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This narrative is rated PG-13
[ V ] Violence

A white balloon came bounding my way, growing larger ... larger ... larger, from a distance of some eighty feet. It had been launched by my brother. The orb bounced softly, gaining in height with each impact ... but as in slow motion. Whether or not it was liquid filled I didn't know, but it looked soft ... benign ... unmenacing, yet I knew it was evil. We'd been fighting for hours, my brother and I, yet I'd been successfully avoiding my brother's kill tactics for the whole of that afternoon.

We were in a place that seemed alien to me ... boxes were strewn about ... all sizes. There were rooms also in which to hide, and yet the walls were not solid enough to be counted upon for protection. There were square holes in the walls, some large enough for a man to step through, while at the same time affording me the ability to see through to the distance. I'd see people through the holes ... people I didn't know, but who carried strange looking objects. The objects didn't look like weapons, but I knew they were.

One of the very largest boxes--the size of a large shed--served as my home, apparently. My mother was inside, that much I knew, and I'd been calling to her. Yet she did not answer. I made my way across some metal strips and filings, hoping to reach the back door where I thought Mother might be hanging out the wash. Instead, my brother was there just outside the threshold. He was covered in balloons, bobbing and swaying as he pulled one of them from the array and hurled it toward me. I stopped and watched ... feeling relieved in a sense that it appeared to be nothing more than a bouncing white rubber ball.

The people carrying objects--vials containing acid, or so I thought, and heavy pieces of iron having other square shaped objects embedded within--were all part of the small cadre my brother had brought with him on his kill mission ... the mission to hunt down and kill his own brother. I had no weapons ... only my wits ... my superior intelligence, which was, in fact the sole source of my brother's loathing.

As the white balloon got closer my brother began to chuckle, turning it into a throaty, evil roar. Then on the last bounce just inches in front of my leg, I kicked at the balloon with the bottom of my left foot and just as quickly the balloon bounced away ... back over the path it had just traveled and directly toward my brother. His deep, rumbling laughter turned into a menacing growl ... a rumble of hatred ... a desire for my death that was strong enough for me to feel as it reverberated through my chest cavity.

I stood and watched in total paralysis as the white balloon nestled itself back into the pack from which it had been pulled ... quietly ... serenely, while the entire nest of spheres--the purpose of which seemed to be the prevention any human from peering in from outside--began to move toward me. Thin blades began to knife their way though the rubber skin of each balloon, growing longer ... longer, seeming to take shape as an unbroken array of gleaming metal spines, quickly morphing into a weightless globular.assortment of weapons ... inspired, perhaps, by "Tales from the Arabian Nights."

The approaching menace was large and cumbersome, obviously hindering my would-be assassin's view from within, thus making his charge toward me a wobbly affair and one that seemed difficult to keep under control. With the charge at close range, I stuck out my right foot and tripped the horrific monster, deflecting him sideways into a shallow gully full of odd-sized boulders that sliced along a path on my right just a few feet away. Then in my brother's voice the suspected wraith let out several screams as I could see that one or more of the knives had cut him, but at the same time he was able to withdraw one of the knives, giving me a sharp and very close up view of the entire weapon ... its vile shape ... a blade slightly curved in the fashion of an ancient Turkish scimitar.

He held it up for me to see and drew it back with his right hand, as I knew that in a single moment it would be launched toward my unprotected chest. I was able to turn to my right, and found that my frozen legs could move and carry me once again ... not in a full headlong rush from the oncoming blade, but rather more sideways, leaving only my left side exposed to the danger--my thinnest profile. The blade sailed past, and yet I could see the enemy already facing me with a weapon from which I knew there would be no escape.

The gun began firing short square copper "rods," each with a long stinger affixed to one end ... gleaming copper darts only about half an inch long and perhaps an eighth of an inch across. They were coming toward me in what looked like a copper-colored cloud of tiny missiles, not unlike a swarm of insects capable of changing a sky into the color of night. The dart-like missiles began to embed themselves into my left side as I moved away, slowly at first, being that they were so tiny that it would take time for them to build their way across my unprotected flesh.

I began to yell, "Mother, help me! Help me, Mother!" Then looking quickly toward the open square which served as the back entrance to the house, I could see my mother at the sink washing vegetables, or dishes, perhaps. With her back toward me I kept calling for her help, but she did not turn or acknowledge my cries.

The copper darts were building up in my flesh until I could begin to feel their weight along one entire side of my body from the left side of my face ... my scalp and my neck, along my left arm and torso, down across my hip and blanketing the side of my left leg. The bombardment continued until there was not a single millimeter of skin left for the darts to penetrate. Looking behind me, all I saw was a trail of blood, long enough and thick enough to have equaled half of all the blood in my body by volume. I continued to cry out to Mother, "Please help me," but to no avail. She could not hear me.

I felt life beginning to drain away. I was nearly dead--all at the hand of a sibling while my mother paid no heed whatsoever. Finally I couldn't move. All motion had stopped. My cries stopped as well. Mother stood immobile in front of the sink. I wanted to reach her, but it was impossible. All went dark. And then ... I awoke knowing that I'd been found once again by my Tormentor from On High, using this dreamscape as a symbolic reminder of His damning power, while I'd been forced to witness, for the thousandth time, His irrational hatred for this, the life form of His own creation.


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The following comments are for "Garden of Evil"
by fritzwilliam

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