Lincoln

Lincoln stood on the roof of the Complex and peered at the bright structures that crowded the city. He noted that the sun was getting lower in the sky, and the buildings would soon lose their white exterior in favor of a more heat absorbing black. He then took a deep breath and leapt over the railing. Speeding head first toward the street, Lincoln reached into his pack, grabbed his plasma chain, and attacked a molecular bonding unit. After he dropped about a thousand stories, he shot his plasma chain at the side of an adjacent building. It stuck and the chain gave just enough so Lincoln’s wouldn’t get ripped arm off. Lincoln swung toward the other building and in one fluid motion; he repelled off the side, detached the chain, retracted it, and fired it down toward the lower floors of a building up ahead. The chain once again stuck to the side and Lincoln hit the retracted button, causing him to hurtle toward the wall. Before he smashed against the building, he let go of the button and slowed himself down just enough so he could stick his particle blade into the wall and slide down to the street.

Lincoln began sprinting as soon as his feet hit the ground. He flew through the alley, constantly looking back over his shoulder. He then made a sudden turn onto a narrow street between two commerce buildings and ran toward what appeared to be a small crack in the side of the building on the left. He reached the crack and paused for a moment to catch his breath. Lincoln looked around carefully and checked his sensors before finally pulling out a small, spherical device with a green strip running around its middle. He held the device up to the crack and pressed a button, causing the wall around it to flicker, and then fade into a door shaped hole. As Lincoln went through the doorway, he hit the button again and the wall reappeared as if it has always been there.

It was dark and there was very little space inside of the doorway. Lincoln grabbed blindly along the far wall until he felt a lever. He pulled it and a small opening formed in the floor. Quickly, Lincoln slid through the opening and fell down a dark tunnel. Lincoln soon landed and found himself in a pitch-black corridor. Believe it was now safe, he pulled out a small flashlight and checked his locator. After gathering his bearings, he started to run through the corridor. Several miles later, he reached what appeared to be a dead end. Lincoln then pulled out his optical enhancement prism and held it up to his eye. Through it, he saw a ladder that was invisible otherwise. Lincoln climbed up the latter and it led him through another tube. He went as fast as he could, while being careful not to lose his footing. After a few hundred feet, Lincoln reached the end of his climb. He lifted his hand up and pushed away a manhole cover that must have been centuries old.

Lincoln pulled himself out of the tunnel and dropped to the ground exhausted. As he lay there, he smiled. He looked up at the reddening sky as dusk approached. The wind was gentle and refreshing. Lincoln felt the grass rubbing against his body and was happy. This was Lincoln’s garden, and there was no other place he would rather be.

After a few minutes, he got up off the ground and walked toward a small tree growing in the center. It was a young tree, only about five years old, but it meant the world to him. Lincoln reached into his pack and pulled out a canteen of water. He watered the tree with the care of a mother nursing a child. He then sat down and began to gather his thoughts.

The time passed slowly in the garden. The outside world meant little here. Lincoln had been able to keep this place a secret for the past few years, and came to it often to get away. It grew just outside of the city, in the barren lands where factories and atmospheric stabilizers existed. It was situated inside a large mound of dirt the Lincoln had built to keep the garden hidden. Other than the garden, nothing grew in the Barrens. The land was cultivated to keep industry moving. The world had become mechanized; the garden became Lincoln’s only means to get away from it.

Lincoln sat there quietly and actually began to doze off. Everything was peaceful and quiet until a loud rushing sound broke the silence. Lincoln quickly stood up and reached for his accelerator pistol, but it was too late. Within seconds, several troops, clad in grey, got out of their high speed carriers and surrounded Lincoln like a swarm of locusts. They pointed their guns at Lincoln and began to move in. Lincoln had no choice but to drop his pistol and surrender. He fell to his knees and put his hands behind his head.

A voice then called out, “Do not take your guns off of him. He is far too dangerous for any of you to let your guard down.” Then a tall figure dressed in a black uniform made his way through the troops toward Lincoln. It was Captain Tiller, a high-ranking officer of the city’s protective services. He had come for Lincoln.

“Lincoln Cody, you are under arrest for unlicensed agricultural growth and unlawful harboring of flora particulates,” Tiller barked toward Lincoln. “You of all people should know better than to upset the balance that we have worked to create in the world. “

Lincoln glared at Tiller and said, “I seriously doubt that one little tree is upsetting your precious balance.”

“The balance is precious,” Tiller said with a grin. “And the tree is upsetting it. Along with these weeds. How can you look me in the eye and lie to me like that. You know that the O2 levels have been off and the stabilizers have been struggling to keep up. You reported it to me yourself. What the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

“I am not trying to do anything,” Lincoln snapped back as he began to climb back to his feet.

“Don’t bother getting up,” Tiller said sternly. He began to pace around Lincoln with his arms folded behind his back. “You were trained to use rational judgment in order to serve the greater good, so you should know that attacking me now is completely irrational.”

“The greater good? Let me tell you about the greater good,” Lincoln yelled in response. “These machines and this technology is good for…”

“Shut up,” Tiller said, cutting Lincoln off. “You words are like this tree here; meaningless. But I must admit that I am slightly amazed that you were able to grow anything here. Not only were you able to reverse the alkalinization process, but you were able to create a blind spot in the grid. Impressive to say the least, but that is to be expected from someone whose neuro-kinetics are in the top decitile.”

“What do you want,” asked Lincoln while he began eyeing up the pistol he dropped.

Tiller the reached down, grabbed Lincoln’s face, and lifted his chin and asked, “where did you get the seeds?”

“They were a gift,” Lincoln replied while his face was in the grasp of Tiller.

“A gift,” ask Tiller, dropping Lincoln’s chin. “From whom?”

Lincoln refused to answer. He just stared at the ground. Tiller grew impatient and pointed a gun at Lincoln’s head.

“Tell me now! Where did you get those seeds,” Tiller screamed.

Lincoln smiled and said, “if you kill me, then you will never know.”

Tiller then smash Lincoln in the head with the gun and kicked him in the face as he fell. Then Tiller ordered one of his men to set the garden on fire.

“No! PLEASE DON’T,” screamed Lincoln while coughing up blood. “You can’t! This is all I have left of them!”

“Them,” Tiller said raising an eyebrow and turning back toward Lincoln.

“My…my parents,” Lincoln said with tears forming in his eyes. “I used their ashes to help fertilize the soil. This is all I have left. You can’t take them away from me. Not again.”

“Take them away,” asked Tiller as he began to chuckle. “As I recall, you were the one that turned them in.”

Lincoln fought hard not to cry, not in front of Tiller. “I know…but it was a mistake. I see that now.”

“They broke the law, son.” Tiller looked down on Lincoln with eyes that were almost lifeless. “You did the right thing. They were a threat to the peace and had to be stopped.”

“No,” Lincoln replied. “They knew that this world wasn’t right, that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I used to be ashamed of my parents. They handed me the seeds on the day they were executed. My father said ‘life is supposed to be alive.’ I thought he was just an unenlightened sloth. But now I see that he was right.”

“Touching,” Tiller said coldly. “But the law is the law and you must be arrested. Kenner, burn this place down.”

“NO!” screamed Lincoln as he rolled over to his pistol. Before he could grab it, Tiller kicked it away and turn his gun on Lincoln. Lincoln slapped Tiller’s hand, redirecting his shot. He then grabbed his particle slicer, but before he could use it, the troops shot him repeatedly. Lincoln dropped as blood poured from his wounds. With his last breath he wanted to tell Tiller that he was wrong and that the world was too big to control. But all he could say was “sorry.”

“Are you okay sir,” asked one of the troops.

“I’m fine,” Tiller replied. “Just grab the corpse and let’s get out of here.”

The trooper then asked, “What about the garden?”

“I said burn it,” Tiller answered.

With that, the troops lit the garden on fire and dragged Lincoln’s body through the deadened earth before tossing him into a carrier. Then the soldiers rode off, leaving the last tree on Earth to burn alone.

Remember

You have been with me for the best years of my life, and I cannot thank you enough. That is why this is so hard on me. Watching you suffer like this is unbearable. I know I am being selfish though, I know that this whole thing is much harder on you than it is on me. It’s just that I can’t deal with the times you can’t remember my name.

I know we promised that we would never keep secrets from each other, but I don’t know how to tell you these things. I don’t know how to say that loving you now is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I try desperately to be brave for you. I don’t want to make it any harder than it has to be. But I am weak. It hurts me terribly when you don’t recognize my face.

I still cherish the good days; the days we spend together laughing and reminiscing. I just wish we had more of them left. You have been getting worse and those good days are happening less and less. I know there will be a point where they won’t exist anymore. And that kills me. It tears me up because I know that when those days no longer exist, I won’t either. At least not to you. By then, you won’t even know who I am.

Every morning I think about how you will be that day. I wonder if you will be the happy and free person I married, or the angry, confused person that you have slowly become. Not knowing is the worst. I hate not knowing how to act or what to say. I hate that I can’t take this away from you. I hate that I feel resentment toward you for being ill. I hate this life. And sometimes, I hate you.

The best part of my day, though, is watching you sleep. Despite the agony of not knowing how you will be, I can at least pretend that everything is okay. I can just look at you and believe that everything is fine. I want to believe it, I really do. I really try to believe that everything will be okay. I know better though. Even watching you sleep now, I hope that you will wake up and the suffering will be over. But it won’t be. It never will be.

I can’t do this anymore. God, I love you so much, but I can’t do this anymore. Your suffering, my resentment, the consistent slide toward the inevitable; I can’t handle it anymore. I don’t want our last years on Earth together to be spent like this. I don’t want my last years with you wondering if you still know who I am. I won’t spend them that way. Please forgive me for this, because I can’t forgive myself. But I need to do this, to stop your suffering. Wait…you’re waking up, and you’re smiling! “Good morning Charles,” you said! You don’t know how happy it makes me when you say my name. Maybe this is a sign. No, I know it is a sign, a sign for me to go through with this. A sign that I should end the suffering while you still know who I am…

The Etcher

Captain Greenwood got out of his car and made his way through the crowd. He passed through the barricades and met up with the other officers.

“How many are there,” the captain asked.

“By my count, forty,” an officer replied.

Greenwood’s eyes began to scan the scene. He saw forty people laying on the street, tied up in coils of rope; each person had a stack of pictures stuck to them and the name of the crime they committed carved into the street.

“Looks like he had a busy night,” Sergeant Collins said walking up to the captain.

“I’d say so. He hasn’t had this many in a while,” Greenwood said while squinting in the morning sun.

“Tell me about it. And this group is diverse too. Take a look at that guy down there,” Collins said pointing to a young man lying next to a building.

“Littering…” Greenwood chuckled.

“That was my reaction too,” Collins said with a smile. “This guy is too much.”

Greenwood recovered his professionalism and said, “Yeah, but now we have to clean up this mess. Sergeant, I want you and Clasky you start on the west end. Read them their rights and get them processed. Quickly too. We have other things to do today than to clean up the messes he left us.”

The “He” Greenwood was referring too was a man the press dubbed, “The Etcher.” The Etcher spent the nights stalking and capturing criminals. He would tie them up, leave behind evidence, and etch the name of their crime in the street next to them. It had only been about a year since he first appeared, but his impact was significant. Some said that his tactics were cruel and unconstitutional. Others looked up to him and called him a hero. However, regardless of what people thought of him, no one could deny that the streets were safer because of him.

The Etcher wasn’t always a hero though. He spent most of his life as Eric Jennings. Eric was a relatively unassuming person. Like most people, he wished he could make a difference in the world, but he didn’t know how. So he just lived his life the best he could. Occasionally he would watch or read something that bothered him, but mostly he didn’t let things get to him.

That would change though. It changed the night Eric tried to be a hero. While waiting at the subway station, he witnessed a woman being attacked. A few people called 911, but most of the looked away. Suddenly, a feeling of pure disgust for humanity rose up inside of Eric. He rushed at the attackers and managed to free the woman, but his reward for his heroism was a gunshot to the face. Eric was left to die on the train platform.

Seventeen days later, Eric woke up and saw he was in the hospital. His family was relieved when he came to, but he didn’t care. The only thought in his head was that he wasn’t strong enough. Eric carried that thought throughout his recovery. Every night, as tears dripped down his face, he begged to be stronger. Memories of the attack haunted him and increased his resolve to get stronger.

Only a few weeks had passed when Eric left the hospital. He had made a full recovery, save for the scar left on his face. He felt stronger than he ever had, but it wasn’t enough. Eric still felt weak. The time spent in the hospital had changed him. He thought of the woman and the countless people in the world like her. He thought of the defenseless being killed each day. Eric now believed that the only reason he was alive was so he could save them, but he still wasn’t strong enough. No matter how hard he worked, he wasn’t getting stronger. So he prayed for power each night. Each morning he woke up to disappointment.

A little less than a year after Eric was shot, he still struggled with his weakness. He continued to pray and to beg for power. As the time passed and the power he sought eluded him, Eric began to withdraw. He became suicidal. His ambition to make a difference was being unfulfilled. He was about to give up on his life when a miracle occurred.

One night, Eric was lying in his bed when he got the sudden urge to go for a walk. He left the house and began to wander the streets. He had no idea where he was going, but he felt as if something was pulling him along. Suddenly, Eric heard a nearby scream. Instinctively, he ran toward the direction of the scream and stumbled upon a group of teens mugging a young couple. Without thinking, Eric sprinted toward the teens. They never saw him coming. Within seconds, three of the teens were unconscious and another had both of his legs broken. One of the muggers pulled a gun, but found himself flying head first into a building. Eric was incredible. The young couple sat there stunned. They had never seen anyone move so fast. It was over swiftly. The one attacker, who could still move, ran off into the night. When it was over, Eric was in awe of himself. For the first time since the incident, he felt truly powerful.

From that day on, Eric was a hero. He began to wear a black mask and spent his nights going after criminals. He used his unnatural speed and strength to capture hundreds of crooks. Months passed and Eric got better and better each night. He even began to set up cameras to watch places he couldn’t be. He also began to leave his calling card to show the whole world the crime that was committed. To the underworld, he seemed to be everywhere. It was not long before The Etcher owned the night.

As The Etcher cleaned up the city, the days became harder for Eric. He withdrew from his normal life. He suffered at work and the relationships with his friends and family grew strained. It was not long before Eric no longer had any friends. But he didn’t care. He was making a difference and he felt fulfilled. Each person he caught meant the city was that much safer.

His euphoria did not last forever though. It died a little each day as Eric’s life began to revolve around his role at The Etcher. The more isolated he became; the harder it became to be the hero. The longer he was The Etcher, the more he thought of giving it up. But he couldn’t. His powers were a gift; his life was a gift. He refused to let them go to waste. He reminded himself that he was saving lives, even if it was destroying his.

After a year or so of being a hero, Eric was a broken man. Each night was harder than the last for him to put on his costume. He spent his days vomiting uncontrollably and crying so hard that he would pass out. He didn’t sleep much anymore as there was always work to be done. His body was battered tremendously and his mind was even more so, but he couldn’t stop.

Eventually he got to the point where reminding himself that he was making a difference no longer meant anything. It wasn’t enough to convince him to be the hero. One night everything came to a head. Eric had spent the day hyperventilating and blacking out. His frustration with his life was too much for him to take. He screamed and punched holes into the walls of his house. He grabbed outfit and started to puke as he put it on. Eric didn’t want this, not anymore. It was too hard. He began to punch himself in the face until his knuckles were wet with blood and tears. He then looked in a mirror at his face and saw the scar from the night he was shot. He rubbed his fingers over it, reminding himself of why he began being the hero; reminding himself that he prayed for this. Eric then shattered the mirror with his face, grabbed a broken piece of glass, and etched the word “Hero” across the skin of his chest. The blood dripped as he finished getting dressed. The wound stung as it pressed up against his clothes. But Eric, didn’t care anymore. He left the house to begin another night as the hero. He wanted to be the hero. He prayed to be the hero. Now he was The Etcher, and nothing else.

Drink With Me

It was a beautiful mid-July Sunday morning and Brian was getting impatient. It seemed to him that the pastor was purposely dragging his sermon out just to annoy him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat thinking about all of the things he would rather be doing at that moment. Brian never looked forward to Church, but this Sunday seemed more agonizing that usual. Finally, the service ended and Brian leapt out from his seat, relieved. He sped toward the door when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hey Brian, what’s the hurry? Got a hot date or something,” his friend Nick called out.

“Nope, I’m just dying to get out of these ridiculous clothes,” Brian replied as he slowed down to let Nick catch up.

“I hear that,” Nick said. “This tie is leaving marks around my neck.”

Brian and Nick walked out of the church and headed toward the parking lot. They were discussing their plans for the week when Brian saw her out of the corner of his eye. As usual when he saw Beth, Brian immediately lost his train of thought. He had liked Beth for a while now, but he could not work up the nerve to ask her out. Nick, being the good friend that he was, never missed a chance to rub it in.

“Beth sure is looking good today. I think I’m going to ask her out.”

“Very funny Nick,” Brian said while staring down his friend.

“Well, if you are not going to ask her out, I might as well,” Nick said. “A girl like that won’t stay single forever.

“I will I will,” said Brian with frustration showing on his face. “It’s just that she is way too pretty. I know I should ask her out, but sometimes I think I’m not good enough for her. But she is so amazing; I would sell my soul to have a chance with her.”

“Don’t say that,” Nick snapped while looking sternly back at Brian.

“Whoa, I think someone has been in church a little too long,” chuckled Brian.

“Come on man. You know I how I feel about that stuff. You may not care, but I take my faith seriously,” Nick replied with a concerned voice.

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Brain said while throwing his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “It was just a figure of speech. Besides, even if I did sell my soul, it probably still would not be enough.”

“You got that right,” said Nick. “You are way too ugly to land a fine lady like that!”

“Whatever jerk,” Brian said while shoving Nick.

They both laughed and went their separate ways. Brian met up with his family and they headed home. While in the car, Brian kept thinking about Beth and what he would do to have a shot with her. There wasn’t a thing about her that he didn’t adore, but the longer he waited, the harder it got to talk to her. Eventually he sighed, sat back in his seat, and thought to himself, “I would definitely sell my soul to be with her.

Later that night, Brian found himself having a hard time sleeping. His mind was clouded with violent and disturbing images as he tossed and turned in his bed. Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder that jolted Brian out of his restless slumber. He sat up in his bed; his heart was pounding and his body was shaking. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. After a few minutes, he was ready to lay back down to try and get some sleep. But, just as he was drifting off, he heard a sharp whisper echo through his room.

“Death is coming…”

Brian’s eyes lurched open. He sat up and looked around, but nobody was there. He thought he was just imagining things, until he heard the whisper again.

“Death is coming…”

As the sound dug into his brain, a grey mist began to fill up his room. Brian swore he could see faces in the fog, and they were all talking to him. Calls of “Death is coming” bounced off the wall while the mist swirled around Brian. He pulled the covers over his head and covered his ears, hoping to block out the whispers.

After a few minutes, the whispers stopped and Brian got up the nerve to poke his head out from under the covers. As soon as he did, however, he found himself face-to-face with an enormous cloaked figure hovering over his bed. Brian’s face went completely pale. He wanted to scream, but all he could do was to stare at the creature above him. While he sat there transfixed, the figure extended his arm toward Brian. In his hand, he held a beating heart dripping with blood. Brian looked on with disgust as the creature squeezed the blood out of the heart with his skeletal hand into a cup. It then offered the cup to Brian.

“Drink with me,” it chanted in dark, gravelly voice. “Have everything you ever wanted. Drink with me and obtain all your desires. Drink with me. Drink with me. DRINK WITH ME.”

Brian watch as the figured moved the cup toward his lips. Brian wanted to fight back, but he found his hands reaching for the cup. He no longer had control of his body; he was now at the mercy of Death. He didn’t want to drink the blood, but he found himself moving the cup closer and closer. He tried to shut his mouth, but he couldn’t. He almost gagged as the warm blood splashed against his tongue. He started to cry and the blood poured down his throat while Death continued to call “Drink with me…”

Suddenly Brian sat up in his bed, shaking uncontrollably. He looked around anxiously and was relieved to see that it was morning and everything was normal. It was all a dream. After a few minutes, he began to gather himself. He started thinking about what he was going to do for the day when the phone rang. He ignored it and began to get out of bed. Then, as he was picking out his clothes for the day, his mother yelled, “Brian, it’s for you.” Brian picked up the phone in his room and said hello.

“Hey Brian, it’s Beth,” said the voice on the other end. “Do you have any plans today?”

Brian’s heart sank and he began to panic. He started to feel faint, so he sat down on the bed. He repeated told himself it was just a dream. It was just a dream. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an empty glass sitting on his nightstand. Empty, except traces of blood that stained the inside.

And it Begins

Welcome everybody, to my new blog entitled "Jim Shorts." This will be a blog that features short stories about all sorts of subjects. Science Fiction? You bet! Fantasy? Why not!? Textbook Length Historical Dissertations? Ummm...probably not. But for the most part, anything goes as

my goal is to write as many stories as possible.

As a song writer, I have been leaning more toward creating story-driven songs as of late. The problem is that the music format that I am currently working in, there are limitations in how I can tell these stories. That being the case, I have decided to try a different avenue to get these stories out. By no means am I a professional author, but that is not going to stop me from trying to be as entertaining as possible.

I am very excited for this opportunity and I hope that you all will take this journey with me. It will be a challenge to come up with new stories consistently, but I am up to the task. And who knows, maybe one day I will be able to piece together a book of short stories. Either way, I plan on working as hard on this as I do with most things in my life. I am looking forward to writing these stories, and I hope that you are looking forward to reading them.

~Jim~