The Narratives: Fanning The Flames: The Narratives, #3

By Vince Guaglione

The Narratives series of works is a collection of short introspective essays written by an average guy in an effort to better understand himself, his life, and his relationship with the world around him while traveling the road of self-discovery. These works can best be described as the author's unique brand of journaling, encompassing both self-reflective entries, and an expression of thoughts and opinions surrounding social issues of the present day.

The Narratives: Fanning The Flames departs from its predecessors, taking a more cynical personal tone and presenting a more pointed, indignant, view. Half the essays are a further examination of the author's innermost thoughts, while the remaining pieces are lightweight "op-ed's", touching on issues that are front and center to our national discourse.

The Narratives: Fanning The Flames, is the third volume in The Narratives series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vince Guaglione
• Release date: Feb 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781524292492

Book preview

The Narratives

Fanning the Flames

Vince Guaglione

Text copyright ©2014 Vincent P. Guaglione

All Rights Reserved

For

Chandra

You are the only person who could ever find me more endearing after listening to my ranting.

Acknowledgements

Once again, a very special thanks goes out to Danny, Dex, Kyle, Adam, Nick, Ashley, Emily Aislinn, Caitlin, and the entire Starbucks Brier Creek crew.

Many of the faces have changed in the sixteen months since I’ve taken up residence in my home away from home, but the atmosphere has not.

Thank you for making me a part of the Starbucks Brier Creek family. You guys are awesome!

***

A sincere thank you goes out to April M. Reign (www.aprilmreign.com) for providing the cover art for this work.

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I would also like to thank Doug G. Lally (www.facebook.com/DGLallyPhotography, http://www.modelmayhem.com/2018249) for assisting me with the cover concept and proving me with an awesome vision. He is a true artist.

***

Additional thanks go out to Julie Seibert Coraccio and Sherri Leeder for keeping me on an even keel while I suffered through the editing process.

***

And finally, I would like to thank my copy editor, A.D. Reed.

Not only does he correct my grammar and punctuation, but he provides great insight in helping me become a better writer.

Table of Contents

I – Fingerprints of Evil

II – The First 42 Years Were Easy

III – The Oscillating Nature of Inner Turbulence

IV – Conceal and Carry Discount

V – The Greater Good: A Misplaced Value

VI - Feeding the Homeless: A Despicable Act

VII – A Skeleton on the Grill, Another in the Closet

VIII – Of Pilgrims and Price Drops

IX – Black ’n’ Blue Friday: The Capitalism Orgy

X – Hate: Our New National Pastime

XI – Assumption Is the Mother of All Fuck-Ups

XII – I Know You Better Than You

XIII – A Shaman in a Past Life

About The Author

I – Fingerprints of Evil

Evil is not something superhuman, it's something less than human. – Agatha Christie

~ o ~

It’s here...

Always has been, always will be.

It’s all around us...

It’s in us...

It is us.

I can’t see it, for it hides itself well. But inherently, I know it’s there. It’s deceptive and sinister—cold and calculating, measuring its every move. And when its desire spills over and it craves, it draws forth from the shadows and makes its presence known.

When it shows me its face, I shudder at what I see, so I close my eyes tight and wish it away. It has nothing but time, so it waits me out. And it knows I will eventually give in. When I open my eyes and am forced to acknowledge it, what I see terrifies me. And I realize this is just the beginning.

I’m not sure what it wants, but it has targeted me. I’m not sure why, but I know it doesn’t care. It singled me out while it lurked in the shadows, until the time came for it to unleash its wrath. And when it attacked, it did so swiftly and mercilessly, and left me feeling nothing but dread.

Confusion, panic, helplessness, terror—all the things nightmares are made of, all playing a part in my despair.

It projects weakness and spreads falsehoods to garner sympathy. It punches holes in walls of fortitude, wedges self-doubt into the psyche, and assassinates character – all without batting an eye. It deceives, lies, cheats, and hates. And when it covets, it takes—with little by way of resistance, but laying waste to everything in its path.

It does what it does for its own edification, and its game must be played to validate its own sense of self. When identity is at stake, it stops at nothing to win.

It’s relentless in its pursuit, so I’m powerless to hold it at bay. It revels in the fact that I am looking over my shoulder, never knowing when or where it will strike next, and it mocks me every step of the way.

Fearing it only makes it stronger, enhancing its power and widening its range. But when I garner the courage to look into its eyes, and see nothing but the darkest of black, I realize that it has no soul, and that it’s capable of terrible deeds. I run and hide from it, hoping it never follows. Yet it seeks me out, in its own special way.

It hides in the subconscious in grotesque form, and creeps forward in moments of half-sleep or in dreams—when I am at my most vulnerable, and where it can inflict the most harm. It is there that it is unstoppable, piercing the hands, eyes, and face with its razor-sharp tendrils of hate, and making me wish I were dead.

I can do nothing to protect myself except lock myself away from the world, else go about my business and accept my fate. So I’ll take what it has to give, and patch myself up along the way.

It hits hard and pierces deep, but I refuse to fight back. It attempts to engage me but I turn the other cheek. But the more I ignore it, the more apathetic it becomes, and the more useless I become in its game. When it extracts enough of my life-force, and loses interest in prolonging my pain, it will drift back whence it came, and begin its cycle again.

Although it wanted all of me, it revels in what it has taken. Its consolation prize, and its trophy, is my shattered belief in humanity, and the innate goodness of man.

I’m under no delusions, for it has seen my face. It will trail me at a distance but will mark me every step of the way. It will hide