welcome to Chicane City- Where Nothing is What It First Seems”

That same dove swoops down on one of the towering spires, circles it for a moment, as if selecting which of the many protruding sculptures it should land on to rest. Yesterday had it landed on the sculpture of a local saint, and the day before a prominent priest. Finally, the dove comes to rest on one of the wings of an opal gargoyle, who like the bird had perched on the frontal buttresses of the edifice since time in memoriam. For centuries gargoyles have warded off forces working against the fabric of this building, the story is the same for the other cathedrals scattered across Chicane City where lightning have never succeeded in striking down any of the great spires or any part of the church, nor have earthquakes budged its foundations.
It is no wonder doves and other creatures of flight choose these archaic buildings as sanctuary.

“Welcome to Chicane City – Home of the Gargoyles”

The cathedrals however, are home to some, more cynical and less pleasant creatures. On the ground, the City of Chicane rarely reflects the majesty so eloquently shown in the skyline. The differences between heaven and earth are easily distinguished when life was simpler; now with the rise of man-made buildings with seemingly no other goal than to soar for the heavens, the distinction is less apparent. Before the God of the Cathedrals could fathom his power down to street level in Chicane City, he would have to sift through the powers held by the many modern demigods who make the top floors of the skyscrapers their thrones.

“Welcome to Chicane City – Arena of the Gods”

Prologue of a Prologue

Stalks of lilies on the edges of a still, silver lake sway gently with the light autumn breeze. The fog that has came along with the break of dawn forbids the recognition of anything else beyond the swampy foliage. The dense sheet of grey air seemed impassable at first, and that it held an impossible void, but tender splashing sounds, and the temperate ripples emanating from the seemingly infinite announces the presence of life within.

Slowly, gently, a black silhouette emerges. It was a simple boat, riding silently along the surface of the water. On it was a young girl with an umbrella. Leaning over the edge, blankly staring into the depths, she plays with the otherwise tranquil waters with her benign slender fingers. All of a sudden, but not so suddenly, a white water-lily floats to the edge of the boat. The girl looks at it, acknowledging its presence but devotes nothing more to it. She watched it float by feebly, until it dissappeared again into the mist.

Leaning over the edge, she began twiddling with the lake's waters again. The image of the white lily plays itself over and over in the little girl's head. Still blankly starting into the lakes depths, she said with an unenthusiastic tone... "reminds me of Icecream".