Elegy of Ermeros

I didn't plan to die. I don't know who would, although I always knew it was a possibility. As I always told myself, I would either rise in glory or go down in flames. In the end, flames were the path fate chose.

In my final hours, it became abundantly clear that my ambition far surpassed what I was capable of achieving. In my final minutes, it became abundantly clear that I had a choice. I could fight for my survival, to no avail, or I could choose to die.

It’s two ways of looking at the same thing. There's truly no difference. Both involve hitting the bad guy as hard as you can, and both involve your dying breath. But only one involves failure.

So hit me with your best shot. I have my pride and my best friend at my side. What do you think you can take away from me?

Dear Mayor

In April of 2015, I was bored and decided to draft a letter to the mayor of Ardenham, who totally exists. I figured I'd be stupid and share it for the world to see. This is somehow what my imagination comes up with these days.

Dear Mayor,

I regret to inform you that your cabbages have escaped their pen. We're not sure exactly how things went down, but we fear that the FFMA (Friendly Field Mice of America) may have had something to do with it. There are reports that their meetings have turned suspiciously dark as of late, with discussions about sloth, avocados, and the Council of Bad Children.

It is my recommendation that immediate action be taken to find the cabbages and put an end to the FFMA's potentially evil plans. To do this, we must enlist the help of Jared the Cabbage Slayer. If the cabbages don't want to be fenced in, then what right have they to exist in the first place? This discrimination against us will not stand.

Thank you, and may your coffee fields grow ever plentiful.

Sincerely,
Pontius Smith

Ardenham Police Department
400 Splatter Rd
Crooked, QZ 43110

Thanks for your time.
-R

Crossroads

Crossroads
By Reuben Horst

I would walk the world wide
Just to stand here by your side
As we hold hands, I won’t let go
Let us dance across the snow

I stand here at the crossroads
Two paths that I could take
The brighter road, it calls to me
A feeling I cannot shake

As time proceeds in matchless haste
The snow has turned to rain
We must recall and then hold dear
The beliefs which keep us sane

If you asked the question
I would not turn you down
But I’m content to live my life
With that road left alone

Epilogue

Epilogue
By Reuben Horst

The flowers are all wilted now
Their time has come and passed
Some dusty letter, forgotten vow
Great times in stone are cast

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This poem was originally published on An Einsteinian Approach on May 4, 2014, and serves as an epilogue to After the Flowers have Grown and Yet Fate Had Not Their Favor.

Yet Fate Had Not Their Favor

Yet Fate Had Not Their Favor
By Reuben Horst

Time has passed, the flowers have grown.
I’ve learned new things you’ve never known.
They’re both tragic, they’re both lost.
They’ve found their way through greatest cost.

Carpe diem, the old ones say;
Live your life so you can savor.
They took the chance, they seized that day,
Yet fate had not their favor.

The illusion of light was bright and hopeful.
The snow had glistened, inviting and graceful.
Then shadows surrounded, and took them away.
Carpe diem; seize the day.

They’ll be led through this soon,
Their foundations made of stone;
Forever scarred and always frightened
That it will be left alone.

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This poem was originally published on An Einsteinian Approach on December 12, 2012, and is a sequel to After the Flowers have Grown.

After the Flowers have Grown

After the Flowers have Grown
By Reuben Horst

A change of perspective, a difference of view

Leave it alone, leave it alone

The past is behind; what's ahead will be new

Still leave it alone, leave it alone

Friendship has many costs

Injustice can happen

Why are you still lost

After the flowers have grown

An for ask for forgiveness, a beg to let up

Leave it alone, leave it alone

An assurance of sorrow, a surge of regret

Still leave it alone, leave it alone

Two objects, so much alike

Yet they are far from the same

One tragic, one lost

And neither can finish this game

There is still a chance, a light on the snow
But leave it alone, leave it alone
Still the flowers will grow
Leave it alone

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This poem was originally published on An Einsteinian Approach on November 29, 2012

Ashes and the Wind

Ashes and the Wind
By Reuben Horst

Out of time
Surely defined
Gone with insanity

Who rejected whom
The bride or the groom
The question of infinity

How can you love me
When I cannot love you back
Life doesn't happen
Without ever a tack

The ashes and the wind
The mother and the twin
Forever in the end
May all be forgiven

The ashes and the wind
The beautiful, beautiful wind

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This poem was originally published on An Einateinian Approach on May 26, 2012.

A Far Off Dream

A Far Off Dream

An essay by Reuben Horst

Blood splotches overran the white piece of paper. The red ink was everywhere; showing what was wrong. All of it was wrong. I stared at the object which had once been my essay, now covered in a teacher’s disapproval. I shook my head. I had tried putting my best effort into my work. That had failed. I had tried not trying at all. That, quite obviously, had failed as well. No matter what I did to my writing works, to my essays and my stories, I could never satisfy myself or those who read what I had penned. I began to wonder, would I ever be the writer I wanted to be?

The first decent piece of writing that I ever wrote was a short story about a very strange convenience store on a made-up street in Chicago. It was my first stab at writing after I was exposed to some very well-written books, mainly by an author named Ted Dekker. Determined, I sat down and started writing a story having no idea in mind about how it would turn out. I had a basic idea. I started typing. The words came fluently. When I was done and I read what I had written, I was shocked at how ingenious it was. My family praised my work, and so did many other onlookers. I do believe that reading quality fiction has significantly improved my writing skill.

In early 2010 I started a web log, or “blog,” if you prefer. Though it and its next two incarnations were deleted by inane hosting websites, over the past couple years I have written many articles. Many have been reviews and critiques of various sources of media such as books, movies, video games, et cetera, but I have hosted interviews and giveaways as well. When people viewed my blog, they were impressed that quality writing could actually come from a then-fourteen-year-old boy. Ironically, this both built my confidence and insulted me at the same time, as it meant they initially had low expectations of me.

Time has passed. My writing has improved, but I still have that feeling that I’m not as good as I should be. Friends, family, and everyone else tell me I’m amazing; I have great potential. Why is it so hard to believe them? I have hope that someday I will not only surpass the expectations of those around me, but also my own. For now, however, that is only a far off dream.

---------

Thanks for reading! Now, you all know how much I hate writing essays. But once I'm done, I feel so good that I feel like sharing it with the world! Much sweat and many tears went into this essay. I hope you had more fun reading it than I had writing it!

Inevitable End

I lie motionless, as I always do. The sludge beneath my aching body has almost come to grow around my would-be corpse. I lie here everyday. All day. I only move at night. The creatures passing by mistake me for one of the Hoed—the very reason I lie as I do. Sometimes I let out some mumblings just to make it sound believable.

I recently wrote a short fanfic for the novel I finished a week or so ago, Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. If you have read the novel, check out the story here. If you have not, do not read my fanfic, but instead go and read that amazing masterpiece.

Until later,

Reuben

Memory

"Nicely written. It was simple and it worked well. There was a lot of emotion, which felt natural and understandable."

-The Engineer, via Budding Writers

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This is a short story I wrote several months ago in honor of my grandfather. Someone once told me that while my grandpa enjoys my writing—he's a frequent reader of my blog—he doesn't always like the "violence" that is in my stories. I was a little surprised by this, as I didn't really consider my stories to be "violent", but I understood what they meant and started trying to think of a story I could write that wouldn't have any fighting or guns or... well... anything that could be violent.

The result was Memory. Though the word is not, I don't believe, in the short story, it is a fitting title. And besides, I couldn't think of a better one. There's a line in the story that you may be confused about (I won't say which one I'm referring to, in case you don't notice it), but it was intentional, not a mistake.

I Found It!

I found the Station of Bridge Between!

Today I went to Naperville, IL to visit my brother at college. I had a great time, got to meet a few of his friends, and overall enjoyed the visit. The return trip wasn't so great, though, since the train took over an hour more than it was supposed to, to get to our destination.

But at the depot before we left, there was an underground tunnel that led from one side of the track to the other (like in case there was a train stopped and you couldn't get to the other side). As we were going through it, my mom remarked that it looked similar to the tunnel in 'that story' that I wrote.

I was like, OH GOSH, and a bit later (since it was about 30 minutes before the train even got there), I came back with my DSi and took a few photos.

This does actually really resemble Bridge Between. It's a little too bright, though. But it's just awesome that I found something that resembled that place in my mind so much. The place in my mind/story was quite different, but I think this is as close as we can get in our realm:

Naperville, Illinois

For those who haven't read, here is my story: The Station of Bridge Between

~Reuben/Arkatox~

The Station of Bridge Between

"Very intriguing, very classic but fresh—a contemporary Pilgrim’s Progress."
-Erin Healy, Bestselling Author of Never Let You Go

---------

I wrote this . . . It might have been back in April '10, but that might have been Unfinished Plans. All I know is that I wrote this several months ago. I didn't publish it on my blog for some reason, even though it was my longest short story yet. I personally like the story, but since it had been a long time since I wrote or revised it, I decided to let a friend of mine go over it first. You can see her quote above.

She pointed out several things that could be better, but overall gave me a good score, so I'm leaving it as it is. As I said last time, "What's done is done, and what's written is written." I think that's becoming my motto. Alright, let's make that official: it is now my motto. ^.^

By the way, except for behind-the-scenes, the title doesn't directly relate to the story. Anyway, enjoy!

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The Station of Bridge Between
By Reuben Horst

He was standing in something that resembled a tunnel. The walls, ceiling and floor were all metal, and the overhead lights were an extremely dim yellow, the type that usually hurts your eyes, but not always. Bright lights appeared at either end of the tunnel, both ends about thirty yards away. Near the center of the tunnel, where the man was standing, was a bench, next to which were a trash can and a pop machine. A newspaper was lying on the ground a couple feet away.

Something about this place made the man feel strange and queasy inside.

He could hear sounds from both directions. From the tunnel exit further away he could hear doctors and nurses in worried voices talking about someone. Was it him? No way to tell from this distance.

From the closer exit, which was only closer by a couple feet, he could hear wonderful music that made him warm inside.

Something about this tunnel just seemed wrong. What was he doing here, anyway?

As the man sat on the bench, an older, dark skinned man with a grey beard and half-bald head walked over and picked up the newspaper and sat down.

The older man turned while still holding the newspaper and said, “Do you know why you are here, Elliot Winters?”

The younger man, Elliot, shook his head.

“My name is Miguel Gonzales,” the man continued. He must be Spanish, from his accent.

Miguel started reading the newspaper that had been on the floor of this very strange tunnel. Elliot sat down and looked over at the paper. It was titled Earth’s Special Events.

As the two men sat there, Elliot started to get thirsty. Not really thirsty, but only kind of. He got up walked to the pop machine and fished in his pockets for cash. To his dismay, he found his pockets empty.

Miguel, upon seeing Elliot being dismayed, and the reason why, fished in his own pocket, took out a coin, and gave it to Elliot.

“Is it enough?” Elliot asked.

Miguel only smiled and mumbled under his breath, “It is for those sodas.”

Elliot turned back to the machine, placed coin in the dispenser, and looked at his options. There weren’t very many, but Elliot didn’t recognize any of the brands: Cool Fame, Spicy Power, Cherry Wealth, Juicy Selfishness, and just plain Truth. Such odd names for sodas.

He looked and Miguel and asked, “Which one should I get? They all look good.”

Miguel took off his glasses and explained, “Cool Fame tastes good to most, and others hate it. Some just don’t really care about it. Spicy Power has a strong taste that nobody can resist unless they try hard. Cherry Wealth is something that people think makes them cool when they drink it. It’s extremely hard to find anymore. Next is Juicy Selfishness? Oh yes, although most people resent the name, they drink it all of the time without thinking. It takes great skill not to. And Truth . . . most people hate Truth. The majority of Earth hates this drink. Of course, it is one of the healthiest drinks that has ever been made.”

Even though a normal person would feel confused by all this, Elliot didn’t. Maybe it was this tunnel.

Well, Elliot thought, he was just thirsty, so he could do with something healthy.

The other drinks looked more tempting than he would think, but he pushed the button for Truth anyway.

Elliot imagined telling his friends that he had drank a pop called Truth, and it was one they’d never heard before. Oh how they’d envy him.

He smiled, thinking how Grant, the flavor king at work, would be constantly probing him for information about the taste.

Elliot’s thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Would he ever get back?

His anger suddenly welled up. What would it matter if he got back? Nobody cared about him. Nobody ever did, except for his wife and daughter.

But his wife was in Egypt last time he knew, which was six months ago, on another of her wild goose chases, and his daughter was in Heaven with some god who cared for her and not him.

He was completely alone in a world full of jerks.

That was when Elliot noticed he was already drinking his soda. So this is what Truth tastes like? It actually tasted amazing. And that was when Elliot noticed that it was Juicy Selfishness that he was drinking, not Truth. When he had pushed the button, both had fallen down.

Elliot immediately threw the Juicy Selfishness away and picked up the Truth. He caught Miguel looking at him intently.

He slowly opened the Truth, put it up to his lips, and drank.

At first he could taste nothing, but then the terrible, bitter flavor hit him like a punch in the face, and the next thing he knew, he was laying on his back.

Alright, he hated Truth now. What had it done to him? He was shaking all over, from head to foot, and his heart was pounding as hard as his mom usually did when she was gave him one of her massacring massages.

He looked up to see Miguel get up and walk away toward the closest end of the tunnel. The one with music. Wait, Miguel was leaving him? No, Miguel couldn’t let him die here, which is what would happen if he didn’t get help. Was he having a heart attack? If he was, it would be an opposite heart attack, which would be himself dying from his heart beating too hard.

Miguel disappeared into the blinding light. Has he really abandoned me?

Elliot noticed the newspaper that Miguel had been reading was now on the floor, next to the bench. He reached out and grabbed it.

At least there was something to read.

As he weakly flipped open the Earth’s Special Events, one of the headlines caught his eye. It was an article with the title Accident on Micah Street.

Funny, he had been driving on Micah Street just that day and he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Unless . . .

Elliot started reading down the page, and his fears were confirmed.


“A tragedy in Chicago, Illinois has shaken bystanders off their feet. A  semi-truck driver named Clive Woods, 47, collided with the sports car of Elliot Winters, 37, causing massive damage to both vehicles.


"The truck driver was shaken badly; survived without much injury, but Winters was shipped off to Franklin Thomas Hospital for reasons not yet released to the public.


"Stay tuned for more information within the next few days.”

Elliot didn’t bother reading who wrote it. It didn’t matter who wrote it. He was in a hospital, dying. Is in a hospital, dying.

He finally managed to pull himself up onto the bench, putting the can of Truth on the floor.

But when he let go of the can, it stuck to his hand. He tried shaking it off, but it wouldn’t come off. After that he tried every way possible way to get it off his hand, each attempt failing miserably.

When a few minutes had passed, he gave up and went back to reading the newspaper, with the can still stuck to his hand.


Earth’s Special Events was a very unique newspaper. It was full of accidents and deaths.

Eventually he found a page that visited old accidents. That’s where he broke down.


“On June 22, 2004, Jasmine Winters had a very different thirteenth birthday. She got more than a trip to Pizza Hut and a huge party. The car she was in when she was her way back home was hit by the vehicle of a drunken ex-con, killing her and injuring her mother and her best friend.


"This is a sad story, and I cry every time I think about it. Whenever I revisit this accident, it’s hard for me to bear."

Elliot couldn’t read the rest. He was sobbing by the time he got as far as he did. He couldn’t help it. It happened every time he thought of his daughter’s death. Nothing could ever stop him from crying about it.

Minutes passed in the tunnel with him thinking about his daughter and his own impending doom, and then hours.

When Elliot finally looked up, he threw the newspaper across the room and screamed.

The newspaper landed next to the can of Truth, a few feet in front of him.

Wait, hadn’t that can of pop been stuck to his hand?

Elliot looked at his hand, and saw in despair that it was drenched in Truth. The purple liquid dripped down onto the bench.

He looked around for something to dry his hand on, and saw a drinking fountain that he hadn’t noticed before.

He got up and walked to the machine and pulled the little lever. Instantly, purple liquid spurted from the fountain.

Oh great, the drinking fountain was full of Truth.

Elliot looked around in despair. As he was looking, the Truth that drenched his hand fell to the floor in a small puddle, and made its way toward the can.

He watched as the puddle and the can came into contact. At first he could just hear a sizzling noise, but then the can exploded.

Elliot cried out as Truth spewed everywhere, and then came back together into the form of a monster. The frightening Truth beast looked like it came right out of a Square Enix game.

He immediately started sprinting towards the nearest tunnel—the one with music. Unfortunately for him, he hit an invisible wall within a few feet. Bad news, because the purple monster had noticed him and was advancing.

He quickly got into a defensive position, but it was too late. The monster threw itself at him, and he landed on his back, trying as hard as he could to keep his mouth shut.

He slowly and steadily lost the battle against the Truth that was flowing wickedly fast all around and on him, and he screamed.

Immediately Truth filled his mouth and throat and he experienced the worst feeling in his entire life. It felt like he was being skinned alive.

Elliot’s screaming grew louder and louder, torturing his own ears. When he couldn’t scream any more, it came as a relief, but by then his pain was so horrible that he barely noticed.

Finally giving up on trying to breath, Elliot Winters was dying. Very slowly and very painfully.

When darkness was closing in but showing no help with the pain, Elliot felt someone grab his hand and pull him up.

It was Jasmine.

Elliot blinked. His deceased daughter stood before him, looking prettier than she ever had on Earth. She wasn’t smiling, but looking at him intently.

The two embraced each other. Jasmine must have come through the nearby tunnel end, which Elliot finally concluded must be Heaven.

After a few seconds, the Truth monster picked itself up and hurled through the air, hitting Elliot dead on, but Jasmine immediately pulled him out of the creature’s grip again.

The two of them dodged around for a while, avoiding the monster’s attacks, and finally Elliot whispered, “What am I supposed to do?”

Even through the din of the Truth Monster, Jasmine seemed to hear him and replied, “You need to face the Truth, Dad.”

The movements of the advancing creature slowed as they continued.

“How can I face a monster made out of a soda that tortures me?” Elliot cried. Jasmine looked around.

“That is not a soda, Dad,” she said steadily, “But pure, raw truth.”

Realization hit Elliot like a fist. And so did the Truth Monster. Elliot was sent flying backwards against the wall.

“Dad,” Jasmine was screaming over the noise, “You need to face it!”

Elliot got up and whispered, “I need to face the truth. And the truth is that I’m a jerk who doesn’t deserve to live or go to Heaven.”

“No, Dad,” Jasmine screamed again, “The true truth is that you’re not!”

Elliot paused, though his limbs were hurting badly.

“You need to believe, Dad,” his daughter continued. “You need to believe that you are beautiful inside. And you need to believe that God can save you!”

A tear slipped from his eyes. “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” he managed.

At that moment the monster rammed into him, devouring him by any definition. He started screaming as the pain started all over again.


No, no, no, Lord! Help me!

Suddenly the pain started to ease off, though Elliot could still feel the liquid flowing all around him. He saw a light above him, and a man standing in the light.

It was Jesus.

Suddenly Elliot believed. He believed in himself, he believed in his daughter and, most of all, he believed in God.

He jumped up and screamed. Not in pain, but in strength. He could handle the truth now.

Immediately the creature shrieked and withered away, leaving the can behind. All of the Truth around in the tunnel dried up, and nobody would ever be able to tell that it was there in the first place.

Elliot looked and saw that Jasmine had been crying for him while he was engulfed in truth. But suddenly the tears of sadness were replaced with tears of joy as the two ran and really embraced each other this time. Tears poured from his own eyes as he wept for joy at seeing her.

It was almost as if he hadn’t noticed her before. Well yes, he had, but the realization had never hit him that this was, in fact, his daughter who he had lost to an automobile accident six years ago.

Seeing her and seeing Jesus had just turned his world upside-down. Or, more accurately, right side-up.

“I love you,” he cried, hugging her as hard as he could.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she replied, laughing.

Elliot and Jasmine suddenly found themselves at the end of the tunnel that lead back to Earth. At that moment Elliot knew that this meant he had to go back.

He finally pulled back from his daughter, and she let him. She too knew that he had to go.

“It was good to see you again,” she whispered.

Elliot smiled. “Good to see you too,” he whispered back.

With that, he stepped backwards through the tunnel exit, and found himself being flown away in a land full of light. He could still see his daughter waving, and the old man Miguel next to her, nodding his head, and the savior Jesus on the other side, smiling at him.

The next moment he was lying in a hospital bed, looking into the eyes of his wife Sarah.

They blinked at the same time.

“Sarah,” Elliot cried, “You came to see me!”

Sarah shrieked for joy and immediately called for the nurse.

“He’s awake!” She shouted.

The nurse came running in and stared at him, unbelieving.

In the next hour Elliot was told about all of the injuries that he had had in the crash, and how he had just died three hours before he woke up. Evidently some miracle had been performed and somehow he came back to life.


Yeah right, Elliot thought sarcastically.

When Sarah had heard of the accident, she’d raced back to the states as fast as she could to see him.

Elliot sat thinking as he was told all of this. He kept thinking back to his daughter and Jesus. It would be good to see them again. Someday he would, and that thought made him happy.

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This short story actually was inspired by one scene in Deadline, by Randy Alcorn, which happens to be my favorite book ever.

Anyway, feedback please!

~Reuben/Arkatox~

Unfinished Plans

"You definitely have talent. Keep it up!"
-Charlie Dominici, lead vocalist of the Progressive Metal band Dominici

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This was my second short story, written a while later. I wrote it for a competition, actually. For a long while, nobody noticed it. And then all of the sudden, soon after the contest ended, people started commenting on it and giving it their usual praise and constructive criticism. Yes, really soon after the contest ended.

When I first wrote it, I liked it a lot more than I liked One Weird Gas Station, but that has since changed, as I love my first story more than any other of my writing works. This story was partly inspired by Thunder of Heaven by Ted Dekker, which is one of my favorite books ever. When I look back, I see a lot of ways Unfinished Plans could've been a lot better, but what's done is done, and what's written is written.

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Unfinished Plans
By Reuben Horst

Captain Jared Taylor stood with his left hand in his pocket, and his right hand handing a pistol at the man before him. Never mind the fact that his left foot was stuck in the mud, and his right foot was on the unconscious body of Karen Amir, the American wife of Muhammad Amir, the man before him and a well known terrorist.

His nerves were shaking and his heart beat like a thousand marching bands all hitting their drums at once.

Muhammad Amir stood confident, looking Jared in the eyes.

It had come down to this.

“Go on, shoot your little toy at me,” Amir spat, “I deserve to die. You’ve said so yourself.”

Jared continued to tremble. If this kept up, he would break down before he shot, and then Amir would escape.


But is it worth all this?

Jared Taylor caught his breath, and looked at the dead bodies around him. This was Amir’s doing, not his. It had to be.

Amir continued to mock him. “So you break into my secret base, lure everyone out, kill almost everyone, and then accuse me of killing innocents?”

Jared growled. “There were no innocents here, Muhammad.”

Amir raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying that you’re not innocent?” he asked, a smirk on his face.

Jared felt his anger build up, and welcomed it. “I never said I was innocent.”

Karen stirred under his foot and started squirming. He stomped on her to make her stop.

Amir flinched when Jared stomped. Jared wondered how in the world an American woman as pretty as Karen would have met, let alone married, this beast of a human being. This demon from Hell itself.


But maybe he doesn’t deserve to die.

Jared mentally screamed at himself. This is Muhammad Amir! The world-known terrorist! The man who had killed your wife and children, along with a million other people!

He had sworn to kill this man six years earlier when it happened. It would never happen again.

Never!


This ends here!

Then something struck him. It wasn’t something physical, but . . . different. He remembered God.

God.

What did this have to do with God? God had abandoned him long ago. He was starting to believe that the nuclear explosion that killed a million people also killed God. It was said that God was everywhere, and that included in the nuclear blast.


God has died and risen before, you fool! He could’ve again!

“So have you made up your mind yet, loser?” Muhammad Amir chuckled.

Alright, this was it. He was going mad. Suddenly, another voice spoke in his head. One not his.


I’ve always been here, Jared. I never left. I haven’t died since the time almost two thousand years ago.

He stopped short. “God?” he asked aloud.

Amir laughed. “And now the kid’s god is talking. As if he would care for you.”

Jared screamed, “Shut up!” and shot his pistol less than an inch above Karen’s head. Both she and Amir flinched, and Karen started to squirm again. Then sob.

Amir looked at his wife with pity in his eyes. In that moment Jared knew he couldn’t kill them. He just couldn’t.

He had done enough killing over the years to get to this moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He slowly lowered the gun.

Karen immediately tried to struggle free, throwing Jared off balance, sending him crashing into the muddy ground.

Amir crouched, and then sprinted, headfirst, in the other direction.

Jared got onto his knees and, dodging an attacking Karen, fired his pistol.

Time seemed to slow as that bullet flew across the sky. It was going to hit Amir in the back, causing a fatal wound.

Wait, Jared had just decided that he wouldn’t kill Amir. He had just shot a bullet that couldn’t miss!

There was nothing he could do to stop that flying bullet. He registered Karen screaming beside him. Boy, what had possessed her to love that beast so much? Maybe the CIA or FBI could get her to tell, when this was all—


Whap!

The bullet had hit! Jared looked up.

Muhammad Amir lay facedown in the mud twenty yards off.

Jared jumped up and ran towards Amir, barely aware that Karen was running after him.

He pulled up. Blood was leaking from a bullet wound in Amir’s leg.


Wait, hadn’t that bullet gone straight for Amir’s heart?

Jared looked down at the leg, not believing his eyes.


I have unfinished plans for this one, Jared.

God again. God always showed up at the weirdest of times.

Jared picked up his cell phone, and called headquarters. They would want a report.


Don’t forget, Jared, I’m still here. I always will be.

Jared smiled. Maybe now that he had captured the infamous Amir couple, husband and wife, he could find a real life. Maybe even find another woman of his own. One that loved God, as his last wife had.

He was still smiling when the CIA helicopter arrived. God was one his side again.


I always was, Jared. I always was.

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Master of Shadow Matoran, an online friend of mine who is an Atheist, pointed out that even though this was written well, it makes it sound like we are being controlled. Like God is controlling our every move. This was not the intention, but I can see what he meant. But as I said earlier, "What's done is done, and what's written is written."

Feedback, please!

~Reuben/Arkatox~

One Weird Gas Station

"It is so psyrealistic - it moves not outside of realism, but on a seperate track running an entirely different way than realism! Your characters, at times, can react opposite of what you would expect from any person, and at other times, be perfectly reasonable. It all fits into this nicely screwed-together universe of yours, and it turns out perfectly in a style that is all your own. Well done!"

-Master of Shadow Matoran, via VahiCove

"That really is quite a strange gas station, but with a strange place comes a great story, and you, my friend, have a great piece. Rather than go with the norm, you went with the strangest and most entertaining way to tell this story. From beginning to end, it was all good, so keep it up!"
-Xenogears, via Budding Writters

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After quite a bit of frantic searching, I found the data I needed to repost this short story. I originally wrote it almost a year ago, and my writing abilities have, in fact, increased since then. When I first completed it from scratch (starting out not knowing what I was writing about), I received a lot more praise from my family and various other people on the internet than I ever expected I would. This is the latest version, with all (as far as I could tell) of the typos edited out.

So, alas, this was the first completed short story I ever wrote. At least after I started getting good at writing. It was also the first story I ever wrote in first-person.

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One Weird Gas Station

By Reuben Horst

“John. My name’s John,” the man said. I looked at him with confusion in my eyes. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, extremely unusual attire for the crazy rainstorm outside. We were standing in my gas station on a very rainy day and he was wearing a T-shirt? Who was this guy?

Noticing my confusion, the man, John, said, “I know this seems a bit weird, but I can’t help it.”

I just shrugged and turned away. Some people were just weird. Most usually weren’t this weird, but I’ve definitely seen weirder people. Someone once walked in this station on Micah Street wearing a heavy coat and sweat pants in the middle of the hottest day of summer. This is a very weird gas station, I guess.

The man named John stroked his short beard and walked away into the soda section. As I turned back to my work, another stranger walked into the store/gas station. This one wore a grey top coat, long pants that had a dark blue color, sun glasses, a black hat, and a gun pointed right at me.

Now I’m not into guns, so I have no idea what type he had. But that didn’t stop the fact that all guns could easily kill.

The man wiped the water off his sunglasses with a cloth (I don’t know how he did it without taking them off) and smiled. Two of his top teeth were missing, and all the rest were a sick yellow that made me think he hadn’t brushed his teeth in weeks.

“Would you please be so kind as to give me all your money?” the man asked, still smirking.

Without thinking, I quickly reached into the cash register, pulled out a ten dollar bill, gave it to the man, and said “Here, this is all I have.”

Like I said, I did it without thinking. The gunman immediately burst out laughing.

John came around the corner, walked up to the counter, and asked, “Sir, how much are the A&W Cream Sodas? They don’t have a price.”

The gunman, upon seeing John, shouted, “Any other customers get out here or I’ll shoot the teller!” I rolled my eyes and told him that there weren’t any others.

Just to make sure, the gunman started snooping around the store.

John leaned over the counter and whispered, “It seems you’re in a bit of trouble, Mr. Sir.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really, I never noticed,” I said, “Oh, and my name’s Luke.”

The gunman had reached the candy aisle and was currently chewing on some jelly beans.

“Hey, are you going to pay for those?” I called across the room. Startled, the gunman put back the bag, tried resealing it with some type of glue or something, then raced back to the counter. “Alright, all your money,” he said.

John immediately turned to the gunman. “Now wait a minute,” he said, “Why do you want to rob this place? It doesn’t have very much money.”

I looked at John as if he’d gone insane. What was he talking about? This gas station had more cash in the register than most others in the city combined! He winked at me, so I relaxed.

“This place only has about a thousand dollars,” John said. I immediately started to object to his ignorance, but decided against it.

John continued, “I could pay you ten thousand if you leave this place alone.” I stared at him. Was this his ‘great plan’?

The gunman thought a bit then smiled. “I guess I could take it,” he said, “Considering it’s ten times what you have here.”

John got out his check book and started to write a check.

“HOLD IT!” the gunman yelled, “I’m not going to sign a check so that the police can find my identity!” John looked hurt. “Then how can I pay you?” he asked.

The gunman shifted the gun so that it was pointed at me again. “Go to the bank and get the money,” he said, “and if you don’t come back, or if you call the police, I’ll shoot the pretty little teller.” Then he smiled.

I felt offended. He called me pretty. Pretty, for Pete’s sake! Couldn’t he see that I was male?

John just shrugged and walked out.

An hour later he walked back in with ten one-thousand dollar bills. He handed them to the gunman, who ran out of the building right after getting the money.

I turned to John and said, “Thanks, but why did you do this for me? I don’t even know you!”

John smiled and said, “Well, I guess it would pay for the gas I stole.”

I immediately jumped up. “You stole gas?” I asked quickly.

“More like recycled it,” the man said.

I was confused. “What do you mean by recycled?” I asked.

John’s smile grew broader. “Well, I took most of the gas out of the gunman’s car and put it in mine.”

I burst out laughing. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? What the gunman hadn’t known was that the bank was right across the street. “No wonder it took you an hour to get the money!”

John laughed too. “During the time I also got his license plate number and a really good description of his car. Now it’ll be easy for the police to find him. They just need to look for a dude in a blue Chevy that is out of gas!”

With that last sentence I stopped laughing. I just stared at him. When he noticed I stopped, he stopped too and asked me why I was staring.

“Did you just say a blue Chevy?” I asked. When John said yes, and told me what the plate number was, I rolled my eyes and chuckled.

I finally told him, “John, you didn’t get a description of his car; you got a description of my car!”

John immediately froze and started looking embarrassed. I laughed and eventually he joined in. This was one really weird gas station.

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I haven't told anyone before, but the character John was named after my deceased grandfather, J. Alton Horst, may he rest in peace.

Feedback, please!

~Reuben/Arkatox~