Pisaries Creator

I actually wrote something without any kind of thought, theme, or prior organization. I wrote on the fly for the most part. Of course, all written words originate from something, somewhere within my brain. This might turn into something bigger and maybe it should, but more than likely it won’t. Here’s to my not working on my second novel idea, but soon I will because as I say often, it’s now or never. It appears again my professional and personal life gets in the way. I’m looking for more focus or as much as I’m allowed or commit to the rest of this year. It’ s a given I’m not going to finish my second novel by the end of 2024, but I really hope to finish it sooner than later in 2025. That is my master plan, at least, although I’m behind by a decade on my writing, but the only person counting is really me. I guess accomplishments, disappointments, and everything else is life.

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He came to me like a cookie cutter character out of the fairy tale except this was no fairy tale. This was actual life where people get stabbed, bleed to death, and die within the hour due to blood loss. This was real life where if you call 911, it doesn’t mean the cops will get there in time to stop the big bad wolf from stabbing you one last time for good measure because you looked at him the wrong way. This is life at its most brutal where paramedics will arrive in time to wave their magic wands and drive their victims to the hospital in record time. None of these matter. Their vehicles aren’t fast enough because too many people procreate and fill up highways past their capacity. They don’t have enough magical dust in their medical bags to go around. Some victims suffer the consequences and many of them die by the time they arrive to the hospital. The surgeons can’t save them even though they have paid off their medical school debts.

This is how the system is rigged against them. Time is of the essence and for most of us, we don’t matter enough to be placed high on the evolutionary chain of essence. We belong at the way bottom and this was where Malcolm belonged. One could argue he belonged below the bottom where the rungs had ended because the lumber used to build the ladder had deteriorated over massive usage and the fact the wood was never properly stained to withstand heat, water, and all the elements’ humans feel they are able to survive, well untreated wood can’t. So, Malcom knew nothing about how insignificant people viewed him because he had only known his life he was born into, and the stories told to him by his beloved mother only reinforced his lower status for the rest of his life.

He had never wanted to be seen as a burden in the city he was born and raised. Therefore, he had kept to himself most of his life. The torturous contradictions he felt on such a strong level remained tucked deep inside his brain. He never shared them with anyone. He did not dare share them with strangers or friends. He tried to not let these nagging beliefs overwhelm him as he grew into a man. There were nights he was unable to sleep because of his beliefs. He had tried everything within his grasp to try to ignore them. When he turned 21, he had devised a way to keep them hidden by taking pills. He swallowed any kind given to him by his dealer who took pity on him and gave him something inferior to the original when he didn’t have the money to give.

Malcolm had never asked for any handouts, but the local drug dealers knew how much he meant to the city. If he had died from his deep suffering inside, the tragedy of his existence would be felt by many. This would not happen right away, but within a short amount of time, the city would further collapse into a giant heap of a mess. His loss would not be hard to miss. The drug dealers were aware of the inner workings of the city unlike those who did not have to take drugs to survive. The daily grind and movement of the majority of its inhabitants was what kept everyone still being able to breath and eat freely whether food was plentiful or not. What was at the center of the city that kept the gears from stopping was Malcolm himself except he knew nothing about this. He grew up believing he had no redeeming qualities and nothing inside of him was meant to be of any great value. He was not even average in appearance or mind when he looked in the mirror. He was far below average with little skills and no real power within his grasp. He was a nothing from head to feet. He didn’t even have shoes to call his own. They squeezed his toes together in such a way that made them hurt. He was better off without them.   

On the day when the rain fell and pieces of homes and buildings disintegrated from the toxicity of countless years of disregard for nature, Malcolm was never in danger no matter where he was living. Other city inhabitants had become ill from this exposure and died terrible deaths. When Malcolm was still a child, he loved to play in the rain. Even though he had no one to look after him because all his brothers had their own survival on their minds after his mother died, a few strangers made sure to grab him by his hand and drag him to safety out of the toxic rain. He was resistant and bit them to get away. He soon became known as “the chomper” to those who semi-raised him.

His inability to sleep any hour of the day or night had created deep permanent lines all over his face by the time he was a young adult. They were like little roads built horizontally on his forehead and vertically on his cheeks. He knew strangers imagined tiny cars with tiny people in the seats driving all over his face when they saw him. He sensed this when they passed him which he is why he rarely left his house.  They usually felt disgust for him instead of pity. He was no longer a child they thought that had a chance for any kind of innocence. He now as a corrupted man. This misconception of him was the pain he felt every time he questioned his relevancy until he received a message from his brother.

His brother had left him years ago to venture out on his own. He had chuckled to himself every year on the day he last saw Harold. His mother had such a knack for naming her children terrible names. Harold was the first born out of all his brothers. There were seven of them like the seven dwarfs except none of them were short. Malcolm was the tallest out of all his brothers until his youngest brother was born. He was six feet, five inches tall. Harold was six feet, five inches tall. His baby brother ended up at a whooping six feet, eight inches tall and was named Cooper. Malcolm had one sister. She was a twin to Cooper and a complete surprise to his mother. She was given the name of Cadence. Unfortunately, she had died at a young age from complications shortly after birth. She never reached a tall height but Malcolm was convinced she would have been tall as well.

When his brother reached out to him, Malcolm was not expecting Harold to be the type of man to do this. His brother was far away on another planet. the city he lived in was not nearly as established as the one he grew up in and was confused for him reaching out. The message he had written made little sense to him. It was as if the sentences Harold wrote were missing just enough words not to make sense, as if he had been under the influence. His brother was adamant not to take anything to alter his mind and body. Maybe, he had been kidnapped by some terrorist group that wanted to overpower those in command. Everyone knew who was worth the air they breathed that varying groups were purposely operating in every other small town and large city to incite another widespread riot. The one to make an impact was less than five years ago. Three of Malcolm’s brothers had given their lives for the cause much to his dismay.

Now, here he was feeling the urge to follow in their footsteps. He knew this would only result in his death and fear of those around him. Those closest to him had closed their ranks tighter around him. This confused him why they were purposely lying to him and trying to ensnare him into their deceitful web. They had convinced him of their importance long ago but now he wasn’t so sure of their intentions. He enjoyed his freedom. He had wanted to reject them completely and felt guilt over putting any kind of trust in them, but in order to survive, he needed them in order to sustain his body. He took their handouts and kept them at a distance physically, but now it felt they were trying to infect him with the food he chewed and swallowed. As a test, he stopped eating their handouts and felt different in the way he viewed what was in front of him. Those discarded thoughts he purposely didn’t want to remember came flooding back to his consciousness. He knew they were the key to his survival and future longevity. He had buried them so deep that he wasn’t sure if he could trust his memory.

The day he arrived at my doorstep with his cookie cutter lifestyle, I sliced it open and revealed his original face. His eyes became a different color, his nose a different shape, and ears heard better, and his mind was laser focused. My intention was to make him what he was meant to be all along. I would be his mentor, his confidante, the one who would give him all the resources he needed to live up to his potential if all went as planned. In fourteen little hours from now, Malcolm would face a decision to keep going or stop. It was up to him if he would be ready to fully endure the promise, he told his brother earlier because at that moment, he didn’t have all the facts.