Candle in the Dark

Here is my latest work, a story entitled "Candle in the Dark." It IS a bit verbose, as it is supposed to reflect the time period that it represents, but for those of you who like action: it is well worth the wait. Those who get somewhat queasy at death might not want to read ahead, even though I don't find it to be TOO bloody. Anyways, enjoy!


Candle in the Dark

By Adam Gonzales

The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot that Lucien patiently watched.

Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.

An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier, lackluster, encounters but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true none-the-less, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.

He wore a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him, and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman to the Ambassador’s right.

“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”

Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. Not that the news surprised him; it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.

The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.

“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”

The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife was the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting. Lucien was to kill the Good Ambassador.

The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.

“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”

If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”

Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.

Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched his hand towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearly white, double-edged, basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into violent spasms.

Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him, but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. Armor meant nothing to a trained assassin; it was their trade to know how to deal lethal blows even in the face of metal protection. He walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground, missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate; however it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.

Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it none-the-less. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was caught off guard as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. Thinking rapidly, he kicked the man’s shins with as much force as he could muster so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his fist into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the natural world. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.

There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.

Prologue to Book One

After editing TWICE myself, having my older cousin edit it once, having my aunt proof-read it, and having my editor edit it, I am finally ready to post my
finalized Prologue to my first book. Enjoy!


Tarterrior: The Rise of the Sixth Kingdom

Prologue

The emerald trees rocked gently in the soft flow of spring’s silver zephyrs. The humid air hung in the atmosphere as grey clouds rolled across the horizon; spring’s first showers were on their way. Mordin laughed as he crawled and jumped through the secluded glade outside his uncle’s thatched hut. His blue eyes danced as he chased the small animals that called the glade their home.
A dragon of only seven, Mordin was barely growing into maturity. The spikes on his back were just coming in, and his wings were not developed enough to carry his small, crimson body more than a few feet forward. He even—but only on occasion—coughed out small bursts of flame that marked his body’s development. He thought this new ability shocking and exciting, and found endless joy in practicing his fire spitting on small logs and animals. The flames were not large enough to do any real damage and would wither and die quite rapidly. All the same, though, his brother and uncle watched him carefully from the hut’s porch as they engaged in hushed conversation.
Zech, Mordin’s uncle, was a tall, brown dragon whose face showed a resolute understanding of the world in which he had lived for eighty-nine years. Tarterrior was vast, and it was rare to find someone who knew as much as Zech, and yet he remained modest and humble. Mordin’s brother Griff, on the other hand, was eighteen and restless. He lived faithfully under his uncle’s protection and listened to all that he had to say, but he was not without questions. His muscles rippled beneath his red skin, which showed worn signs of stress. His orange eyes flashed as he talked with his uncle under the dark shade of the hut’s porch, not bothering to hide his worry.
“I just don’t find it worth my time, uncle.”
Zech watched Mordin as he practiced sneaking in the tall grass. His eyes were glazed in thought, and when he spoke his voice was controlled and quiet.
“It is not a question of whether it is worth your time or not, Griff. You are bound tightly to it, and there is no turning away from that. It is in your blood; it cannot be changed.”
“But it shouldn’t have to be me,” Griff remained calm even in his pressured state. “It should be his responsibility. My father—”
“Is dead,” Zech cut Griff off abruptly, “and you are next in line. So it is a matter of your decision, not your father’s.”
Zech paused for a moment and heaved an exasperated sigh. Griff gave his uncle a curious look and watched as his solemn eyes glinted. Turning to Griff, Zech asked his nephew a question that had been tugging at the back of his mind for quite some time. “Griff, what is it you plan to do? Do you wish to exterminate it before it falls into the clutches of Greilner? I know you have been anxious about the idea, but it would not take as long as you think: only four months at the most.”
Griff hesitated. He turned his head to the clouded glade and watched his brother laugh joyfully as he caught a small bird. Time passed between the two dragons in thoughtful silence as Griff pondered his uncle’s question. He folded his arms and leaned back in his wooden chair as he sighed deeply. The years without his father had affected him severely and he tried to cover it up by acting firm and decisive. But a decision this large was almost unbearable. He turned to Zech.
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time uncle, and wonder if it would be a smart decision to keep it here, hidden.”
Zech gave a relieved smile. “It would, indeed. I have been hoping that you would make such a choice when the time came. Trying to destroy it would bring unwanted attention from Greilner, and it would prove most difficult to complete such a tremendous task. Keeping it here on the edge of Valdak Canyon—a deserted place—is a wise verdict; it would take much searching on Greilner’s part to find it. Better to bring no attention to it at all.”
At this, Zech placed his hand on the small table that sat between them. On it sat a crumpled piece of parchment, torn slightly on the edges and yellowed with age; a relic of time. Griff looked to his uncle. He was staring at the parchment with concern. Griff knew that he needed to keep it hidden. He knew what was important.
He looked up. Mordin had been sneaking through the grass until he was at the foot of the porch. Griff chuckled. Mordin was getting good: neither he nor Zech had heard him. With a grin on his small face, Mordin pounced playfully at Griff’s feet. He rolled on the floor of the porch and carelessly clawed the air while on his back. ‘Poor kid,’ Griff thought, ‘all this going on and he has no idea what’s happening. But that’s the way we decided it to be. The less he knows, the less chance he has of getting hurt.’
Mordin continued playing for a while, then stopped abruptly. He turned to his brother.
“Big brother? What’s wrong,” he asked innocently, “What are you going to hide? I bet I can find it!” He laughed and looked at Zech; his eyes drifting to his uncle’s hand. “Is it that paper?” he asked. “If it is, that’s not a good hiding place. I can see it, silly.”
Griff turned to Zech and cleared his throat. Shaking his thoughts away, Zech looked to Mordin and saw him eyeing the parchment. He smiled at his younger nephew warmly and moved toward the door, parchment in hand. As he opened the old wooden door of the hut he gave one last look to Mordin. Then he disappeared inside.
Mordin looked at his older brother, a question on his face. “Is he hiding it now, Griffy? When can we go look for it?”
Griff tensed as he lifted Mordin onto his lap. He decided to talk simply so that Mordin would understand. “Little brother, Uncle Zech is going to hide that paper where no one can find it, understand? It’s not supposed to be found. So, we’re going to play a game. The first one to find the parchment loses, got it?”
Mordin nodded and smiled. He liked games, but he still wanted to know something. “What happens if someone finds it then?”
Griff looked at the grey thunderheads rolling into the glade. A sudden, cold wind gave him a slight shiver as he held his brother close to him. He wouldn’t lose another family member. Not again. He stared intently at the clouds and answered in a quiet breath.
“Let’s hope we never find out.”

Xetragade

So this is my first Sci-Fi type short story that I have ever written. It is not your stereotypical Sci-Fi in the sense that the only real Sci-Fi feel you get is the fact that it's in the future and there is a mention of robotic technology. Everything else is what it is like today. This project did not take me as long as I thought it would and I had a TON of fun working on it. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Xetragade
By Adam Gonzales

The deep movements beneath the murky water sent soft ripples across the glassy pool. The Dutch spectators leaned forward in their seats trying to get a better view of what was held in the slick fiberglass-enforced tank, clutching the bottom of their seats until their knuckles throbbed white. The churning bubbles that flitted across the top of the almost black water were eyed by the many rows of families and business men that filled the cold white bleachers. A sudden loud beep rang through the air and continued at a steady pattern of exactly thirty beeps per minute, but the spectators did not even so much as bat an eyelid. Probably they were too engrossed in what lay at the bottom of the pool, but it was shocking still that they seemed so unfazed by the abruptness of the strident noise. The sky was orange and dusty, and despite the hollow rushing of the wind and the precise pattern of the beeping, the crowd remained absolutely silent. Time put itself on hold as the half-eaten bags of popcorn and hot dog wrappers fluttered slowly beneath the feet of the seemingly lifeless audience. Even the children, usually restless and bursting with uncontrollable energy, had been tamed by the moment; their eyes dark and wide, locking onto the calm surface of the glossy water, waiting for Xetragade to show itself.
* * *
The scientists at Muiden Harbour had been busily piecing together the mystery that was Xetragade for years. Hidden under the tourists’ noses within the walls of a small warehouse near one of the docks, the scientists had poised secrecy with productivity. Although the government had established the testing to last only three years, the Xetragade Initiative proved to be difficult to assemble correctly and was thus granted an extended ten year development plan. It was not long before the rusty warehouse walls were replaced by the slick white of the plexi-steel, and that the testing facilities were moved under the new ocean theme park that was being erected. Not that the scientists objected; it was quite fitting. For Xetragade to be accumulated under an ocean park was nothing short of ironic. The scientists knew that they would be able to experiment on the tourists above without their knowledge by placing slight traces of various serums within their purchased drinks, and without any harm. So when the park was erected, they made sure to attract as many tourists as possible. Everything in Muiden was perfect. Everything in Holland was perfect. And nothing could hinder the progress of Xetragade.
Then there was the announcement of Holland’s resignation from the U.N. At first it came as a shock that could barely be compared to anything that had happened before to the Dutch people. But when the rest of the U.N. slowly followed suit, the people of Holland quickly shifted their emotions from astonishment to fear. There had been rumor of an international epidemic, but mostly it was thought to be gossip and propaganda. The U.N., acknowledging some sort of viral scare, had apparently decided that due to the evident chaos that was going to flood the world, it was only right for each country to focus on their individual survival. Media buzzed, people yelled, but still there was no answer to the question that rang in everyone’s mind: what was the epidemic? Government officials had mentioned little about what was suspected to be the threat, but many had whispered something about the fish. To the people of Muiden, Holland, fishing was a way of life. So when word spread that the cause had been aquatic, there became a steady decline in the market. Not that it mattered; the decline in the market simply reflected the decline in government stability. Confined trepidation was soon shifted into uncontrollable bedlam as more and more of the Dutch people found themselves wondering if they would make it through the night alive.
It was not long before world officials declared the Viral Rotsje Epidermal Piscus Virus, or VREPV, the cause of the mass panic. Although the origins of the virus were not detrimental to humans, it had been discovered that the German authorities had been developing viral weapons using different viruses ten years prior, including VREPV. Originating from a fusion between the non-lethal Viral Hemorrhagic Septicemia Virus and the deadly Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis, VREPV was incurable and impossible to destroy. At first it had been confined to the workspace of the German scientists, but after the government’s disbandment of the test facilities, it had been discovered that the viral experimentations had been tossed into the North Sea, where both Holland and the U.K. received their main supply of the fish market. Trade between the U.K. and the rest of the world ensured that the infected fish in the North Sea were globally expanded. Smaller landlocked countries that did not necessarily find themselves in the fish market, such as Hungary, Botswana, Nepal, and Paraguay were more or less safe until the Spread of 2026. At first only the countries that bordered the ocean had been affected—it was not until later when the virus was discovered to be transferable by touch that landlocked countries had been receiving massive breakouts via human hosts. It was spreading, and it was spreading fast.

Skin rotted throughout the world, no one was safe. Controlled news broadcasts stated that the rotted skin flakes in the air could dissolve and travel on the air currents from place to place. At night government trucks would sweep the streets, spraying disinfectant into the air. It was a futile attempt, as everyone knew it was, but the presence of the government kept families from giving up entirely. Time went on and slowly the population began to dwindle. Soon every door remained locked, every window chained. The brave could be seen making fast trips to general stores in search of clean food and clothes. But, as it always does, the inevitable stuck loud and hard. Every family, every businessman, every government official of Holland found themselves slowly shedding their skin. The point of fear and panic had faded into grim acceptance, and the streets were soon filled with a silent huddled mass of a dying people. No one talked—no one saw the point. There would be an occasional gurgle of laughter from a small adolescent on the street, but it would quickly fade away when the child peered into the lifeless eyes of his elders. The only sense of life came from the caw of the birds in the sky and the desperation for clothes. Clothes were they only comfort that the people had; it was thought that it could be possible that if one was protected by clothes that their skin would stay intact longer—failed attempts at menial security, definitely, but it was all that the people of Holland had.
The people began to become more and more lethargic, until they were so lackluster that they did not even notice the government’s disintegration. Everyone was still human, but there was no life left in their eyes. Quiet spread across the world and the only thing keeping the human race from becoming extinct was the sole fact that the disease took months to completely devour a human host. The pain had become so customary that the only acknowledgment that the people showed of it was their habitual scratching and peeling of the skin. Many of the people of Holland had retained normal cerebral activities, but because of VREPV’s rapid deteriorating properties, there were some who had lost major amounts of brain tissue, rendering them almost mindless. But it was those who still understood the world around them that finally came upon the secret that was Xetragade. It had been widely known that there had been strange goings-on within the high white walls of the aquatic amusement park at Muiden. Noises could be heard nightly, quiet thumps, beeps, and screeches barely audible to the human ear. Almost two months had passed since the government’s fall when the people finally had the mind to investigate. It was not a raid; no it was something far less than that. Just a simple inquiry into what was supposedly a vacant theme park. So a slow procession of businessmen, tired adults, and small children trudged into the brilliantly white gates of what was known simply as Whale World.
Dressed to the teeth in the finest clothes, the people searched for the hushed sounds of a persistent beeping while their skinned gradually peeled away. It was when they came upon the large tank that once bore host to the Harbour’s famous killer whale, that the people pinpointed the source of the sound. Towards the back of the arena was a heavy steel hatch ingrained into the cement ground. Every two seconds a beep could be heard resonating from beneath the door. But the people dared not open it. For standing over the door were three men dressed in white, rubber, radiation suits. Their faces were obstructed by a glossy silver visor, and there only sign that was given of their humanity was the loud breathing that could be heard coming from their respirators. The people were too drained and languid to even consider running, but the fear on their faces showed their desires. The men in the suits stepped forward, and one pointed directly to the large tank of water. He spoke in a deep and airy voice that frightened the people; they had not heard any form of speech since the government had sprayed the streets.
“There is Xetragade. There is your savior.”
That was all he said. He spoke, and then he directed them with a gesture of his hand to the bleachers. Nothing more, nothing less.
And so the people waited. They clung to the edge of their seats and watched intently as the bubbles in the black water rose slowly to the surface, as the sky turned a dusty orange, and as the popcorn bags scattered beneath their feet. The men in the white suits stood just outside the hatch with their arms neatly crossed. The door flung open and the muffled beeping beneath became suddenly loud and clear. Thirty beeps per minute, one beep every two seconds. A fourth man rose out of the hatch, and looked to the other three. Although his face could not be seen behind the slick silver visor, his posture said enough. It was time. They all walk slowly and deliberately down the hatch and closed it tightly behind them with a loud click. They had known the time would come, for after all that was why Xetragade had been fashioned; that was its purpose.
All throughout the rest of the world, similar actions were being taken. Aquatic theme parks that had been constructed ten years prior to the Spread of 2026 were luring in remaining sentient infected via soft and soothing noises. They would find a hatch. There would be men in white suits. And always there was promise of a savior.
“There is Terragade. There is your savior.”
“There is Celtagade. There is your savior.”
“There is Aussigade. There is your savior.”
Always the same. Three men greeted, one man led them down into an airtight hatch. It was not something that had been planned by any means, not in the normal sense at least. The Gades had been a precaution, a simple means to stop such an epidemic. They were not planned on being used, but the time had undeniably come. Arenas around the world were filled with people who felt promise in the air. Arenas around the world were filled with people who watched dark pools of water with intense deliberation. Arenas around the world were filled with people who saw the bubbles rise. And arenas around the world were filled with people who were going to die.
The teams of scientists had kept themselves globally connected with remote radio locators, and had carefully kept their spaces beneath the aquatic parks clean and sterile. None of them had been diagnose with VREPV, and none of them had let loose the secret of the Gades. They had busily filled their labs with food, clothes, and all the necessary products to last them until VREPV had ebbed away with time as soon as the epidemic had been confirmed. Everything was sanitary, everything was usable. Nothing was sullied. And so they had, together, planned the rebirth of the human race with precise calculation. After doing tests on flakes of dead skin they had discovered that VREPV receded after completely destroying the epidermis; cells in the air were only able to spread the virus because they were still clinging to living skin. So the scientists had planned their wait so that they could live after the virus had vanished. But their supplies were beginning to wane, and the people were still not dying fast enough. So the Gade Initiative was called into effect. The purpose of the Gades was to destroy viruses that harbored no host, not humans. But with resolute ambition they had been reprogrammed to terminate hosts of virus so as to further the process of VREPV’s dissolution. With the infected gone, there would once again be promise and hope upon the face of the earth.
At approximately 3:42pm Central European Summer Time, the Gades rose out of the water. They had been built in the image of fish with arms. Making them aquatic ensured to protect them from the harshness of weather and cruel human eyes. Their sleek and dark texture was frightening to behold, but still the arena in Muiden, Holland did not move. Maybe the virus had taken its toll, or maybe the people were contented in knowing that their pain was about to end. Whatever the reason, the Gades found no resistance against their programmed objective. They were ready. It was time.
Dust rose into the orange sky as the clock moved its hands to 3:45pm CEST. That was how long it took. No struggle, no crying, no pain. The Gades had slumped quietly back into the water where their optical intakes flashed red just before they shut down. A still quiet spread across the planet and for the next fifteen months not a single human form walked its surface. The Gades had done what they had been made to do. The Gades had saved mankind.

Alsenoth's Lament

Alsenoth's Lament is a lyrical song that I wrote for my Tarterrior book series. It shows the suffering and pain that Alsenoth has experienced, and his acknowledgment of why he has fallen. This song/poem is full of regret and I hope that the depth of emotion is easily conveyed when read.

Alsenoth’s Lament
By Adam Gonzales

So now the moon sets down
The once bright sun burns out
Can all this come from one lie
Why did I have to hide

And now I know what I was all along
As I kneel and mourn for the loss of love’s sweet song
But now I’ve faded
I become the hated
I’m lost

And as the end draws near I accept my empty fate
So full of fear, of loneliness and hate
But now I let
My soul turn to regret
I’m dead

But if there’s hope upon an empty throne
I know that I’ll wear it so sad and all alone
For you’ve discarded
My broken heart and
I’m fault

I know I fooled myself
I’ve made it my own Hell
By saying that it’d be alright
If I simply mingled in the inky depths of Night

For now the stars give up
My white intents were not enough
All of this came from the blackness of deceit
And the burning fear that slowly raised its heat

Now I say goodbye
I know that she truly tried
The pain I feel in the fading of my heart
Is not alive, for after all my soul’s been ripped apart

The Courting of the Sun and Moon

This poem was also for a project in my Creative Writing Class that turned into something a little bit more. I enjoyed writing this poem SO much. It is reflective on two characters from The Tarterrior Series, which I am currently writing, and I hope to be able to make it into a song on my Finding the 88 Keys on How to Write Piano Music blog. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks!


The Courting of the Sun and Moon
By Adam Gonzales

Why is it that when the Sun goes down
All the lights in the sky don’t stay around
Well the Moon is there and wears his white clothes
And he shares her light that much he knows

And why is it that the Sun returns to the sky
But the foolish Moon decides some nights to hide
The Sun never fails to shine her light on the earth
So why does the Moon chose to hide from her

Well the Sun never sets it just shines elsewhere
But it’s true that the Moon might just disappear
And the Sun won’t complain she’ll just lend him her light
So if he comes out he can shine bright at night

Yes it’s true that the Moon wears pure white clothes
For the Sun cleans them well so that he can show
How much he loves life even if he is scared
So he shows her his love and the life he’s prepared

Now the Moon has stepped up, he shines bright all month long
And all because he lives off her sweet song
Her rays warm him all through the day and the night
And he vows to forever be her true satellite

A Statue Called "Alone"

Another slam poem. Even though I hate them. Irony? No. Stupidity? Possibly. Insanity? Definitely.

A Statue Called “Alone”
By Adam Gonzales

Do you remember when we walked hand in hand to that beautiful fountain
where the statue of the nameless man stood with a sullen face?
We tossed some pennies into the rusty water and smile at our perfect reflections

It is not lost on me—the whisper of something greater that you once spoke of
That wonderful vision of adventure and song that would surely keep us together through “thick and thin”, as it were
I guess maybe I was too stubborn to realize that the dance you were trying to teach me was pointless
I CAN’T dance, and life would be a horrible dance to watch, regardless

And as I walk you back to that ugly fountain, I laugh when I realize why it feels so wrong
I sat in one place while you simply tried to zip on by as if it were all some sort of roller coaster
If life were a roller coaster there’d be a lot more laughing and smiling
Rather than this bitter pit of emptiness that is eating away at my pulsing innards

Right…now….

And maybe if I listened rather than heard, I would understand why you are letting go
Why you are digging your nails into my hands as we speak
And to think that I had the opportunity to be alone and content in a self-inflicted internal infusion of insistent isolation

But as I finally listen, the only voices and words I hear are in my head saying
“Why is he here,” “Why won’t he leave,”
“Why…can’t…he…just…see…”
And it breaks my heart

Just like you break that precious string of hope you strung
The one you ruthlessly ripped with restless relentlessness
A stupid struggle sparked by a simple suggestion

But that bond, that cord, that link that you severed so suddenly
Pours out an endless stream of steaming blood—
Blood that cannot be given back

The trickle of heated fluid settles into a small pool at our feet
And once again we see our reflections in a glossy glass lake of red liquid
But this time we wear frowns instead of the smiles we so foolishly masked ourselves with
And the only sense of hope and resolution I feel is oblique
Made obsolete by that faint flare of fiery indignation that you so shockingly bestowed upon me

So now I sit at the edge of the forgotten statue pondering on why the tourists blow their bubbles of gum so gaily
While their hopes and dreams are tossed away into such a sickening fountain
The pennies’ red rust swirls as each wish is swallowed into a vortex of nothingness

Maybe if they would look up at the statue they would know it was all for naught
Because to throw away hope in a red pool found at the feet of a nameless face is to throw away life itself
And we’ve already agreed that life is a terrible dance to watch

So as you walk away to leave me alone I realize that I never knew what that meant before
Too absorbed with myself to have time for others and to feel ANYTHING at all

But as you leave
As you TAKE your leave
I get it…and I feel it
For after all that IS the statue’s name...

...Alone

To Be Left A Rotting Corpse

Here is a slam poem that I wrote. I HATE slam poetry. So...enjoy?

To Be Left a Rotting Corpse
By Adam Gonzales

To be left a rotting corpse in the inky depths of my screaming, vacant soul
To taste the freshness of the air only to have it ripped so unnaturally from my shriveling lungs
Once sitting atop that merciful beacon of hope,
I find myself tumbling, grasping, gasping, clasping for some hold onto the beautiful signal

And who is to blame?
Who?
Certainly not you, for it was your hand who found me troubled in the merciless murky vapor
Your hand that lifted me from the bowels of hell and so dotingly destroyed my detriments

But had it not been for you I would have so happily, so cheerfully accepted my vacant vocation
Of restlessly, recklessly, ruefully running around without any remorse for my forlorn reality
For it is not the force of you freedom that loosed my heavy chains, but rather the form
That vicious vigor that stuffed my spirit with a seemingly ceaseless, incessant self-assurance

But for my essence to not identify isolation, to not recognize regret seems so conceited in comparison to yours
Which is ever growing, ever loving, ever laughing, ever knowing, ever telling, ever asking, ever showing, ever…
After all it was your being there that showed me how lonely I truly was, how pitiful of an existence I truly led
So now I state the obvious

Why?
Why go through all that endeavor, all that effort of effectively and essentially helping me escape my insanity just to throw it out the
Door is where you went, leaving me to collect the shambles and shards that was the life you made
Leaving me to collect these silly splinters just so that you could prove a point

A point well taken, a point notably noted, and a point you called no return
Return?
Return from what?
From the friendship promised, or the friendship broken, or the new twisted friends of which you’ve hardly spoken?

And so I take my leave, but I will return
I will not leave such a dear thing to burn
Burn in the essence of what we call hope
For, after all, you were the one who threw me the rope

Introduction To A Journal

Okay. So this blog is going to be a compilation blog of essays and short-stories that I have ALREADY written in school and such. It WILL NOT be taking time away from ANY of my other projects. I don't care much for the essays, seeing as some of them are DREADFUL, but I still think that keeping a blog on ALL of my writings is a smart idea, so here it is! Go ahead and let me know what you think about all of them, and mind you there WILL be errors in my grammar and syntax...but that's normal. So have fun and comment on every post. Thanks!