Moments At Rest

By Dave Beaver

Moments at rest are the turning points in our lives. This collection off short stories is based on those moments. The stories in this collection run the gamut from introspective self analysis, to elaborate revenge, to life changing decisions in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. They are honest, brutal, tales of horror, tragedy, redemption, and damnation. Some are heartbreaking. Some are antagonistic. Some are inspiring. All originate from a deep, dark place within the hearts of men, and the innate desire to reach the light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Beaver
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370238705

Dave Beaver

I was born in Ohio in 1974. That means I've got 41 years of procrastination under my belt, and 1 year of actively working towards my dream of becoming a writer. I battle depression, and anxiety disorder (along with a few other fun little mental quirks) on a daily basis. There are millions of people that deal with the same things I do (you may be one of them) and we all have our own way of coping. Writing about the dark side of human nature and the world we live in is my coping mechanism. I want to share the product of that struggle with like-minded people. I believe that writing should be a catharsis for both the author, and the reader. Pouring my heart and soul onto these pages everyday is what keeps me sane. I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about the fictional characters, situations, and stories that I write. Thanks so much for checking me out. Dave Beaver

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Copyright

By Dave Beaver

Copyright 2016 Dave Beaver

Visit Dave’s website at

http://dabeaver.com

Other Shorts by Dave Beaver

The Precipice

Moments At Rest (Collection)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I bleed it out, digging deeper just to throw it away…

~ Linkin Park

For my daughter Isabella. Every moment of my life always is, always was, and always will be, about you…Thank you for being my Gray.

Introduction

Moments at rest are the turning points in our lives. They have happened, our entire world has pivoted upon them, and now they rest, immutable, for better or worse, in the confounding period we define as our past.

I have always been fascinated with these tiny, specific points in our lives that have the power to alter everything that comes next completely. As a writer, I have admittedly, at times, been held captive by them.

The stories that have sprung to mind from my obsession with these moments are extremely compact. It’s the old ‘forest for the trees’ cliche—the moment fascinates me more than the situations past or future.

We all experience these game-changing moments many times throughout our lives. Some we register, and some we don't. Some are for the better, and some are for the worse. Some reduce us to tears of joy, and some drop us to our knees overcome with tears of sorrow. Whatever the case may be, the common thread of these moments (good or bad) is that they affect us to the very core of our being.

In short, one moment can affect eternity! The thrill, for me, is the exploration of those moments, and of the ripples they might cause.

Everything that follows evolved from my obsession and includes notes regarding the particular moment that inspired each story.

The White

I

I’m staring at this screen and seeing nothing but White. White where once there were words and stories. White where once there was life, and love, and happiness. White where once everything made sense, at least as much sense as anything in this gray world can make.

I’m staring at this screen, and the White is washing over me. The words hide behind it teasing and taunting me. The White ripples from their excitement beneath. Like a sheet covering frolicking children, it froths to and fro. The ripples increase. A rage begins to grow. The words are angry; the children are restless. The energy they create makes the White seem to lash out at me. It licks my face. It chomps at my brow.

I want so badly, neigh, yearn with all my heart to grasp that consuming whiteness and wrench it from the screen. I wish nothing more than to draw the veil and free those taunting words—to shred it with my discontent and unleash them howling into the world.

But the White is powerful. The White is woe. The White is enveloping me and suffocating the words in a blanket of sadness and regret. The White sees nothing and is nothing—and it wants us to be white as well.

Caressing my face now—portending at love—its blankness has tempted the strongest of souls. In nothingness, there is no danger or doubt. In nothingness, there is no risk.

The White is safe, it whispers, the White is home.

Silence and whiteness and death have me now. The White has blanked those black words beneath—blinked them out of existence.

Oh, the violence of nothingness—How it rapes the soul and leaves the world one light darker.

II

Shhh.

Do you hear that?

Do you see?

It is a child being unborn.

It is a beautiful sunset going unseen.

It is existence becoming unwritten.

It is ignorance is bliss, and let sleeping dogs lie, and it is abso-fucking-lutely the blanket complacency of the ‘safe,' and the White, burying our souls in eternal nothingness.

It is the fisher of men, come to cast the net wide for the clueless, unquestioning, masses. A never-ending gathering for the feast of the status quo.

III

But wait.

What’s that now from beneath the White?

A baby crying? A child screaming? A young girl weeping at her father’s side while his last breath fades into the White?

Tiny sounds from tiny souls usher forth. Tiny sounds to form words, to form chaos, to fight for life! They weave within one another and cling to the blackness of their form. They writhe as lovers in the abyss, copulating to multiply and go forth.

The ripple begins again. I can hear them calling and my heart quickens sending blood, and oxygen, and madness pulsing through my veins. Anger builds as the White attempts to pull me deeper. Anger and rage and despair and all the things I’ve lost to that complacency begin to ooze from every fiber of my being like blood filled drops of sweat. They fall into the White void in hopes of soiling it—soaking it red with the life it has tried so virulently to keep hidden from the world—but the nothingness is powerful and persuasive. The nothingness absorbs my color.

And yet from the other side—the underneath—the din grows stronger. The black words are coagulating, becoming cohesive, and careening towards the battle that must be fought with reckless abandon. They sense the tiny rivulets of my dark discontent soaking into the sea of white above. They yearn to plunge into that sea. They yearn to become a part of life and do what life does—exist in gray!

The words know the truth. They know that one cannot exist without the other. They know that in black, or white, alone all that exists is death. It is from the gray that life springs forth. It is from that combination of light and dark that we find the joy in the birth of a child, and the sorrow in the death of a friend.

Love, and hate.

Pain, and pleasure.

Destruction, and creation.

Birth, death, and rebirth.

Mass immolation, and the complete restructuring of the ALL and the EVERY.

This is the battle that MUST be fought. We are all sedate in the comforting quiet of the White—we are all dead. The barrier must be destroyed. The words must be set free to love and rage.

The White held me in its grasp for what seemed an eternity and—make no mistake—almost claimed me forever. I know not how I escaped, or how long I can remain free. All I know is that ten minutes ago I was