For your reading pleasure.

[Jesus, lol]

[This post is by my friend Blaze. She wrote it, not expecting my next post. Thus, if there are continuity errors, you can blame me.]


An intoxicatingly cold silence coated the depressive corridor. The heavy
feeling of eeriness followed every footstep like a putrid fog, a nerve
tingling cloud of darkness that swirled and rose threateningly about her
bare feet. Deafening quiet assaulted her ears painfully, the fearful ache
filling her lithe body with it's poisonous fog.

The feeling of the terrible fog followed over her like a embodiment of a
innocent child's nightmare. It was the pure emotion of fear bottled as the
essence of an all-encompassing fog. It clung to her skin, the feeling
prickling at her flesh, causing bumps of wariness to slowly rise up on her
arms, the sensitive hairs on the back of her neck rising up agonizingly
slowly. Extreme wary awareness embedded itself deeply into all of her
awakened senses.

Darting emerald eyes skittered around the shadows in a paranoid fashion.
Such a deep, dark silence would cause any person to fear the presence of
lurking nightmares, poised hungrily to feed on their greatest hidden fear.
Surely the expectation, the anticipation is much worse a plague than the
possible reality of a macabre imagination. But, one does not pause to
logically think upon such things when the oppressive, suffocating feeling of
untethered darkness has stolen into their very being and an insufferable
quiet has wrapped a choking blanket of fear about their very heart,
squeezing away any semblance of courage they might have attempted to muster
up. Yes, even the greatest of hearts has been fooled into having their
courage stolen away by such a place, by such a moment, by such vivid
emotions.

Since she mournfully already was one to fall into the logic escaping trap of
wallowing in fear, the long unlite corridor hardly offered a fair chance.
Large drab stone bricks towered above her in staggered layer, smooth and
imposing in uniform grey. The ceiling itself was barely visible to her
straining eyes. The empty abyss of her pupils as wide open as possible,
working to coax in any hope the lightest sliver of light might offer to her
desperate eyes.

The only barely helpful source of light was a puny window, placed high up on
the span of the wall a few meters down the hallway. Grime perverted the
murky glass, gathering heavily along the borders and traveling like a virus
towards it's center. Dirty and tainted, a barely perceptible slice of dulled
moonlight shimmered halfway down the opposing wall. The slit of grey lunar
light was more a supreme mockery of hope than anything. Laughing in the face
of her growing desperation and fear. It bastardized her inch of hope upon
seeing it, sneering with morbid amusement that she had dared believe it
might have lent her a helping hand.

She expelled a long shaky breath, forcing it from tight lungs. The rattling
sound cut through the expected pattern of hesitant footsteps like a knife,
it pierced dramatically, reminding her of how deathly silent the eternal
quiet was all around her, closing in. In such a place, it seemed if a god
ever existed it had given up. As though whatever supreme diety had once
watched down with soft, doleful gazes had now turned a steely back to us,
denying that it had ever created such a horrid travesty of an excuse for
life. This place was surely forsaken, once created for human hands to fail
at attempting to heal human failures. Not the failures of humanity per say,
but rather the humans that seemed to be failures to suit humanity. A place
of such fear, darkness, silence and ungodliness could only really be one of
a few buildings. In this unfortunate case it was an asylum. A place to
harbour some of the generations most sick and twisted minds once upon a
time. A place where foreboding replaced hope and love was a luxury none
could truly afford.

In this place she edged along the corridor, whimpering to herself if only to
fill the unnatural silence. In a place like this desperation was your only
companion, the friendship of hope having long since abandoned the cob-webbed
corridors. A place like this defied all the norms of 'pleasant society', or
perhaps maybe it simply embodied all that 'pleasant society' was doomed to
become. Either way she was fast regretting slithering her abnormally petite
body through a crack in one of the boarded up windows. It appeared the long
abandoned asylum was now dingy, foul, and fearsome.

For a homeless mentally damaged girl, paranoia her only trustable companion,
slipping into the building as a place for shelter from the driving sleet and
snow that attacked the dirt floor outside had seemed a brilliant idea in the
moment. Now, the threat of frost bite seemed a much more welcome fate to
whatever horrors she knew were creeping just beyond her squinted vision.
Delicate hands shook, her gaunt face taking on a complexion that was more
sickly pale than usual. Strands of stringy hair fell haphazardly about her
trembling face, cracked lip with lines of crusted blood caused strands of
the greasy bland locks to cling repulsively to her chapped lips. Beneath the
abandonment of self preservation there was an air of guilt. Guilt for
allowing her mental disfunction of paranoia to take over her life, tearing
her away from any semblance of help she might have ever accumulated. Beneath
the physical filth and repulsion there was a unique beauty, wide probative
eyes that once held joy and passion, high graceful cheekbones with cheeks
that carved inwards elegantly that now seemed to be interpreted as hollow
and emaciated.

Her hair hung below her chin, stopping haphazardly around the base of her
neck. She kept it cropped short like this, slashed off with the knife that
sat as a heavy reminder in one of her many pockets.

Cold fingers fumbled clumsily in one pocket of her dirty brown trenchcoat.
She had found it in a garbage can, dirty and torn, to her it had seemed a
heart lifting blessing. Drabbing her from shoulders to her ankles it
sufficed just barely to ward of small chills and hide her female body from
prying eyes. Out of one of pockets unstable hands pulled out a smell
seashell. Surprisingly clean - if not chipped and battered-. In the seashell
hung her seemingly impossible hopes and dreams, symbolizing the possibility
she dared not mutter aloud for fear of it becoming an impossibility.

Trembling hands wrapped around it like a life line in a raging ocean she
dashed into a corner, heavily cloaked by darkness, resisting whimpers as she
tucked herself into as small a ball as possible. Only large fear filled eyes
slipped all around her, peeking out from the raised hood of her coat and she
melted into the shadows. Clinging to the seashell as a child to a security
blanket.

[Jesus, lol]

[This monster of a post is mine. It is odd. I was inspired. I love it.]

He didn't know how long he had been walking. But it had been a long time since he had rested, given his weary feet a break. Centuries now, he had walked, and walked, and walked.
Figuratively, of course. As the times passed, he had certainly walked, but he had ridden horses, and ridden on wagons and in stage coaches, driven in cars, flown, and then he had walked some more.

In the beginning, when he had first been given this power, he had loved it. He had lived the hell out of living, had more fun than anyone could have imagined.
He had walked right into Death's mouth and carved his way out of his stomach.

But the years passed. And they passed. And they passed.
And he watched everyone die around him, generation after generation, and even with God's wrath in his hands, he could do nothing for them.
He was bitter, at first.
But he grew to accept it, and so he kept walking, performing The Lord's orders (because He was a 'The', no matter how many times He told Azaniah otherwise).

Azaniah was a Witness, a prophet of sorts. He had been chosen nearly two millennia ago, when he was a strapping young lad of just-over twenty, watching the Lord's son die on the cross.
To be honesty, Az had never truly believed.

But that had been before he was chosen.

He remembered...

In his life before life, he was knee deep in wine and blood and a thousand other nectars and pungent juices, sinking down, down...
There were curls of smoke and women latched about him, and there was emptiness, a hollow void of waste.

And he was fading, fading away into nothingness and falling so very far away from his grand destiny.

Then there had been searing light and madness, screams and a thousand things connected that shouldn't be and agony. He was broken apart, torn to shreds by insanity and the pain that never faded, abandoned by the world and left to rot in the city. So much for 'Love Thy Neighbor'.

Then, as suddenly as his descent into madness had begun, it had ended with a simple thought of 'Oh, so that's how it is! It all makes sense now!'. He rose to his feet and wandered through a void, looking.

He found it. Or rather, someone. He waved and jogged over to the figure, calling out a cheerful 'hello!'.
The figure was cast into a shining relief against a glorious sun. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt to look at. In retrospect, it felt nice, being semi-blinded by something that was alike, but not exactly the sun.

He was speaking to a mild mannered black man in a white suit, lines etched into a face that was impossibly ancient and young, wise and innocent.
Azaniah hadn't fallen to his knees. He had just stared as he realized whom this unimpressive character was.
This was...?

"You're God?"

"Do you believe now?" The man had spoken, a smile twinkling in his eyes. Azaniah recovered, closing his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows.
"I don't know. You could be a figment of my imagination."

The Lord had only chuckled and clapped his hand on Azaniah's back. Az noted that His hands were leathery and big, like his father's.
"I could be, I could be. But humor me, pretend that I'm really real, and I'm really here, talking with you."

Azaniah could accept that. It seemed logical. He wasn't sure what gave him that reasoning. He felt broken, his mind shattered, and yet, not.
"Okay." He said simply.

The Lord smiled.
"I'm sorry for breaking you like that."
Azaniah supposed he should feel humbled, apologized to by God. He only looked at Him.
"So that was you that did that? Not a bad bit of cheese?"

More laughter, rumbling like thunder, and cedar smoke scent. Azaniah grinned a bit.
"Yeah, that was me. I had to do it. You weren't ready for me yet. You would have shattered, and I need you for something."

Huh. That was odd. The Lord, The Almighty, The Alpha and The Omega, needed a guy like Az? Surely he was joking...
"What for?" He asked, casting a curious look at this aging man, weathered and almighty, lighting up a pipe. Azaniah politely declined as it was offered to him. The Lord took a deep drag, and puffed out smoke into interesting shapes. Oh, a donkey. That was a good one. The Lord smiled in approval.

"What do you know of Prophet's?"

"That they often lie and deceive the less educated with talks of hellfire." His lips moved without his brain engaging, yet, somehow, he knew it to be true. The Lord smiled widely, and Azaniah arched a brow in question.

"Yes, that is true. Such is the nature of man. They claim that I speak with them in order to further their own agendas."

"Are any of them...real?" Azaniah ventured. The Lord laughed again.

"A few, a few. To answer your question, he is my son of a sort. He is part of me, and he lived a good life. He does not regret his choice." The Lord drew in his pipe once more, gazing off into eternity with infinite calm and majesty. Azaniah looked out after him, eyes growing a bit tired at the concept of infinity, of forever.

The Lord spoke again.
"But most of them were liars, yes. They did not see me, they merely convinced themselves that they did. They would have been different. As you will be."

He turned, pipe between his chapped lips, and hands clasped in a stately manner behind his back. Azaniah focused on him, ready to listen.

"You are different. You have known it all your life. Every day before today, you have been preparing yourself, learning to see connections between things that are seemingly unconnected, learning to judge man for what he truly is, and you have hated it. You were jaded and cynical, and you tried to drown these thoughts out with vice and sin, and you taught yourself to hate everything, even those whom loved you."

Azaniah stared into those impossibly ancient eyes and felt ashamed, felt ashamed for spurning this man who was obviously a hell of a lot smarter than he was.
Then again, he was The Almighty.

"And with my sons death, you were ready. You subconsciously accepted your task, and your mind was broken, to prepare you for this. Today is the day you begin your destiny. It will not be glorious. You will not be a legend. You will be forgotten by the world around you, abandoned by everyone you love. You will not age, nor will you die. You will live until the End of Days, right beside those who forsake me, those who love me. You will carry out tasks, sometimes trivial, sometimes of great importance, for me. You will be the Witness of Man, and you will defend the righteous on Judgement Day. You are my watcher."

He let the man digest this for a while, and continued onwards.
"This is a daunting task, I understand. You will have Aides in the world, but they are not born yet. There is another Witness–but he will die soon, in a few centuries. You will learn to use your power, abuse it, and when you are ready, you shall take his mantle."

"Who is...?"

"He is unimportant for now. He will find you when you are ready."

"What is...?"

"Your power?" The Lord smiled again and patted Azaniah on the shoulder gently. "Perception."


It sounded so simple. Perception.
But Azaniah scoffed at that. The scale of his observances would drive common men mad with the knowledge, the breadth of his understanding mind shattering. He was intricately interwoven with eternity, breathed The Lord's creation, Himself even.

That was why he had gone mad himself, first. He had been trying to come to terms with the knowledge he was being given, the huge doses of insight.
Now he was sane, horrifyingly sane, seeing everything around him, and walking, forbidden to interfere unless ordered.

It was painful, and lonely, but Azaniah had long since overcome that.

He had been trained by the Nameless Witness, the Nameless Witness whom The Lord had needed again, and brought back to The Kingdom of Heaven. So many capital letters, Azaniah thought.

Centuries.

So many centuries.

So many thousands, of thousands of years.

So many thousands, of thousands to go.

He paused at the building, and gazed upon it with tired eyes, the premature creases in his face wrinkling as he scrunched his face up in thought.
Azaniah was an unremarkable man that was wholly remarkable.
He looked about twenty-five, with a perpetual crease on his forehead, and bags beneath his steel eyes. There were occasional gray hairs and slight lines on his face.

He was broad shouldered, and had an ambling walk, one which left heavy footprints and an aching melancholy in one's heart. He was big hands, callused by years of hard work, and worn-in coats and jeans. He carried little in the way of personal keepsakes, had few defining characteristics exposed to the world.

The building looked very ominous and looming when compared to the man standing before it. It was all dark shadows and faded edges, blurred by blood and rust and everything foul. Overgrown weeds and an air that, quite clearly, did not invite him in.
Rather, it told him to kindly piss off. Or else.

Azaniah simply stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked in.

He was here with a purpose, however vague it was. Apparently, it was time to find one of his Aides, one who would become a Witness too, the only one who would last with him to the End of Days. Another tool of the Almighty.
He wasn't sure whether to pity this unfortunate soul, or to delight in the fact that there would be someone in the world who he would not outlive, lose to the sands of time.

His footsteps echoed down the corridors, empty sounds that did little to disperse the chill in the air. The sheer wrongness of the place might drive any normal man to insanity.
But as stated many times before, Azaniah was no normal man.


He stopped and gazed upwards at a small, pinprick of light. He waited for the sign he knew would be there, mind relaying useless information to him.
The window was made in a factory some seventeen miles north, finished by a man with a crooked back and perpetually bad breath, a man named Jim whose wife had just left him due to his unfortunate power to imbue his thoughts into things and others. The window had his bitterness and heartache and had decayed with hate once he had died some two years later, alone and forgotten.

The light exploded through the small window, throwing everything into sharp relief. He followed the beams downwards, ahead, to disturbed dust and footstep.
He walked onwards, raising a hand in thanks.

There was a shadow in the corner, curled in upon itself, and he wondered if this was it. He stopped a metre or so away and looked down at wide eyes from behind a hood, and hands grasping something so tightly, he wondered if it would shatter.

Her name was Danielle Merari, though she liked to be called Danny, and she was misdiagnosed as a paranoid schizoid, and she was curled up just as he had been, all those years ago, seeing enemies where there were none, at least, not in this time and universe, but seeing beyond. Beyond everything. She had been preparing, just as he had, all her life for this, and he could see that she had hampered her progress with chemicals and a hard-life, but she was still there, and he would have to draw out her own divine strength, or she would crumble before The Almighty.

He had his work cut out for him.