Greg Goble: The Collected Works

Epilogue: To the Book

In an attempt to break every classic rule of my first college English class, I will now talk to you, the reader, and I will address you as you, though for the sake of flavor and variety I will also address you as Adolf every once in a while to avoid monotony. The purpose of this epilogue as you may or may not know is as all the epilogues in this book. That is to tie up all the loose ends, add even a bit more spice to the stories and just in general give you something more to think about. You’re very smart, I can already tell, for two reasons. One; you are reading this epilogue which says volumes about you as a person and makes me want to deal with you as a person and not just a faceless reader. Two; you have more than likely read this book completely through, which makes me happy, because you know what Adolf; I think this is a very smart book. So now that we have established that you are indeed a smart person let us (just you and me) begin.
Even though this epilogue contains basic similarities to other stories in this book it is different in its content due to the fact that this is the epilogue to the entire book, which caused me to want to do something somewhat different yet similar with it. Let me first tell you a secret that isn’t going to shock you at all. Each story within the confines of this book was written as a completely separate thought. That being said, I will now attempt to convince you that this is in fact untrue, that there is a connection to each story from the last. That is the underlined purpose of this epilogue.
Our first tale begins as close to the beginning of time as I could get without infringing upon the civil liberties of time itself, so naturally, it came first. And as the Atheist Bible comes to a conclusion the human race is being born. Now, the laws of conservation tell us that things don’t just disappear, but you have to remember that these beings made all the rules and were all powerful so the rules really didn’t apply to them all the time. But let us assume that this law affects them at least somewhat and that all the magic power had to go somewhere. In this case I direct you to the cause off all happiness and trouble in the story. You know what that is don’t you Adolf? That’s right; the moon. So let us take the logical step that the moon would then have probably collected all the magic that was lost when the human gods became merely human. This assumption can also lead us to believe that somehow the moon must show that it has this power within it. All right, now that we have that out of the way, I can give you the next step. You know (I’m assuming) of the magic powers of the moon in many classic tales of horror and magic; werewolves and so forth. Well the powers of the moon could be summoned by their old masters if the proper words were used at the proper time. Women seemed to generally be able to harness the power the best and so witches were born. Which, of course, leads us into the Witch’s Truth, where Grathole Goline used these powers to, in a way, resurrect their original use of unleashing unhappiness and revenge. Well that step wasn’t so bad was it? Good, then we can move on. Do you remember the incredibly incorrect notion in this story of a woman being mayor? This phenomenon came about because Mayor Croll’s late husband had been a close personal friend of the King’s. In later years the threat of taking the position away would prompt her to allow James Callis’ spy to use her porch to start the war. So getting to The Operation wasn’t half-bad either. Skipping ahead in time to the epilogue of The Operation you probably remember the clone scandal as it dealt with the citizenship of the clones and how that allowed the government to use clones for many experiments. This allowed one of the greatest tragedies ever to be avoided. That was the tragedy that nearly wiped out the human race as the black plague was released in the end of Pocket Full of Posy. They thought they could stop it whenever they wanted (they being of course; them), and yes you guessed right, they couldn’t. In a desperate attempt to stop it, clones were manufactured with stronger natural antibodies and then injected with a very advanced stage of the plague. Eventually it worked and the anti-body was distributed and the plague was stopped. We’re doing good so far. You recall, that there was at least one election won by Callahan in which he never even left “the room”. This election was almost lost by Callahan, and had it not been for the death of his opponent’s son, as described in Lonely Party, Callahan would have lost that election. Since we’ve gotten that far let’s explore the rest of that party as the evening went on. Well, our town slut partied into the night right up until daybreak. She didn’t manage to get until late in the afternoon and when she got there she discovered that her brother (who had been sharing a house with her) had gone nuts that morning and with no one to help him get a grip on reality, had killed himself. We had our Mid-book breather together after that, but it really has no connection to the rest so we don’t even have to worry about it, so let’s move on shall we Adolf? After the mid-book breather I believe it is important that we ease back into things. So it only takes for me to say that sister was quite upset about the whole thing and sold the house following the death of her brother, to a young woman who was taking care of her mother. Neat huh? Hang on though, because we are going to get fairly complicated once again. Even though it is made painfully obvious at the epilogue of Finally Going Out that our pretty girl just doesn’t get it, I think that you might be able to argue with me that she is at least smart enough to not leave the bodies rotting in her living room. So you might be ready to ask me what she did with the bodies, you are so smart to ask such a question Adolf, because I just happen to have an answer. After she cleaned up, she threw the bodies in her trunk and went off looking for some inspiration as to how to get rid of them. However, she hadn’t eaten yet, and so she pulled into a fast food joint just off the highway. She walked in and saw a whole bunch of people dead (stabbed no less) and thought that this was a pretty good place to leave her bodies. As she pulled away she called the cops and forgot all about it. But at least she got us to Temporary Insanity. What our young friend did not know when she made the call was that it would slow the response time to another call that would come in just after involving a man who had taken several people in a jewelry store hostage and was shooting them left and right. So now you can understand how it is that Tori had enough time to come and get Steve. You remember that during At Any Cost we focused on a woman and her daughter, it was also implied that there was a father and husband waiting back at home for them. What you don’t know is that after he found out about the death of his family, this man was so horrified by the “civility” that he was a part of, that he escaped it by hiding himself far into the center of a deep wood. He couldn’t hunt very well and there wasn’t a lot of edible vegetation so he taught himself to hunt the simplest thing out there; humans. So we’ve gone all the way through A Walk Through The Woods together. Are you holding up ok Adolf? Good because we’re almost done. Remember the letter at the end of A Walk Through the Woods? Well it sat there next to his rotting body for a long time, until a young junior in high school found himself lost and wandered to the house. Inside, the young man found the letter and was appalled, he was so appalled that, without knowing any background (he didn’t have this book to reference), Alvin Sable blamed society and vowed to teach everyone a few lessons in human frailty. As we reached the end of Collect Them All, Sable was still very much in control but our detective wasn’t giving up. As Sable plotted out his next few victims he had decided to target a young priest, however he had to change his plans slightly because soon after, Jim Rodan went to England. But Sable was stubborn and he eventually followed Rodan and Foster followed him. Unfortunately they both arrived at the church on that Wednesday. Rodan was dead and Foster and Sable became the first victims of the gargoyle’s vengeance upon mankind. (Put together the epilogues of Collect Them All and The Three Rules of the Gargoyles and I’m sure that you will find the symbolism in these deaths.) Now, you remember Adolf, that the gargoyles didn’t kill very fast so it took them a while to reach the Americas (they took the long way). In fact it took them so long that it gave time for all the historical events at the beginning of the Atheist Bible to happen. So by the time that the letter was written at the end of The Three Rules of the Gargoyles the atheists in the United Colonies of Canada were among the last humans to ever walk the earth. Though I think the clones on Mars survived, I don’t know, what do you think Adolf?

The End

Prologue to: The Three Rules of the Gargoyle
Remembrance is a virtue,
Time is merely a shape, twisted and torn beyond recollection,
Thus, it seems that one who fears their own presence
Even still, that someone must be sure to comprehend their own pride,
Run, please run from the monster within,
And hide from your own faith, but be sure to cover your tail.

Do not use fancy hypno-talk to decree your loves.
Speak of care giving, but more of care taken away,
Lose your won innocence in a timely, surreal kingdom.
A kingdom with the infinity set to the entrance of the soul.

Here is where you
Realize you complete
Loss of that known
Only as
“Love”



















The Three Rules of the Gargoyle

Twelve hundred years ago a cathedral was built on the plains of England. Jirab Clossure was overseeing its construction. As its future priest he was very involved in all aspects of the construction of the cathedral. He looked at and approved each blue print of each sector before the work commenced. He personally cared for each injured worker and spent hours discussing intricate details with architectural designers. But there was one project in particular that he had insisted upon doing himself. This was the carving of the gargoyle statues, and as the cathedral neared completion he began his work.
Each morning Jirab would walk to the roof of the cathedral where two men would attach him to a harness and lower him down to the specified block of stone that he would work on that day. He made each carving intricate, taking time to put in detail that would never be seen from the distance. The eyes of each face were diligently detailed. Each nose was taken into great care so as to look like it belonged on each face. He gave each a personality that he distinguished with the smallest of details. He would give a wiser gargoyle a set of wrinkles. He would thin the lips and extend the teeth of an aggressive gargoyle. Each one became an individual that was a part of the whole mechanism meant to strike fear and wonderment into the masses that this holey place would one day hold. And finally the whole cathedral was finished.
The structure was a compliment to the modern architecture of the time. Each stone had been designed to fit the next in an intricate pattern, which surrounded, supported, and entered the structure. At the front were two huge doors that came together to form the outline of an arch. There was a deep black color that gave an impression of infinity when the large, oaken doors gaped inwards. Seeing the pure black open up to reveal the sparkling marble white floor created an affect that illuminated the inside of the building with a sort of “light at the end of the end of the tunnel” affect. As one walked into the cathedral the sights of jewelry and decorations that covered the walls of the entryway bombarded them. To the left, upon the walls of perfectly etched stone, hung a magnificent array of intricately designed gems set to capture the imagination and “inspire religion.” Small patterns of stars, circles, and crosses were set into a grand display of red, crystal, and green that all came together to form simply “I Am”. It was put in the beginning of the hall to counteract the affects of the right side of the same section of the hall. Here were painted crude and vicious paintings displaying the worst stories that the great book had to offer. Scenes of remorse and terror fronted for the stories of cruelty, misjudgment, and betrayal that continued down the hall’s wall. The two sides collided; heaven and hell’s battle, forever locked in brutal combat.
The end of the hall opened into a large room that was to be the mainstay for those seeking to give prayer and praise to God. The pillars that stood at the threshold of the invisible gate, like sentries, seemed to crawl through the air to the ceiling and slide down in a never ending, all encompassing, path that lead to nowhere and began in the same place, at the same moment. Through the surreal gate ran lines of pews that sat with the intention of making all people feel comfortable. Each one was carefully made and uniquely carved to fit a separate persona. Some were intricate and fancy, going so far as to be waxed, whereas others seemed raw and built by unprofessional hands. But each was made with a purpose; with reason and character constructed in the wood. Each was built to relieve, relax, and bring each person closer to God. Behind the altar, the construction created power, built confidence, and strengthened voices. Its obvious fault was corruption. Its ultimate intention was to test. Surrounding the altar was a cascade of candles which wrapped around it in perfectly placed position. One candle was set at the front of the stage in a long, slender tube that shined with a golden-brass color. It stood taller than the rest and shimmered in such a way that it drew the eyes to the person at the podium directly behind it. The surrounding candles each stood upon equally slender holds, slightly shorter and pure white. They were there to add majesty without taking any of the podium’s power. When the candles were lit they illuminated the face of whom ever stood at the podium to speak. The grandness of the scene created an enormous feeling of power unequaled by any synthetic experience. Jirab intended it this way so that all focus was directed at only one person. So that the feeling and the absolute power would bring about each sliver of corruption inside even the purest of men. He, of course, tested the display on himself before subjecting anyone else to it.
As Jirab took his place in front of that first crowd he attempted to make the display come to life in a chronological order, which he felt would bring about the greatest effect in cloaking the speaker in a shroud of power. One that if not handled properly would destroy their innocence. To begin, he took his place behind the podium. Then, one by one, his young helpers lit the candles. Two of them performed this task, beginning in the rear, with each going in opposite directions and both ending at the elaborate front candle. Then they would extend their lighters and together, light the last candle. The helpers would then disappear into the background invisible to every ones eyes, thereby creating a curtain affect that opened to reveal Jirab (or whoever was standing at the podium in that moment). The emotion that was connected to being revealed and isolated to crowd in this way made Jirab’s heart pump differently. Made his veins swell and his heart crash into his ribs ever so quietly. As excitement built inside him, his presence exuded confidence and calm. Inside he wanted to jump with joy, outside he was stone faced, demanding attention, and receiving it. The experience was unequaled and it seemed that any man could have made followers out of any number of men by standing in the flickering illumination. As Jirab spoke, he sensed this power. Without concentration he could have easily forgotten his weaknesses and turned them into wronging strengths. This is what he wanted and what he had hoped for. It was not impossible to retain ones dignity and self control but lesser men would not survive.
Outside the view contained a granite majesty. Towers with holy bells rose from the ground to touch the sky. The windows at the top providing only enough room to barely contain the swinging bells. The walls were roughly carved, keeping each large stone separated and unique from its uniform partners. The rough, elegant sides crawled to the ceiling and continued to its top, with each gargoyle proudly displayed. There were twenty-four of the water dispensing stone creatures in all. Jirab’s art had created a similarity that created a remembrance of each in the next. Through Jirab’s design each contained a character and a personality all its own.
Each creature stared out into the night with a different look and a different personality concealed behind their eyes. One set of eyes warned while another set was cruel and unforgiving. There were eyes that stared right through a person and others, which did not acknowledge any presence no matter how strong. Each look was meant to strike a different nerve of fear. Each eye, whether a look of dread, remorse, fear, or danger, was a look of immortal calm and endless patience. The eyes, though stone cold, enveloped on-lookers in the gaze of a bright shining sun that watched over and guarded each from the horror hidden inside the same gazing eyes.
The entire structure was Jirab’s definitive vision. The structure had developed from mind’s eye to a grand sight of stone and marble. Jirab had made this cathedral his life’s work, putting his heart and soul into its construction. His pride was especially reflected in his own humble quarters.
The room was small and isolated with the little decoration inside, symbolizing the essence of all that Jirab had sweated and worked for. It was a perfect eight and one half by eight and one half foot square that had been constructed in such a way so that as one entered the room and faced the wall opposite the door, they faced exactly north and to the left one faced precisely west and so on. Set in the center of the floor was an elaborate compass that was divided into thirty notches, each twelve degrees apart, and of varying lengths. Traveling east from the northwest corner of the room lay Jirab’s bed. It was in no way an elaborate setup. Merely four legs with a frame lay atop them. Above the frame was a cushion that lacked any sort of design within it. The bed was plain and ordinary. For who would it impress? There was no one that Jirab could imagine that would care what his bed looked like or how it was designed. Besides that he could not think of anyone who would have enough authority to enter his private quarters without his accompaniment and approval. Just south of the northeast corner of the room, was a piece of stone. The slab was fairly large, going almost half way up the eight and one half-foot wall. It was actually a piece of the outside wall that had been “shaven” to even the outside of the cathedral. The wall was a rough, crude piece that had not been polished and retained the original coarseness that had begun this project. The wall was rotated upon a connecting axis to the wall of the room at an approximate thirty-degree angle, letting in just enough to its back for all of Jirab’s purposes. Idle curiosity attracted all privileged eyes to this piece. In such an empty room it was... decoration. As the interested guest would near the stone, he would see carvings and as his eyes focused, the etches would turn into letters, and the letters to words, and the words into names. When Jirab would be asked who these men were he would respond by saying. “They are the mens’ names whose hands you may shake in thanks for the construction of this cathedral.” But most mistook this for the entire explanation of the ornament; it was not. It was on an angle for purposes of concealment and reasons to reveal. Written on the other side of the slab were more names. The names of the men no one would be able to thank for the cathedral’s construction. It was a much more private memorial which, Jirab Clossure felt, gave meaning to what these people had done. The ceiling and walls had been cut straight from the stone, allowing the room to remain a piece of the cathedral. The floor was a gray marble, peppered with white specks. The room was adorned no further.
The cathedral was his masterpiece and he treated and cared for it as such. He was careful to look for slight imperfections, and quick to fix them. Sometimes it was something so simple that Jirab would be able to repair it with the scratch of a fingernail. Other times it was something that could mean the difference between the survival and destruction of the cathedral. He frequently took walks around the structure to simply admire. It was on such a night that things would change, and tradition would be formed.
It was a warm night, the fog was lighter than usual, and the cathedral walls were luminescent in the basking glow of a full moon. Jirab’s steps were soft as he circled the outside of the cathedral. The warm air made the nipping breeze on his neck feel like the soothing touch of a cold hand on a hot summer’s day. It was a subduing feeling that relaxed each bone in his body. As he walked alongside the wall he watched it form in front of him. The elongated neck, the piercing, overbearing eyes, and the exposed, predatory teeth were his own design. They were his vision of a horrific leader, heading a frightening band whose only weapon was intimidation. The affect worked; even on Jirab. He stared into the overpowering affects of his own stone carvings. The gargoyles allowed the entourage of fear to run its course before speaking.
“Listen well.” The voice was deep and mystical. It echoed through the air with sound that surrounded Jirab, penetrated him, and engulfed him. The voice burned all around him, captured him, and ignited his soul. “A pact will we make upon this night, a contract for our pleasure. An agreement providing our cooperation. Three acts you will perform for us, three things that will be done, two punishments, should these not be carried out. One reward to complete your life. Our home is a glorious construction. Beautifully designed with grand intention. Our reward for your cooperation shall be the preservation of this structure to the end of immortality. The first two rules will be followed or death shall follow the breaching of the contract, punishment for the third will be much more severe. Should this rule ever be broken, it will be a sacrifice of your world.”
Jirab listened, frightened to speak, surprised to hear, and deep in thought. His mouth could emit no sound, and his ears swallowed each detail with an inquisitive interest that he could not shut out. He listened and analyzed everything. The voice did not seem right, it was so all encompassing, but it was one voice. The affect was something he could not see and nothing he would have foreseen. Throughout the outside of the cathedral each gargoyle spoke the same words in precise unison out into the open air. Jirab’s mind wallowed in wonder as he tried to process the decrees in a practical manner that shut out the idea of him listening to a piece of stone that was radically out of place. Was he simply imagining the entire thing? It would be so easy to pass it off as a vision created by the stress of all these years. But he could not take that chance with such serious punishments, and such a reward would only be worthy based on the demands. All these thoughts happened in a split second pause before the gargoyles continued.
“First; you will not perform public sermon on Tuesdays. You will use this day instead for your own personal, spiritual gain.
Second; the golden candle will be lit each night at sunset, and we shall extinguish it with the dawning of the sun.
Be warned once again that if these rules are not followed death shall befall he who is directly responsible.
Third; you will not leave this house empty.
And should it be left unguarded and our race endangered in such a careless manner; your race will not survive.”
The rules seemed simple, if a bit unusual, and easily followed. The most interesting request was the lighting of the golden candle. It was the only one without a purpose. A test of faith and trust perhaps. The reasoning was not important; the true concern was the threat of death for a task so easily accomplished. The idea behind the cancellation was clear and brilliant. It gave Jirab a day of rest and a day each week to renew his personal acquaintance with God. The third was an obvious decree of self-preservation, and its punishment was a warning that radiated with revenge.
The solid stone again began to move as though it were liquid. The gargoyle, so perfectly carved, melted into the whirlpool of the wall. Each pebble was swirled into the others in a flowing cold lava effect that molded and remolded in endless shapes. The phenomenon made its was up the wall where it reformed to the solid state of its origin. When it reached its original placement it reformed to its natural state as though it had never moved. Everything was back in place and the night returned to normal. Jirab stood with a hysterical calm trying to sort out the night. He wondered whether it was real. Whether any of it had happened.
He walked back inside to ponder the words and prepare the actions that would be required. It seemed to be set up in such a perfect way. The sun had set not long ago, tomorrow was Tuesday, and if the doors were closed to the world, he would be the only one left inside. But he did not know whether it had been real, and he did not know if the commands began immediately. The candle was a definite test, but it would also be his test. He reached for the matches hidden behind the podium and lit one. The spark rose to a flame, and the flame jumped to the candle, and the candle burned in the darkness. The wick and wax were of the finest quality and if it were extinguished when dawn settled, he would know to obey. He went to bed, to think, to sleep, and to dream.
Jirab awoke the next morning with one thing on his mind, which would turn to many more. He rose from his bed and went directly to see whether the candle was still burning. As he passed through the halls he felt anxiety building inside him, as he wondered if the flame would still be burning, and if he wanted it to or not. He still could not decide if the tasks justified the reward, but they were simple and could follow then easily. He turned the corner and there stood the candle; with the flame that he had set upon it the night before gone. It was not a crushing blow nor was it a tremendous relief. To Jirab it was merely proof of fact. This fact meant many things needed to be accomplished quickly. The doors would remain locked this day and Jirab would spend it praying, meditating, and growing. He had plenty to think about today and his main concern was a predecessor. He needed to find someone who would follow these rules in the blind faith of tradition, and who would pass them on along with the story of the night before. He stared at the empty wick of the foremost candle and let it all sink in, fade, and connect to him and to the walls of the building.
And so tradition was formed and a follower of the faith was chosen to pass on the story of the three rules of the gargoyle. Before he died, Jirab was given one of the highest honors of the day. The King of England gave Jirab a family shield and sword, which were hung in the walls of the cathedral to honor him. When Jirab died he had taken many precautions to choose a successor that would carry out all these things, and who would also be able to choose a successor who would do the same. Each new priest was carefully screened through Jirab’s own test upon the podium. And each kept the tradition of three rules that had become the basis to a story that was long ago forgotten to be real. Nevertheless the rules were followed and the cathedral never bore a scar.
For five hundred years the rules of the gargoyle were followed precisely, until a young man by the name of John Rodenburgh made a fatal mistake. Such a small mistake which could have been avoided so easily. It is amazing that things so simple become the curse of careless neglect, and that the consequence of that curse can be so serious as to kill. These are the lessons John Rodenburgh learned quickly and painfully.
John was a mere alter boy in those years where discovery was becoming a part of life and a young boy had many things on his mind, the least of which were keeping with age old tradition. There were so many new things to do and learn that John could not manage to keep up. School was becoming something common and being able to read was an exciting adventure that few in the past had been able to do. Reading was something that gave John such a thrill and he could not wait for the day that he would be able to pick up the Holy Book and follow along in its scriptures for himself. He would also spend some of his time hunting and practicing in the art of gaming. Of course, some of his free time was also spent in pursuing women. Though he was still young he was already being hassled be many of his friends who had already lost their virginity. John would proclaim in defense that he was an altar boy and would be doomed to spend eternity in hell if he was to lose his virginity while he remained an altar boy. The truth was of course that John could not convince a woman to bed him; but male pride allowed him to defy such a fact in front of friends.
The night of the doomed service was grand, as were most of the services held in the Cathedral Clossure. It was a crowded Sunday sermon, as all Sunday sermons were. People from every part of society came to confess their sins, praise their God, and learn the day’s lesson. The variety was provided by the uniqueness of the pews. They were designed to make everyone feel comfortable about entering the building, and the people they attracted were certainly diverse. Near the back corner of the auditorium sat six young men only slightly older than John, who would not have gone to church in their lives if not for the comfort offered by their seats. The pew in which they sat offered many things to make these men feel at ease. It sat in an inconspicuous corner that was shadowed so that it radically concealed the people who sat in it. To these men this was a relaxing feeling. For they attended the university and would not have felt good with the knowledge that everyone was watching as the “new breed of people”. The carvings set into the long wooden seat made them feel both a part of the church and a part of this new world of ideas that they were exploring. Scriptures that defined the goodness and the need for knowledge were written all across the lumber beginning at its back and traveling the length of it. When there had been no more room to finish the last scripture, it had been transferred to the back of the next pew. Those four words, though accidental, became an imminent symbol of the pew's feel. “... now I can see.” The tribute to the pew had continued from there and had become an intricate piece of the aura of the seating. An appropriate quote was placed in front of each seat to make each person feel at ease. Those who sat in the front were expected to feel so comfortable with their surroundings that they needed nothing more. The affects at the altar were great, as always, and the day went well. The night was drawing closer and the time for lighting the candle was close. That night John was told to light the candle; that night John did not light the candle.
The details of why are unimportant. The specifics of how do not matter. The knowledge that the candle was not burning meant everything.
The mind of a unified creature captured the image of a lonely string void of flame. The image was noted as a mistake. As something which displayed lack of responsibility and carelessness. A simple mistake which stemmed from a simple task. The test of loyalty and understanding had been ignored. The punishment for such ignorance would be nothing unique, but most impressive. Death was universally effective and usually unforgettable, if done correctly.
The flame lit up the marble white floor and was extinguished by the breath of the cathedral with the dawning of the sun. Two days had passed since the sun had risen without the tension of the moment tightened the walls.
The sermon began in its normal manner and would continue at an unexpected angle that would shock, amaze, and remind. The beginning was typical as the arrogance of power began to overtake the podium. John and his mirror altar boy were lighting the candles in their sequential order. They met at the center candle and simultaneously lit its string. They separated and allowed the curtain to open. And as quickly it started to close. From corners that separated wall from floor they emerged. In two equal numbered parts they came. From opposite sides and similar edges they closed the curtain and contained the captivation. Everyone watched the creatures they knew so well wander to an unknown goal.
The creatures moved in different manners according to the biology of their anatomy. The gargoyles that lead each band of invincible warriors had no legs or wings. The bottom of their bodies melted in the floor with the same thick liquid waves as Jirab had seen so many years earlier. The stomach of their bodies swam through the fluid as both groups began to converge upon Johnathan. Behind the front lines followed the largest of the gargoyles. These impressive monsters emerged from the wall like shadows taking form and color. The large, stone, muscular bodies rippled with the atonement of lethal enforces. As their feet rose with each step the liquid floor beneath remained attached to the bottom of their feet, following every move, every rise, every fall. Their wings flared in an impressive display that created, enhanced, and induced fear. Behind the giant brutes of rock followed the quicker and far more aggressive small soldiers. Some crawled on all four legs, while others walked on two short compact legs. With each movement these creatures created different waves in the floor beneath them. The waves were chaotic with no set pattern whatsoever; that randomness added to their image. This last line of attack was the picture of insanity. It began with the non-uniform movement and climaxed in their faces. Their stone cold eyes burned with unfocused fury. With teeth bared they began to run in and break rank. The slaughter had begun.
With their fury finally focused they began the ruthless killing of young John Rodenburgh. With razor sharp stone claws they dug into any part of his body that their hands struck. They attacked quickly and efficiently with the most amount of damage that could be inflicted without killing. Blood ran from every part of his body. The red liquid ran as thick as the floor beneath the attackers. It gushed from his stomach and dripped from his mouth. Each shoulder was a patch of dark crystal red. The initial attackers stepped back and allowed the flesh and blood to drop to the floor and drowned in the pool of marble. Death was imminent for the tragic young example, but by no means quick. The advancing front lines reached him simultaneously from each side. With casual grace they crawled up the mangled form until they had reached its neck. There each mouth took one half of the soft fleshy neck, allowing the head to teeter upon the wind, and drop to the floor. The death being accomplished they crawled away and one large, menacing gargoyle stepped forward. It grabbed the head as it began to sink, following the rest of the figure into the floor. The beast displayed the head for many seconds and let it sink once more. And once again the curtain opened, revealing the shocked face of an unprepared priest and no evidence of the slaughter that had been displayed for all. In the priest's mind three words rang over and over; “do not forget”. The three rules were followed for another seven hundred and tradition was saved.
For twelve hundred years the cathedral stood like a polished ornament in a land that was quickly decorated and redecorated. The stones remained as new. The walls and floor had never been scrubbed but they shined with brand new finish. The structure looked fully restored but had never been. For so many years not a stain embellished its body. Until Jim Rodan announced his presence.
Jim Rodan was a man with new ideas and fresh views of the world and its workings. He was next in line for the priesthood of the cathedral. He was an American who had devoted his life to God, and vowed to serve him at all cost. His education far exceeded any of the other priests in the history of the cathedral. Four years at a university had preceded his arrival. He was a man who allowed common sense to interfere with his judgment, and was not a man to let superstition and “true religion” mix He carried an explanation with him for many previously unexplained things. He had spent countless hours of his collegiate study examining the intricacies and apparent magic of the structure. But the realization of its grandeur was only present upon entering Cathedral Clossure. Father Rodan’s impression as he first walked in was no different than the impression of millions of other people throughout the centuries as they had entered the sanctuary. Despite his studying and all his former knowledge, it was still awe-inspiring. He thought he was prepared and that made it far more impressive. He entered with ideas of revision and renewal. He wanted to add to its majesty; in a word he wanted to modernize.
Physically he was like the flickering light of the golden candle. The most important piece in an intricate system of influence and power. But alone he was also as bright as that one flickering light. His forehead wrinkled with ages of worry set into the young skin. His face was clean shaven with the bones of his cheeks protruding in an impression of what was seemingly malnutrition. His arms and body looked no better. To watch him from a distance, it seemed as though one was staring at a dead man. But close up he was one of the most intimidating and powerful men to ever come up against; his only influence were his eyes. That deep granite color could influence, ignore, and weaken in the same moment. They swallowed people whole, consumed them, and digested them by any means chosen. They were a weapon that he had learned to harness, and one he used with no care of pretense. In all situations he knew he could control anyone, and he did often and affectively.
He began his position by looking over the budget and evaluating things that could be cut and things he felt should be improved. That night many changes were made on paper and an ancient contract was broken. His first sermon went well. He spoke of change and improvement. He explained that change was a part of God’s plan and that the time to dispel ancient rumors had come. For twelve hundred years the cathedral had been closed each Tuesday. Now it would be open, because change was imminent and progress and the care of the people needed to come before the enforcement of rules created for no biblical purpose. That night the candle was not lit. It was Monday. The next morning the doors remained unlocked and the people came for the only Tuesday sermon. Tuesday night the candle remained unlit. Wednesday morning Cathedral Clossure would be empty.
As father Rodan wandered the halls that night he met his end. It began in the form of eighteen rather small stone figures. The aggressive gargoyles came from the opposite end of the ball. The first lunged for his side. The snapping jaws gripped soft flesh and tore. Jim Rodan began to run. Blood drooled from his side as he made a frantic attempt to escape. From the corner of his eye he saw the glint of medal that could save him. He grabbed the sword that stood as a tribute to the memory of Jirab Clossure. It lay heavy in his arms and flexed the torn muscle at his side. He screamed as the blood ran hard. Another gargoyle leapt with its teeth exposed and his claws outstretched. Jim bore down on the pain and swung the sword. He watched as the stone disintegrated from the contact of the metal and completely disappeared. More leapt and more were massacred. One by one they disappeared into an unseen nothing. Unseen by Rodan. Unheeded by the collective soul of the gargoyle. As they disappeared, Jim watched two snake-like heads slowly advance toward him. Again he swung his sword, again they vanished. A large intimidating gargoyle followed. Confidence flowed through Rodan and he swung once more, and once more the threat was gone. Two of the same followed with the same result. Twenty-three gargoyles had been vanquished; one remained. This last one was not one. It had the mind, knowledge, and flesh of all the rest. Jim swung again, but this time he missed. The speed was incredible. The slash of razor slicing his back was painful. They started between the shoulder blades and cut down to his tale bone. The blood fell like water from his back. The surge of pain caused him to drop the sword. The great beast lifted him by his neck. The stone eyes stared into his silver-gray ones. He could not penetrate them. The blood ceased to flow and his air supply ran dry. Black filled his vision and he slumped over and died. With his death two rules were enforced and the third rule of the gargoyle was broken.



































Epilogue
I am writing this letter in hopes that some sentient being may still survive this dreaded world of death that we have inherited. Death covers our land in every form. Corpses lie in the streets. Some bleed, some lay dry with age, and others in this world where civilization has been lost to time and tragedy. The, now, almost ancient art of vorkanism is one of the most popular methods of death available. There are, of course, other methods of death. There are many slow and painless methods, many quick painless methods, and many painful deaths, both quick and torturous.
People die all around me in every form and I watch them and I wonder how I should choose to die. A man down the street and on its opposite side confides in vorkanism. He sits at the edge of the road with the tank of mixed gas standing next to him. He places the small, plastic mask over his mouth and nose; and turns the nozzle. The gas flows through the clear tubing with a green mist. The man breathes deeply and lets the toxins slowly drift him to sleep. His sleeping state slows the flow of blood, and the poison stops it. He is a lucky man; but he is a coward. Someone who took the easy way out of a situation that we must all find a way out of. No. I will not go out that way. Not when I think of what this earth has gone through because of my people. Down the road somewhat closer to me a younger man makes a bolder escape. He injects himself with the most potent mixture of drugs that he could accumulate. He sits there and lets the high reach its absolute maximum. Then he reaches for the knife sitting in front of him. With his senses completely stymied he plays the knife across his chest with murderous results. Others find even strangers ways of bringing out creative genius and combining it with death and pleasure. A woman stands naked and offers her body to any man who will behead her with her sword after he has been relieved. It is tempting to end her life in such fashion, but my own suffering would continue. And why should she be allowed to be free when I will remain in torment. Infinite methods of death abound in this world; at this time. But one death above all the rest is the most horrid. Attempted survival.
To be killed by refusing to sacrifice your life is by far the worst way to die in this age, and some feel it is the only honorable way. Those who will not submit to their environment and choose to survive among the carnage, proudly damn themselves to the final demise. For these people, death arrives in a stone cold form that detriments their life before destroying it.
Rumor has it that this destruction originated with two men. Ancient cousins who broke ancient rules at different periods in time. They say the first broke only one rule and the second broke all three. What the rules were no one can say. We only know that they were broken, and that we wish they would not have been.

Post Script I would leave my name, but in this day and age when the importance of existence is so extreme and that of education so minor. I regret to think that I will write it for naught.

Prologue
I will fight the society that has caged us all.
Our fate will all be the same, there is no reason to fear.
I take out the hidden device from my bag,
Set it on the wax floor on which I sit.
The casing sits open in front of me now
Wires dangling from one end
Needing only to be connected.
My mind would never succumb to them
I wouldn’t allow it.
And so I was driven to this by this society.
And the wires will be connected.
I reach for them with half a thought to stop.
I recall the treatment that I realized
Better to do this, than to let so many more futures demise.
The wires are connected,
And here I wait.
As the bleachers are filled with thousands of me;
I will not let myself succumb
I will be right here to press my thumb upon the button
And as we all fight, we all die.
As my thumb rests on that button
I wonder if things can really change
I wonder if nothing will come of it.
Either way it will be done
I will fight the society that has caged us all
And if we do not win,
We will escape.















Collect Them All
Look at me, I am ridiculous. Here I am, running from this man because I am scared and I know that he is after me. He collects them you know, and now he’s after mine, or at least those of mine that he doesn’t have already. He’s always been very meticulous no matter who it was, but I think he enjoys mine the most. I have chased him from one end of the country to the other; at times I have had to run, that is what I am doing now.
My name is William Foster; Special Agent William Foster, currently assigned to case #37850. The case is a strange one and I have been on it since I discovered Alvin Sable and his strange addiction and great ability. Sable is a collector, but he is not someone who collects something safe, he is a collector of something that he calls only “them”. “Them” is simply body parts that he takes from people. He is a most gifted human being to be sure. He is a man of great strength, and superior intelligence, that is how he has evaded me all these years. If he could not outsmart me than he merely shoved me aside and went along his way. But his mind does not allow him to do his collecting irrationally and without order. Instead he will only take one of them at a time; that is to say one per day. And he will not lock up his victims or keep them captive in any way after he has collected his one of them for the day. He takes his collector’s item and lets the people go. He loves to chase them all night after night, not letting them sleep, making them afraid of every moment.
I first came across Sable five long years ago, on a Tuesday night while walking through McArthur Park. I was taking a stroll through the park and watching for any trouble that came about (I’m a cop, that’s in the job description). It was a very clear night, the moon was shining full in the air, and all the street lamps were on. Everything seemed to be calm. The placidity was not odd. McArthur Park was a place where people usually felt safe; even at night. The high-pitched, pain filled scream of a woman broke the casualness of the park. I ran in the direction of the sound and came across a woman huddled in a fetal position cradling something in her hand. I quickly looked around to see if anyone else was there. And there he was, standing there immensely ominous. He had broad, straight shoulders, with a roman nose that cast an odd shadow about his face. His eyes were so confident and cruelly cold. His body was lean and muscular. His hair was black and cropped extremely short. I began walking towards him; as I did so I removed the pen and pad that I always carried with me and said to him, “Excuse me sir, could I have your name please.” If nothing else I at least wanted to have his name so that if he got away later I could look him up again in the future.
Then with a deep, not quite sing song voice he replied, “What’s in a name?”
I wasn’t prepared to play mind games this night and I said to him, “I didn’t ask for a quote from a dead poet, I asked you your name. Now you can either tell me your name or I can get it out of you down at the station.”
“So, you’re not a reporter.” The realization washed over him with little effect other than a slight change in his posture.
The patience that he spoke with in that dark voice was beginning to get maddening and I was beginning to get sick of him in the wake of pain that the woman made so obvious with another horrendous scream.
Then, without warning, I heard heels click just once and watched as the man bowed before me. “Alvin Sable, at your service, how may I be of assistance?”
“You can start by calling an ambulance, this woman is hurt.”
“I’m afraid that is something that I cannot do detective, it is detective is it not?” I nodded. “For you see the one thing about this woman that you should know and understand is that she is just one of many and that eventually, with patience, all those many will be collected. By me.”
I was in such shock by the manner in which he spoke about the poor defenseless girl lying there on the floor that when he announced that there were others and that he was collecting something, it almost didn’t register with me. He said the words in a matter of fact mannerism that seemed to carry a tinge of ... ownership. It was like he was talking about property. And the look in his eyes when he said it, was a look of unforgiving intensity. He was looking right through me. It didn’t matter who I was; he didn’t have enough caring in his heart to distinguish a newly met personality. What I did find out later was that he also has enough intelligence to hate on an extremely personal level, all the people that he hunts.
“Make a decision quick detective. You can come after me, or you can help the girl. The advantages and repercussions of either action are obvious. This is where your conscience is tested and we find out what kind of person you really are. Goodbye detective.”
With that he turned around and began to leave. I wanted to charge after him, slam him to the ground and nestle the end of my gun delicately in the soft flesh and cartilage of his temple. But something that I pride myself on something that has, I believe, always separated me from the men that I capture and send to jail is my ability for human compassion. My depth in caring for all people and my conscience, which at that point had not been tested, guided me to the fallen woman who needed more immediate help.
She was panic stricken, terrified, and bloody when I got to her. Cradled, just as she had been when I first found her, she hugged one knee with one arm, the other arm was hidden inside her, tucked away so that she didn’t have to see what had happened. I walked over and placed my hand on her shoulder, which sat higher than her head as it lay hidden away in the crevice between her legs. She mumbled and cried with a horrific quality. Standing by her for a short time, I realized that she wasn’t so much hurt as scared into submission. When she finally looked up at me her face was a wreck. It was smeared with blood, not belonging to it. Her jaw constantly quivered and flapped her bottom lip like a piece of loose skin flopping in a constantly changing wind. She looked at me with eyes that were filled with tears and fear. Some strange combination of raw terror and sporadic gushes of adrenaline to her system caused an incredible affect in those eyes. They closed up, then dilated, then closed, and once again dilated with the speed of her horrified breathing. Those wild eyes looked deep into mine for half a second before she could say anything. Then, with much effort, she made the mumbling understandable and controlled enough that short phrases were finally inferable.
“Help.” Were the first hushed words to emerge. Then came things that didn’t make sense to me then but that I understand very clearly now (as I run). “He said, he, he, he, ... collects them. Coming back for more, for rest, then something else.”
I made every attempt to stay calm; I still had little to no idea what was wrong with her. “What’s wrong? I want to help but I need to see or you need to tell me what is wrong.” The wild, radical eyes turned away from me seemingly reaching into the cradle hidden beneath the roof of her knees. They pulled out a terrifically horrible sight. Her hand emerged and where once there had been a ring finger, blood ran out like students on the last day of the school year. They ran from a white beacon of intruding light that was the remainder of bone left on the finger stub. My head turned and my eyes shut in automatic response to such a lurid sight. My next breath came in quickly and sharp, I held it in, tried to keep my heart out of my throat, and calmed the rapid blood flow through my own body. When I had recovered enough to think clearly I grabbed the handkerchief from my breast pocket and pressed it firmly against the stump that had once held a finger. As the cloth touched the wound it was drenched by the free flowing blood then rapidly thrown to the side. The young lady was snapped from the dreadful quiet psychosis and screamed “No!” in an ear-shattering pierce as she flung her arms outward in random directions striking my face and smearing it with blood. My head jerked back with the unexpected reaction. I backed off for a moment and grabbed the still flailing shoulders and waited for the woman to calm down. Gradually her grip on reality tightened and she regained some sense of composure and sanity. Her eyes weren’t quite as wild, though they retained some psychotic qualities, and her breathing, though still traumatic was not as heavy. She looked at me with those eyes, still lined with psychosis, and whispered, “He said, he’d be back for the rest some time. Said I wouldn’t know when, said nothing could stop him. He said he’d be back.” She couldn’t talk anymore; tears and fear choked words back. I took the handkerchief and once again covered the wound as I helped her to her feet.
After that first encounter I was determined to find this man and put him away, quickly. My goal was to make absolutely sure that no one else would lose a finger to this horrible man. I stayed at police headquarters, recounting the story, making sure that the victim was guarded and secure. My first lead amounted to nothing. As far as our computers knew Alvin Sable did not exist. We scoured the park and surrounding region; there was nothing. We stationed undercover men around the entire area that he had last been seen in. When midnight came around, everyone was on their guard. Four hours later it was still tense, we were still waiting, but hopes were beginning to diminish. We thought that we had guessed wrong, and people began to go home, and people replaced them. Eventually it seemed as though our man had taken the day off. He had said he would be back, he had not said when. Then with unexpectedness he had struck again. This time one of our own men. An undercover agent, who had worked the morning hours, then had gone home. He had been mowing his lawn when the attack came.
When I arrived at the hospital to check on him he had a closed-in claustrophobic look in his eyes and I only needed one look in his face to know that the same man had attacked him. I sat next to him on the hospital bed doing everything that I could to avoid staring at the large ball of gauze wrapped around the hidden left hand. I looked at him piteously and asked how this had happened. The shock of what had happened seemed to wash over him once again as it must have seconds after the attack. He looked so small and sullen in this moment; certainly not the man that I had known for so many years on the force. Gradually, he calmed once again and began to recount his tail
“I’d been home for a couple hours Bill. You know; saw the wife, kissed the kids, took a nap, had some dinner, then went out to mow the lawn. And Bill,” he added “you know me as good as anyone, and you know I am not the type of person to be mowing the lawn the same day every week. Anyway I’m not sure what that has to do with much but it just strikes me as odd that it would happen on the day that we perform this investigation and while I was mowing the lawn.” I nodded my head filing away the information; not thinking much of it but wishing he would just go on. “I’m sorry Bill I’m getting sidetracked. I hadn’t even gotten a quarter of the grass done when the attack came. It was absolutely amazing Bill. He grabbed me around the neck from behind and all the sudden my air supply was completely cut off by an iron strong forearm. He didn’t say a word to me, but I tried to fight back. Everything I could do he seemed to have an instantaneous reaction for. Nothing fancy; I tried to kick him in the groin and he twisted his hips and locked his thighs together. Then with his free arm he grabbed hold of my arm.” He arched his neck and with his nose pointed at the bandage, now beginning to seep blood. He seemed to reflect for a moment. “They’ve already changed it twice since I’ve been here.” Then he went on. “I was trying to think of something, anything that I could do. But it’s hard to think when there is no oxygen traveling to your brain you know. Well he took that hand Bill, and he raised it just high enough so that I could watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off what was happening, I wanted to so bad, you have no idea how badly I wanted to look away, and I just couldn’t. He took my hand and passed it from the one that had been holding it to the one attached to the arm across my neck. His other hand disappeared for a moment and then I heard him pull the knife. It was so scary, so terrifying, I heard every inch of that blade emerge from its sheath. Then I watched the blade flash upward for a moment and watched again as it came slicing down on my finger.” At this point his eyes got a little wider, he sat up with some urgency and stared me down saying as he did, “Only one finger Bill. It seemed impossible to be that accurate and cut that clean. He didn’t even nick another finger, and he took it all the way off with just that one stroke. It started dropping to the ground and just as that started the pain kicked in, I felt myself blacking out from the lack of oxygen and intense pain, and then he let go of me. I wish he had held on just a little longer I would have been unconscious but the rush of air to my lungs brought me fully awake. And just as that happened I felt a fist drive into the middle of my back, and then a knee slam hard into my stomach and the air that I had just taken in was forcibly exhaled. I couldn’t move I just lay on the ground as I watched his back bend over and pick up my finger and run off and disappear. Be careful Bill this guy is really good. Through all the fighting and struggling I did he didn’t sweat one drop or breath one hard breath.” Then the nurse came in and asked me to leave, explaining that they needed to change his bandage. And so I left the hospital with once again renewed determination to catch this man who had eluded me thus far.
And day after day, night after night he took yet another finger and added yet another victim; each while displaying himself in some different manner. Each account of the attacks was slightly revealing. I would sit for hours recounting the stories in my head, trying to perceive where he might strike next, and when. Certain patterns were unmistakable after a time. This man would take but one finger each day; no more. He never restrained his victims longer than it took to possess their finger. He always took the finger. And always the tale of what had happened was recounted with frightening details etched, it seemed, purposely into the victims minds. Things that he would say were repeated again and again by the victims. Things such as a polite but harshly under toned thank you, or a gruffly whispered, “This is but the first.” In most cases it seemed that he almost always made it clear that he was not through with these people. And so they slept in fear. But never was there an account of any exhaustion or tiredness of any kind, he seemed immortally energetic and godly strong. And he always disappeared without a trace; the only sign of his ever being there was the lack of a finger. Then, after a full thirteen days and thirteen victims, the undercover agent showed up at the hospital once again. He had been the second victim before and as we waited for the pattern to start anew or continue as old, he jumped to the center, where again we would be caught naked and unguarded.
Now once again it became a guessing game. We knew who the victims had been, we knew that he would strike one each day, and I knew that he couldn’t stop. As to who would be next we did not know. We kept close watches on them all each day, yet each day another lost a finger. Sometimes his technique remained crude but it was always efficient. At other times he was the most devilish of characters, striking in disguise or completely without warning. And as the list narrowed down security became tighter, there were fewer places for him to strike. But still he managed to simply outwit us, until there was but one man left and I was by his side that entire day.
This man was no fool and he knew who waited and he knew just what he would do. The young man and I sat and talked on his porch in the mid afternoon. I was on my toes with my wits about me and as they say, my eyes peeled; I was ready for anything this ingenious madman could bestow upon me. Or at least I thought that I was. When he struck there on the man’s porch it was suddenly and truly unexpected. He attacked crashing up through loosened frame boards in the porch; he must have lazed there all day long, biding his time and waiting for just the right moment. Honestly I did not expect the attack, neither where it cam from nor when he pounced it upon us. He leapt straight up landing on secure boards and taking the finger he desired. The biggest surprise was that it was my own finger that was so swiftly taken. Pain seared through and blood gushed from my wound and I could do nothing but stand dumbfounded as my man swiftly disappeared once again. I was taken to the hospital and treated, and only then did the brainpower I faced truly hit me. And I knew at once that somehow that man’s second lesson (as I now know he calls his collections) would be given and another limb of freedom lost.
How I learned of his psyche is a curious thing that mostly seemed to happen all at once. Eating at home one morning I received a phone call from that man. He was very arrogant as he talked, telling me that I would not stop him and that now I could ask all the questions that I wished. And as I began, I asked the question that bothered me the most. “Why do you do these horrible things?”
There was a pause ... “Because I must collect them, because the lessons need to be given to everyone that they cannot stop me and that I will have them all.” ‘Why do you need them all. Doesn’t it prove that you’re superior to them in all ways by taking just one thing?”
“Tell me detective, what is this country based on? What is the foundation on which it stands to this very day? Is it not freedom? The right of an individual to use his own will and exercise his own values to accomplish what he feels should be accomplished in his own life? But these freedoms have lead to evil and chaos in this country. If each and every person’s soul could be swallowed up and taken from them; if their precious free will could be deprived of them and replaced with obedience and the understanding of why others dislike what they do; then this would be a near perfect world which we could live in. That is why I must have given all the lessons and taken with each lessoning one more tool of free will before I can feel satisfied.
Now I wanted to play with his mind, get further inside his head. “Why only one a day? Wouldn’t it be easier to take three or four or all of them?”
“Easier? Yes it would be easier, but don’t I have it easy enough now. Each person knowing that I will be back, none knowing when or how, each spending endlessly sleepless nights waiting for the thing they wish would not come. It is the hunt and the game that thrills me and keeps me doing it.”
He seemed almost nostalgic at the end, like a man reveling with the joy of an exercise that resulted in such heinous a crime. He gave me only seconds more to hear his breath before hanging up.
That conversation rings so clearly in my head even as I run from him once again. I ran before when he took both my second and third finger. I was lucky, most don’t ever get a chance to run, they are taken so completely by surprise or have submitted to death so easily that they see no point to running. One man upon his eighth lesson told me he might as well just sit back and take it, that another lesson was as inevitable as the next school year, or the rising sun.
And so he chases me still and I still run. And somewhere in the back of my head I know that it cannot be avoided. He has outmaneuvered me, out muscled me, and outsmarted me with little problem in the last five years. I know in that struggling part of my soul that one day he will own it too. That one day when the fight has run out in me and I can no longer run I will wait patiently for him to collect me also. But for now I will run from him trying to save my soul; that is what he finally takes. When all ten fingers have been removed, the head is then taken and along with it the soul; that is where his true collection begins.
Now he has caught me, and once again I hear the blade drawn from its sheath as it was described to me all those years ago on that second day, and then many times afterwards. He knees me hard in the groin and the pain surges through my body. I try to fight back but he is too strong and submission begins to wash over my body and I feel the blade make another cold, calculating strike, to yet another finger. I can look up just in time to feel that familiar pain wrench at me and watch the blood drain from me. And when I look around he will be gone and I will again chase him and he will, one day, hunt me yet again. It is a dangerous game I play I know, but I haven’t learned all my lessons yet. And I will stop him before I graduate.






Epilogue: Author’s Note
There are a few things that I feel need to be explained, that came across in this story but that I hid for my own selfish reasons. The first of these is the true meaning of the story I don’t know if I got that point across vividly enough with the allusions that I made but I will try to clarify. Secondly I would like to explain some of the text and grammar used in the story and why it was chosen in the way which it was. Last I think that it is important to make understood why I chose the number of “collectibles” that I did in this story.
To begin I want to make it clearly understood that this was not a story about a man with an obsession, it is about a certain circle of society with an obsession. The circles of society run into each other at certain cross roads and this branch has corrupted the whole of society for too long. That section is of course education.
There is school and there is education and the two both come from the same philosophy, however the idea of school and the reality of education differ so greatly that they are hardly recognizable anymore. The idea of school is one of expanding minds, of taking an open and a willing mind and giving it the knowledge that it needs to make decisions, to grow and to make life better and more fulfilling for everyone. The reality of education is a mind warping, brainwashing juggernaut that, instead of giving someone the ability to form insight and create things that will make them or anyone else better off, has used the youth of America to attempt to create a standard that all should abide by. It is used to set down a set of rules that will not rock the boat. Education is thrust into the lives of every child with no choice as to what direction you will face or whether there may be a better idea somewhere out there that someone has not thought of. Instead education teaches people to think in a certain way about certain things. It teaches them to behave in a certain pattern because it is a standard that should be followed so as not to upset the balance of things. The process of education slowly takes away the ability to think freely about anything it shows a person that a certain train of thought is “the right one” and that is where things should stay. If school were taught correctly it would be a place where new ideas flourished and were explored. Where these ideas were allowed to be examined by each separate mind and decided on. School would be a place for blossoming conversation and heated debates on all matters not just the ones that an “educated society” feels would not make things too asymmetric for them. The idea of school and the reality of education are so separate that it has become the only occupation where the underbelly of government allows the people to pay for its existence to allow the older generation a substantive reason for believing that they should control its outcome.
In the story the main characters represent the two separate things. The detective represents the idea of school and the fighting spirit of anyone who denies the educational system its easy ride through the rest of society. Alvin Sable represents the reality of education as it is seen now. Each time he takes a finger from a person it represents another loss of free will and freethinking. The heartless manner and obsessive way in which Sable collects his items is a representation of the cruel, methodic, and uncaring methods that education uses to accomplish its goals. Things are done in a certain order with a certain precision and nothing is allowed to stand in its way.
To explain the grammar of the story I turn to Kurt Vonnegut Jr. who explained so well that when he used And to begin so many sentences it was to represent the continuation of so many things. The same method was used here. The And and But sentences of the story show the continuing struggle that will never rest because of the opposites of the idea and the reality and the exceptions that are so often made and more often talked about.
As for the number of items, it is really very simple. I wanted one thing for each year of public school, as I know it. Ten fingers, a head, then the final insult was to own the person’s soul their very essence and being.
This story has no true ending and neither does its epilogue. When the fight is over maybe I’ll rewrite it but for now the two things keep going back and forth and neither seems to gain much.

Prologue
Dive into that place you know so well
See how calm and placid that you were
Feel the smells as they rustle through your eyes.
Once you were down, and they kicked you
Oh so hard.
Escape from this place; find a way out
Run through this space; you know it so well.
Look more closely, you know nothing of this place.
Death approached without a single word.
You breath just fine, your stomach on fire.
Look for a new way; you will know so well
Make it complete; make it your life.
Live in question with something familiar.
Do not question or your flaws you will see
Live to the fullest no matter what it takes.
You have been swallowed
You cannot be complete;
Without the madness that you swallow.


















A Walk Through the Woods

Chip could feel the breeze in the air as he wandered through the sweet fragrance of the woods. It crawled along his shoulders, and massaged his back with its cool, gentle breath. The brightly colored leaves, so gentle and tender were whisked away from the long branches of sycamores and oaks by the fragrant fingertips of the wind. Only the brave evergreens cursed the wind and defended its branches with the sharp needlepoints of its leaves.
Now, almost as in answer to the defense of these trees, the wind began to rise. No longer a gentle serenade, it now became a grand symphony. And like a great god, showing its immense power, caused the giant trees to bend at its will and bow to its power. Chip looked at the once bright sky - now a collage of blue, black, and gray - and decided to head back home. There was however one problem, which way was home? Lost: the frightening thought ran through his mind as he looked at the many twisting paths he could have followed here. He looked out along the possible paths that he could have taken to reach this point. By this time he had wandered deep enough into the woods that no matter which path he looked at no matter what direction he could have come from, it was ever so possible that he could have come from one just as likely as the next. A twinge of panic began to set in and Chip looked hard at the different paths. Some were very well worn, others were just the first inklings of a path that very few had followed. He didn’t know what his path’s consistency had been and suddenly the twinge was outright panic. He turned in the direction from which he believed he had come and ran.
As he unknowingly ran farther into a depending abyss of fear, - which at present was the middle of the woods - his panic grew. His steps became longer and faster as the adrenaline pushed him into random turns. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for something familiar in this total stranger he thought he knew so well. The wind howled in his ears screaming for him to go home; but his panic overpowered him and would not allow him to answer the strange summons. Presently, the wind slowed as Chip’s energy flickered away, and the natural sounds, other than the screaming wind, began to enter into his ears just loud enough to make them out.
But what should have been a comfort to Chip, soon became an unparalleled discomforting fear. To Chip’s left the foliage was sparkling as the sun reflected off the droplets of water. To his right, the scene was different. The bushes and shrubs were dark, shadowed by an invisible leaking roof. In this murky scene Chip heard a sound like the soft rustling of leaves along the ground in the wind, he looked in the direction of the sound and saw nothing. The back of his spine tingled with anticipation. He didn’t feel alone and that drew his panic to a devastating zenith. There was something else here, watching him, and Chip’s imagination created the worst he could possibly come up with. Creatures with indefinable shape and unimaginable speed sped through his head and his imagination ran, but Chip could not. His reserve of energy was exhausted. Even though he could not run, he still looked, still probed the murky foliage for that other sign of life. As his eyes wandered, still searching for the sound, he saw something.
The eyes stared at Chip as he glared into them. The eyes tried hard to remain hidden and anonymous, but they were very wide and decidedly human. The eyes were brown which made them quite hard to see, but what caught Chip’s eyes were the whites. They seemed clear and bright, as though they had never been touched or scarred by the dirty hands of city life. And yet, these eyes contained nothing around them at all. There was no face to be seen, though Chip knew there had to be one. He could not make out any facial lines, not even a nose, no, it was just these eyes watching him. They held the wild fire of nature, the experience of all, and the patience of someone who knew what it meant to wait a lifetime. But all these characteristics were overshadowed by the undecided judgment they were struggling to make. They looked at him in a confused, merciless way. Chip risked a quick glance to make sure that there were no other eyes around. When he turned back they were gone. He focused intently on the bushes that had hidden everything but the eyes. He tried to see through the dense vegetation and find the illusive creature. But there was nothing there, and eventually the worry that those intensely cold eyes had caused, sank into the back of his mind, and again his major problem became finding his way home.
Now though, Chip’s thoughts were more collected, calmer, and more serene. He walked in one general direction and concentrated on this sole task for almost one hour. The sky was now beginning to clear, the birds sang and were happy to walk into the sun’s rays once again. The smell of fresh, watery foliage, presently filled the air with its sweet, sugary-like aroma. Chip watched as the sun displayed its magnificent power by breaking the aristocratic wall of clouds. Its rays lit up patches of earth like an elaborate quilt of the finest fibers. Suddenly all this serenity was broken as Chip stumbled to the ground.
There, sitting in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, was a camouflage canteen adorning a yellow, inconspicuous top. He picked up the cylindrical piece of plastic and took a look at it. Perhaps the most important part of picking it up was discovering that it still contained water. After a long, fulfilling drink, he set the canteen back down and proceeded on his way without a second thought.
Chip was now on his way again, and soon reached an obstacle which concerned him very much. There, standing in front of him, was either a very large creek, or a very small river. It was at least twelve feet across, and the current was strong enough that white occasionally flaked off of its surface. The part which concerned Chip however, was that he did not remember this from his former journey. Though this could not even be trusted anymore. With his sudden fit of traumatic running, the only thing Chip recalled recently was the wind, and those strange staring eyes. He decided that he had probably crossed a bridge while running and had simply not taken notice.
Now the trick would be to cross this mass of water. The first thought that occurred to Chip was to simply wade through it. When he tried however, he discovered that the water became too deep near the middle. He had considered swimming across, but after his wade, he decided that the current was too strong. Wading did not work, swimming was not an option, but perhaps he could jump. Why not? He was the best running long jumper on his track team. He took several large steps backwards, got a good running start and hoped that it wasn’t as far across as he thought it was. When he hit the edge of the water he jumped. He sailed through the air, his confidence growing as he saw the other edge approaching. His confidence was shattered by a cold, wet hammer that hit him like an electric shock. His feet couldn’t feel the bottom of the river, and his arms flailed in panic. His eyes shut and he put all the strength he had into reaching dry land. And he did. One glance told him that he remained on the side that he didn’t want to be on. Finally he found a long vine. The vine was a creation of Chip’s, he had found a grand old willow tree near the stream. The tree - as with most weeping willows - had long vines coming out of its thick branches. Chip would carefully grab each vine and pluck it from its host high in the air, being as careful as he could, not to break any of the delicate branches. After selecting the strongest of these, he wrapped them together to form the vine he now held in his hands. After a long struggle Chip was able to secure it to a boulder on the other side of the creek. After this, he took a log and pulled himself across. This being accomplished he again began to look for his way home.
After another hour, (it occurred to him that this had taken way too long, but the prospect of crossing the river again made him just keep walking) Chip tripped, lucky for him. As he was falling he heard a whiz past his head, and felt something clip at his hair. He got up and looked around to see what had just happened. Where he had tripped, Chip discovered a thin, almost invisible line. It was a wonder - and very good luck - that he had tripped at all. For there, in the tree to Chip’s left was an arrow shot about half-way through the tree.
Chip looked ahead to see a very uncomforting sight. First he saw a fence. At closer inspection the fence was made of barbed wire and served as a guard to what lay beyond. Through the fence there was a hut. It was not a real house, but only a living domain and was probably used as a weather shelter. It was beginning to fog up again, and Chip decided to take shelter there for at least a little while. He took two sticks and separated the fence just enough to squeeze through, then he headed for the hut.
Two minutes after he had entered the hut it began to rain. The rain beat on the old roof with the annoying sound of drips against spread tin-foil. Chip took a look at the hut he was going to be staying in at least until the storm let up. In the middle was a table with just one chair and made from old wood. On the top of the table was a sharp knife. The knife engulfed his attention; the raindrops pounding over his head seemed to silence and the storm became muffled with his self-imposed deafness. Then the sound was totally drowned out by the footsteps on the outside of the hut. The door swung open, and standing there, with an axe in one hand and the canteen - with its yellow top - in the other, were those eyes, this time the man behind them was connected. Chip barely had time to look the man over. In seconds, the cannibal had his next meal.


















Epilogue
To whom it may concern:
When I am done with this letter; soon thereafter I shall be dead. I have lived in these woods for as near as I can tell three years now. My food in this time has consisted of the easiest pray roaming these shadows of green. I caution all who feel compelled to eat human flesh now that I know its consequences. I have mastered the art of trapping humans, (not a rigorous accomplishment) now my addiction is so strong and my food so scarce that I feed upon myself. Again I caution all, because it is only now, after the consumption of myself, that I realize the consequences.

P.S. At least I die full

Forest Cannibal