《Writer's Block》 1.1 Essential Elements (W.I.P. Arc) They lowered the heavy casket under the dull eyes of a close few before retreating to the reception area of the funeral home. Hands were shaken and condolences shared for the penultimate time. Some exchanged invitations to each other to meet more often as a death always brought people closer for a brief time as a passing. Fueled by worries. Worries about how many would show up at their passing. How many would grieve? Grieve in earnest? Like a desperate attempt at kindling, they''d blow away at the worry till it died down until the next funeral. Whether it be of loved ones or hated enemies. A rather portly women took a cigarette from her purse that looked like it had taken a sound bashing during a commute. Her partner in conversation, a man several years her elder, waited patiently for her to finish lighting it before resuming. His advanced age set them apart in both appearance and demeanour and would draw the attention of some attendees every now and again. But not due to any ludicrous notions for even passer-byeswould see a resemblance was shared. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to speak ill of the dead, but my brother was a great disappointment to the entire family. Perhaps the greatest." She took a long drag as if to punctuate her words before continuing. "He had such potential ... and what did he do? He ran a rundown comic book store that was bequeathed to him by an old man who did nothing but pollute the young minds of those who entered his store,¡± DrHelen Mantle, a well-respected physician said, earning a nod of agreement from her uncle, Frederick Mantle. Others chose to wisely keep their thoughts to themselves rather than earn the ire of either the living or ... dead.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Not everyone within earshot was as agreeable or wise though... as a white-knuckled Sam Porter, a friend of the lateAustin Mantle, growled, ¡°You never understood him.¡± Waving a dismissive hand through the air,Fred said, ¡°We understood him well enough. I guess we shouldn¡¯t have been too surprised by how he turned out. Austin was never one to take on any actions aside from those given to him to do.¡± Helen asked, ¡°Do you remember when that ''Cole'' boy was bullying him?¡± ¡°Yes, I do. That kid was bad news.¡± Her uncle rubbed his chin in recollection of events decades old. His brother had been very vocal in his grievances as well as worries about what course of action he could take. ¡°Austin was lucky that Cole lost control and turned on his father.¡± She continued as her own memories popped up despite many attempts to let those doors stay closed. ¡°I¡¯ve always wondered just how much Austin had to do with that.¡± At this point, Fred''s eyes narrowed. His nephew had always struck him as a ''victim'' until that incident. He would take the berating from others in his downtrodden stride without so much as a whimper. Blaming himself for all the bad things that happened to him. Sam could tell from the tone that this conversation would likely cause him to do something foolish in retaliation for a friend who would never again be there to reprimand him for the act and did an uncharacteristic move by choosing to simply walk away. ¡°I¡¯ll admit that whole affair was strange. He always denied any involvement in Cole¡¯s arrest, but I don¡¯t know...¡± Helen continued to speak even as Sam broke out of earshot of them. --------------------------------------------- In another time and a place, a baby was born. Joy to the world.
1.2 Recipe for disaster (W.I.P) A childhood can seem like it will span forever and then be gone all too soon for most. You might find it missing or even taken from you. For ''me'', it was the day I remembered everything.
I didn''t recall all of my past life at once. Nor as a mass of cells in my mother''s womb. Nor did I work through tribulations at the tender age of one to ready myself for the trials of a life yet to be experienced. I simply awoke slowly one day, not opening my eyes, but feeling lightness upon them in a way that should have been no different from prior ones. But it was different. Everything was. My bed felt unusual for some reason... smaller than I could recall it being in my decrepit, drafty apartment near my store. I remember rolling my shoulders. They felt different too. No stiffness from my from the usually chilly mornings wasn''t there and instead, I felt like I might have years ago. Was it a dream, or was I dead? Now memories began to flow even faster and then overlap with the pitiful little I knew from this new existence of mine. Like the recap of some shitty show, it spat information at me in a rapid and barely useful manner. I cracked open an eye and decided the answer was something else entirely. I was in ''my room''. Not my apartment, but my bedroom on our family farm. Where ''I'' had grown up. I looked at my arm. No wrinkles and liver spots. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. It was my arm as a young man. Thirteen? Fourteen? Yes ... I was only 13 this year ... I threw back the covers and looked down at my body. Well ... this is ''me'' but ... Head... aching... This ''me'' was no longer Austin. ''I'' didn''t own a store. ''My'' bed was smaller. I was simply Sarpa now. I had no siblings. No sister named Helen. A twang of pain ... loneliness ... before more information made itself known. My father owned a library. ''The'' library. No wait... not ''own'' ... he was in charge of it on behalf of a lord... Yes. A collector of rare first editions and unique writings alike ... My mother was dead again ... no no no ... not again. Dead once. Both of them... but dead only once each. Not ''again''. This on- ... my late-mother died upon exposure to a rampant plague. My current self. I. Sarpa... was locked in the library and tended to by my father once it was evident my mother was ill. She smiled at me as he took her away. Her scent lingering a solid day before he burnt everything she had held dear. He should have burnt the two of us as well... Father and son. A solitary tear passes before composure is regained. She wasn''t gone though... simple moved to an underground room where they tried to treat her like they tried to treat the others and like they would try for centuries more to treat those this plague touched. I would curse myself for not having studied more about these plagues in the years to come. As if I could have done more to prepare ... to help ... if only I''d have known. No ... all I had were stories and lessons. Morals ... no techniques or great value nor schematics of revolutionary proportions. Just a child with a head full of stories.