The Hater

By William Winters

This story explores a perceived world of chaos where order is perceived, absolutes where relativism is absolute, and love spawned from hatred. Paul Berkely, a journalist, is not aware that this perception exists, but he is forced to face it when his path is entwined with a man described as "The Hater."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640037151

Book preview

A Shadow Walks

Glimmers of sunshine broke through the leaves of the surrounding trees as they swayed in the light breeze. Laughter and quiet conversations filled the air as countless birds sang a never-ending chorus of melodies. The occasional cry from a small child and the burbling from a large fountain broke what was otherwise a sunny, almost poetic, serenity.

Ironic, really, he thought as he sat resting his back against the fountain.

They are unaware, so blissfully unaware.

He pondered for a moment, trying to stretch his memory back to a previous time, a time before his own awareness. So many gradual but significant changes had taken place, all building to a conclusion he had now reached.

It started with a dream, an endless dream, a recurring nightmare that defined me.

The dreamer’s eyes closed as he retreated into his mind. The conversations, the walking, the talking, the jogging, the life, and little moments shared by those around him, disappeared.

I dreamt that I was carrying heavy, unbearable chains up a mountain. The chains were connected to my wrists and dragged in the dirt behind me. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew that if I but climbed to the top, all I ever wanted would be fulfilled.

Fulfillment. True fulfillment. I was so naïve.

As I climbed, my chains grew heavier. It was not just from weariness, no, although my body ached from the endless grind. It was more. My chains themselves were expanding supernaturally in size. Still, I pressed on, clawing my way to the top. Nights passed, weeks became memories, years an afterthought, always, I was climbing that cursed mountain and would awake in terror before reaching the pinnacle.

Still, I fought up that incline, against all odds, against the grain, against all hope. My feet betrayed me. My knees begged me for rest. My back and arms withered away. My head ached from a constant pressure. Anger at my own weakness beat a withering drum in my ears. But, in what I then perceived as my darkest moment, I found fresh energy in my pride. I went from sluggish snail to ravenous wolf, flailing onward. Pain and weariness within my body. A grim, fatal stare in my eyes, a sudden numbness of body, I climbed deeper into that sky above. What awaited me at the top was blocked from my sight. It bothered me not.

With the fury of the devil, I cleared the last step. I felt a pop within me. My body, my very being, had finally failed me. Expired, I collapsed to the flat, hard barren dirt, my chains having never felt heavier. Even though I was asleep, I felt it. I felt the importance of it. After endless nights of awakening in a cold sweat fighting for the top of that mountain, I had succeeded. I had reached the top. I was the master of my own fate, and had proved it to the world.

I . . . I had succeeded in everything I ever wanted.

My arms laid heavy in front of me, immobile from the weight of the chains. I lay there, panting in agony, and looked from one end of the top of that mountain to another. My ecstasy turned from confusion, to alarm, to a ravenous panic. Denial and regret were close behind.

What had I spent, like an old cartridge, my body, my mind, my soul on?

The dreamer’s eyes sleepily opened as he whispered his answer.

"Nothing. Nothing but a shadow."

Unaware of the world around him, he stared blankly at the ground.

No more mountains to climb, no more success to crave, just a shadow greeted me. I saw the shadow, but not its maker. This was a shadow of what should have been, and could have been, hope.

Years wasted. Body wasted. Life wasted. The shadow of that hope consumed what little life I had left. What am I now but just another empty shadow? Hope is a shadow. Fulfillment is a shadow. Life itself is a shadow.

Just . . .

Shadow . . .

His gaze rose as he erratically scanned around him, his expression one of mystery, emotionless to the very core of his soul.

What are we all?

What are we all?

What . . . are . . . we . . . all?

Face downcast, the dreamer rose, robotic but deliberate, controlled adrenaline rising within him.

What is anyone, no matter how successful or pathetic?

Intelligent or stupid?

Attractive or ugly?

Empowered or weak?

Rich or poor?

What are we all?

The steel seemed heavy and unnaturally cold, almost biting into his hand as it was raised.

But shadows?

Crack!

Thunder filled the wooded surroundings.

The dreamer moved in the real world with meticulous purpose, a pale figure against the crimson backdrop of newly created chaos. Screams consumed his ears; he remained seemingly unnerved, acting on instinct, almost thoughtless in his actions. For those behind the screams, running felt like the only plausible thing to do. Standing still was out of the question. The dreamer passively observed many actually running towards him in their confusion.

Why do we shadows run the fastest when we don’t know where we’re going?

Minutes later, he came to himself. Heart pounding, palms sweating, mind racing at an unfathomable pace, he pondered life with a newfound zeal.

I did it.

Gone are dreams, gone is hope, gone is a life wasted beyond repair and longing for death so that the memory no longer remains of what might have been. What is this life but a shadow of what should be? What is this existence except the longing for more while never actually realizing it? What are we, but shadows?

The dreamer had stopped at the end of the woods. A concrete metropolis greeted him as he shied away from view. Screams still filled his ears, but they seemed surreal, fake. It felt as if he wasn’t there, but merely observing.

He debated what to do next, turn around, keep walking, sit down, and wait.

It doesn’t matter, he said, a quiet mutter only the dreamer heard.

Gliding like a ghost, he retraced his steps on the stone pathway.

I once dreamt of fulfillment, but the best we can dream is this: to die rich, leaving our hard-earned money to our children and family. Why? So they, too, can continue blissfully unaware of just how meaningless life really is.

We invent and create such ingenious ways of distraction though. Movies to appeal to every taste. Music that makes us feel alive and lies about things like beauty, meaning, love, life, happily ever after. Games of all types distract us in what could be our quiet moments. Television shows create impossible characters with ridiculously shallow stories. An adult has a hangnail that may be infected, and the audience (which is actually a laugh track) bellows at his thirty-minute predicament while his fake, little comrades take a serious tone with what he should do about his precious little problem. But it’s all okay because we know that by the end of the show all will be put back in place so that next week they can all have another pathetic little episode about nothing.

After we exhaust the pleasure of entertainment, we then turn to what actually matters, and we get the last allowable form of bitter, hate-filled conflict: morality and politics. The racists fight the non-racists, the sexual deviants fight the purists, the sexists fight the non-sexists, bullies fight non-bullies, and the list goes on and on and on. Always the good side versus the bad side.

Neither side will realize or admit that each are fighting the exact same war—the war on boredom in the empty quest for meaning.

A shallow grimace marched across his face as he considered the shallowness, the mysteries, the injustices of life; despair clouded his mind.

Despair and misery all but vanished as he stepped into a liquid pool that didn’t ripple. Fresh stains on the bottom of his boots matched the fresh stains on his clothes and face.

The origin of this pool lay a mere three feet away. The dreamer sluggishly adjusted his gaze to the motionless origin, which seemed to him empty of any significance. He searched within himself to find a feeling, something to describe what emotions were coursing through his veins as he stared.

He slowly spoke aloud his feelings with passive indifference.

"Nothing. I feel nothing."

He lifted his stained boots and continued his trek. She was young. No older than twelve.

When we are entertained or direct all our energy to a synthetic purpose for our existence, we are distracted from the painful reality that there is no real purpose. We become fanatics about anything, because we must fall for believing in something. Sex, sexuality, race, God, something worth fighting in the name of. Race is the evolutionary chain handing down inevitable diversity in color. Nothing more, nothing less. Sexuality is for pleasure gained from everyone and everything with the by-product of potential reproduction. Nothing more, nothing less. Sex is an evolutionary function essential for population. Nothing more, nothing less. God . . . God is a superstition to help us handle the emptiness and to be used as an avenue of philosophical cowardice. Nothing more, nothing less.

But these facts are far too unbearable to digest on a stomach otherwise empty of reality.

So we lie. Lies are, after all, justifiable as long as it our side whose lips are moving. We lie and invent our own false reality and purpose. We must lie, because when life has no meaning, when we allow ourselves to be caught in those quiet little moments in which we question our very existence, we, in our pathetic ways, get edgy and uncomfortable. We wonder why does little Johnny cry for his dead parents who were loving and good, while little Susy is beaten, burned, abused, and molested by hers who are alive, millionaires, and thriving? We don’t understand the pictures we see of rape victims, of innocence lost, of wives beaten to a pulp, of violence overseas. These images, for the moment, wake us up to a reality we don’t want to face. The reality of a potential evil, an evil we can’t stomach, much less try to comprehend.

The dreamer’s pace, matching his thoughts, had quickened to a lightning speed without him realizing it.

In that moment of despair, when our conscience cries out for a meaning that doesn’t exist, it is up to our self-preservation to quickly turn on the television or call a friend for a movie or get lost in the latest fantasy. Only when we are distracted with the pleasures, as momentary as they are, can we stand to face this sex-crazed, violence-filled, selfish, sick world.

The cowards.

We must immerse ourselves in it, because to stand on the outside looking in is too unbearable. To see in our quietest moments the sheer perversion of humanity is a moment too dreadful to bear. We lie, we justify, we argue that everyone must be doing it, so that makes everything okay, like lynching an innocent man is actually justice when enough men pull the rope.

The dreamer tripped violently. He would have fallen completely, but was able to catch himself, his catching savior coming in the form of a billboard. It portrayed flashy large advertisements, the majority of which portrayed nude to nearly nude models selling products from underwear to perfume to a candy bar. The dreamer paused for a moment; his thoughts momentarily slowing as he stared platonically. On almost any other day, the dreamer would have found the pictures in front of him titillating beyond control. Today, he turned and kept walking without a second glance.

Sex is the greatest realm of distractions. Is it any wonder so many tune in to their favorite porn of choice? Not everyone is rich enough to have a personal sex slave. Even those who are grow bored of their current model and need new material. This, I know well.

We must keep getting more and more creative in its application to avoid a pleasure impotence of sorts. The ecstasy of it is also the hook to the shiny lure. I, the greatest of fish, always saw the lure, but never the hook. As the moment passed, as the lust was fulfilled, but the expectation of fulfillment wasn’t, how the emptiness again crept into my existence. How quickly that greatest of pleasure transformed into the greatest of agony. Maximizing pleasure and minimizing pain . . . it is all a shadow can ask for, and it will always leave a shadow asking for more. When the temptation exists, it offers the greatest joy imaginable: hope. Hope of fulfillment in the lust you cannot wait to experience. The tragedy comes after you have experienced all the fantasies you can imagine, all the possible pleasures this world can offer, and your body craves for something more.

The steel still seemed heavy in his hand, but, comparatively, it was such a small burden to bear after all. The screams, almost deafening in his ears at first, were now quiet as the voices faded into the distance.

The greatest liars are those who say they defend sexual freedom. If they truly defended its unlimited application, they would allow it to truly be freely given. Sex with anyone as long as no one gets hurt! Hypocrites. Bring in a child, or an animal, or a relative, or a married woman, and suddenly they scream so unbearably loud about the wrongness of the act.

Reality, unencumbered by the vices of a false morality, offers a different test, one so easily implementable. If it feels good, why not? Sex with a man, with a woman, with both. Sex with an animal? Sex with a relative? Sex with a child? Sex with an adult? Sex inside of marriage, outside of marriage, before marriage, during marriage, after marriage?

Feels good, why not?

Neither the age, the gender, the animal, the marital status, nor the context of the sexual encounter has ever changed the pleasure—my pleasure, anyway.

Ending a life?

Feels good, why not?

A gasp for breath broke the newfound quiet. The dreamer, lost in his thoughts, was startled back to consciousness. Seeing movement, the dreamer changed his path.

The greatest pain is when you realize sex has no more to offer. The greatest pleasure becomes the greatest regret. What is this pleasure but a shadow of what could be? What is sex but a mere distraction, an empty vessel of remorse, a begging for an old feeling that will never be experienced again? Practices once considered detestable become the norm as the quest for that old feeling drives you mad. As the tears run down your face over the nothingness you feel, what do you see but your own shadow cast in the guilt of what you have ruined?

Staring down, the dreamer analyzed the source. The maker was strong and looked otherwise healthy.

On that proverbial mountaintop, I died into a new life. I quit the distractions. I listened to my soul in its most quiet moments. I found deep in that darkness the only plausible light this world has to offer: knowledge.

The knowledge that there is no light.

The dreamer knelt. The cold, biting touch of steel against temple woke the source to its surroundings.

The knowledge that, without light, a shadow cannot exist at all. It merely becomes one with the darkness.

For a brief moment of all too crystal clarity, the source locked frantic, questioning eyes with the dreamer. For the dreamer, mouth slightly open, jaw relaxed, hollow-eyed, he remained perfectly expressionless.

What am I then . . .

But a shadow without a Light to cast me?

Crack!

Brief, frantic jerking followed by stillness. Rising, the dreamer resumed his walk. A sound like thunder was occasionally heard as he retraced his steps, terrifying all within earshot. Six small cylinders made metallic plinking sounds as they bounced off the sidewalk. Soon, all movement and sounds along the path, save one, ceased to be.

This truth is all any rational shadow can attain intellectually. Artificial light is found in ourselves, in our own dreams and desires, which we create and imagine out of the darkness. Our dreams and desires are precisely that, unreal images of personal importance and, in many cases, greatness.

The luckiest of us die in youth before these images implode. But what of old bitter dogs like me? I suppose I am only left to make others lucky.

The dreamer came to a stop, realizing that he was standing where it had all begun. The center of the park, bustling with life fifteen minutes prior, was an exhibition in death.

Except for the fountain’s angel gushing water, silence enveloped him. Silence, for the first time in the dreamer’s life, was serene. He had always hated silence. He loathed aloneness with his thoughts, but not today. Today, everything made sense. His thoughts seemed to him alive, actually speaking to him in a calming, quiet whisper. A type of acceptance and almost sadness came over him as he heard the soft voice.

It is finished, the voice whispered.

Not knowing what else to do, he sat down on a bench near the edge of the fountain’s pool to survey his handiwork, unaware of the distant sirens coming within earshot.

It is strange. This world has always told me that I should be whoever and whatever I want to be, but that was such a lie. They never wanted me to be who I wanted to be. Who I truly am.

The dreamer’s head rose as he became conscious of the rapidly approaching sirens. He spoke slowly, They wanted me to be them. They will tolerate nothing else.

The scream of the sirens neared the outskirts of the park. Retreating into himself, the dreamer subconsciously gazed at the carnage around him.

The world will never understand. They see blood where I see life; they see loss where I see gain; they see hatred where I see nothingness.

They will say murderer . . .

The dreamer’s hands suddenly tightened on the steel, a fury boiling within him.

Murderer?

I say.

White knuckled, his body tensed as the approach of the sirens halted at the edge of the park.

So what if I am?

The screaming mixed with the distant sound of slamming doors and yells. He pondered his answer.

So what?

So, they’re coming for me.

The dreamer began to shake; a deeply embedded sense of fear gripping him.

Of course everything is so relative until it’s your head on the chopping block. Then the axe looks so absolute and terrifying. Then, suddenly, mercy seems so absolute and important.

Feeling cold, wrapping his arms around himself, he shivered awkwardly forward.

What have I done? I can’t go back. It’s too late now. There will be no forgiveness for this shadow.

Forgiveness? I remember hearing about forgiveness. As usual, it came from the bully pulpit. What was that idiot preacher saying? Something regarding the usual about Jesus being nailed to a cross, and how he wasn’t having much fun up there or some nonsense. I remember thinking he should have sat in the audience if he wanted true pain.

Then, he talked about forgiveness.

The dreamer stopped shaking; time slowed to a crawl as the erratic images stopped. He relived the now transparent memory.

It was that sermon that made me never go back. I remember now. He said all were worthy of God’s forgiveness, no matter what they had done.

Forgiveness?

For a moment, all the world stood still in his memory. The sirens and yells were silenced. The trees, once swaying in the slight wind, froze in position. The fountain’s water stopped in midair. All noise and distraction ceased as the world actually quit turning on its course, and all life momentarily revolved around one lone dreamer.

I couldn’t stomach it. I got up and walked out.

Forgiveness?

How could I forgive?

How could anyone forgive me?

Could it have been true?

Was forgiveness real?

For a moment, the dreamer allowed himself to feel.

Was it possible?

A meaning to this life?

Could forgiveness . . .

A thousand bitter memories swept over the dreamer and rushed to the forefront of his mind: hidden pride, unfairness, betrayal by those he trusted the most, hatred, envy, oppression, disappointment in every facet of life.

What for a moment Life had seized as its own, Death had reclaimed.

The dreamer’s mouth clenched as a vise; his eyes shut tight.

NO!

The moment passed. The deadly clock of time resumed. Sirens sounded in the dreamer’s ears. The trees resumed their swaying. The fountain’s water again hit the pool, resuming its blissful splashing.

Shadows are not made to forgive. We are made to survive. We survive by the strong conquering the weak.

Outside the park, heavy doors on a black van opened. Like armored black ants, the occupants filed out. The sound of hard boots striking pavement seemingly came alive in voice and words; a manifestation of menace and fear for anyone in its path.

It is insulting, really, to think of forgiveness as a possibility. Forgiveness is not an option any more than violence is truly an option. They simply are. We respond as our genes instruct us. What are we but the shadows our ancestors cast?

The dreamer never heard the park fill with hard boots and a flurry of footsteps.

I wasted so many years on that joke of forgiveness. I was so naïve. So naïve! No. You make your choices, and you live with them, and . . .

And die with them.

Life and death are all there is, and all morality that could exist in between is for philosophers and cowards.

Forgiveness. It’s a joke for the weak of mind.

The shaking stopped entirely. The dreamer remembered where he was, and more importantly, why he was. He whispered softly, as if the words were made of honey sounding so sweet in his ears, Forgiveness, love, peace, absolutes, and the sacred, all jokes for a weak mind.

Tranquility came over him; a deep breath, eyes shut. He sighed and leaned back into the bench, a job well done. Satisfied, feeling the tired completeness after a hard day’s work, he rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head. Both hands gripped the steel as the dreamer leaned forward and rested his head against it. It felt cold against the bottom of his nose. Forty yards away, a twig snapped.

I feel great. This is peace. The world won’t understand. They won’t understand what it means to be me. They always expected me to understand them, though. Sure, they may finally understand my pain, but only because I inflicted my pain upon them.

The dreamer was observed; a closed fist was raised before a harsh whisper of warning was given, and the observer began the meticulous process of closing the gap.

Pain . . . pain . . . pain is like everything else. It’s not good or bad. It just is. That’s what my life is. It’s not good or bad. It’s just what I am. I am pain. Pain is me. I inflict pain. I feel pain. I am pain. That is the truth of life.

No, that isn’t exactly right.

The observer, following closely, stealthily crept along a hedgerow, coming within twenty yards of his target.

There is only one truth after all.

The observer tried to clear the fear from his mind. His movements were tense, focused.

Fifteen yards.

How many . . . how many were fortunate enough not to learn the truth of this life? The truth.

Once more, the observer raised a fist, a motion signaling those who followed to stop. The hedgerow had ended.

Ten yards.

Truth . . .

Swiftly turning his head, the observer rapidly motioned three fingers, then two, then one.

Truth . . .

The observer snapped his neck around and cautiously peered through the thick brush.

Three fingers were raised.

Three.

The TRUTH.

Two.

The truth that there is only one truth in this life.

One.

The truth that there is no truth. There just is.

Taking a deep breath, the observer rose from his hiding place.

freeze! put the gun on the ground! now!

Fresh yells and screams ruptured the silence of the park as officers, guns raised, swarmed around the dreamer. Forming a half-circle, they stopped only a few yards away.

The dreamer didn’t flinch at their loud entrance. Their continued screaming and wild gesturing had the same lack of effect. Yelling for acquiescence to their demands, the officers were answered by a single sentence, calmly and quietly given.

And all that follows from this one truth, is merely man, worshipping his creator.1

Unmoving, pale, lifeless eyes fixated on the ground in front of him, his face remaining a placid statue as he spoke. Time passed. No one moved. In a surreal, stunned moment, they all fell into silence.

How much they fear me. The irony . . . they actually fear me . . . they don’t see it . . . they don’t see what should be feared.

Effortlessly, the steel moved to the dreamer’s lips. The sluggish movement left the officers careless. The end of the object fit neatly into his mouth as lips shut around the barrel. His eyes shut, only to reopen a second later.

Glassy eyes now met the officers’ frantic stares.

Flabbergasted, the officers said nothing and did nothing.

A soft smile grew and became eerily prevalent. His mouth expanded, and his lips separated as a ghoulish grin reached the very edges of his visage. Chuckling like a man in a dream, his words were garbled by the steel cutting against his teeth.

You, you don’t have to fear me.

Shaking his head from left to right with small, smooth movements, his grin slowly disappeared; his chuckling fell silent as he spoke.

No. No, no, no.

No . . .

No.

His features slowly transformed into a hollow stare. He spoke more quietly with every word.

No.

No.

No.

Mere seconds, feeling like hours, passed as his gaze fell slightly to the ground in front of him, indistinguishably expressionless.

His words were silent as a whisper; his hollow face the face of death.

I’m just a shadow.

Crack!

The officers twitchingly blinked, flinched, and breathed in as one as the dreamer’s head whiplashed behind him. A red mist filled the once clear pool. Confusion and terror etched its way across their faces, an image caught forever in time in the hearts and memories of those who witnessed it.

The last thunderclap had echoed through the now eerily silent park, marking the beginning of a dreamer’s final awakening.

*     *     *

In the aftermath of that day, so many had questions to ask. So few had any answers. Even fewer listened. The confusion was replaced by indignation and anger. Who was to blame? What was to blame? The steel in his hand? The movies he watched? The games he played? The bullies he was victim to? The politics he associated himself with? How could such a massacre take place in our great country? The television, the radio, the politicians, the people were up in arms. Fingers were pointed, laws were enacted, promises were made—exclamations of future protection from such heinous acts. For a time, on the lips of all was the name of God—the secular person denouncing him and the religious person praying to him. For both, understanding was sought.

Understanding never came, but time does heal all wounds.

Flaring tempers began to cool. Safety again became a luxury. Fear became a joke, and the dead that were lost became the punchline. What had occurred was a travesty but that was then, this is now. How glad all were to forget the man they knew to be illogical, irrational, and insane. TV ratings continued to soar. Politicians’ promises continued to grow in number, while their approval rating fell proportionately. Video game sales the next year were a bumper crop. Movies, sporting arenas, and concerts were sold out. Sexual wishes of all types and styles were freely available to an eager audience.

One noticed this, but did not change. One did not move on. A lone visitor that stopped at the dreamer’s grave almost every Sunday night at sunset. The world did not know his name.

At least, not yet.

For this man, the dreamer’s memory lived on. As others gleefully forgot the carnage, he dwelled on it, replayed it in his mind, and became obsessed with it. He desperately read every report, every book, saw the movie. He researched it thoroughly and meticulously.

As the sun set again on another day, the shadow of a long stone over the dreamer’s grave grew and grew until it fully enveloped the silent visitor. Dark eyes, shining unnaturally bright behind long hair, were completely covered and indiscernible. In those moments of dusk, the dreamer’s words seemed the most profound to the visitor.

For what it is worth, I am almost sorry now that I forced your hand, a voice whispered. We are more alike than I could have ever imagined, you and me. But, I do not have to apologize, do I? No. Not to you. You understand, you understand what this life is. So do I, and I have you, in part, to thank you for that. So, thank you for setting my path in motion. Thank you for setting me free. Thank you, sir, for showing me your shadow.

As the visitor thanked the cold stone in front him, he opened a small red book. It was the diary of the dreamer, published and sold as a best seller. The visitor standing over that silent grave, using the last bit of light from a rapidly descending son, read aloud the last entry:

So many of you will label me insane and point your arrogant noses to the sky. This reaction is one of the few things left in this world that makes me laugh and smile. I do so because I know you, I know your hearts. I know the reality you refuse to face. If the wisest intellect in this world disagreed with you, you would arrogantly mock him, argue like a child, do your best discredit him, and run him out of town. Alternatively, if the world’s most profound idiot showed up to your door with a bomb strapped to his chest, you would listen quietly to every word.

That is the full extent of your wisdom and courage.

You will say I am crazy, I will say, compared to whom? You will say I am evil, I will say, by what standard? You will say I shouldn’t do such things, I will say, who are you to tell me what to do with my own body? You have made your subjective choice, and I have now made mine. If you use force against me, you merely prove my point that this is survival of the fittest, a power struggle where only the strongest survive. No morality is allowed into this equation. This is the truth that shadows cannot comprehend. You beg for morality to save yourselves with the same mouth that denies morality when it is convenient or pleasurable. I have no such hypocrisy.

Like candles burning and fighting to stay lit in the wind—that is the fate of shadows born in this world. The irony is that it may take years to light a candle and keep it aflame, but only seconds to snuff it out, as it is with all things that people of this world deem worthy. Nothing in this life that is considered worth fighting for—or dying for—matches the time required to build it versus the time required to destroy it.

With enough dynamite, one could destroy a high-rise in seconds that took years to build. One single act of seduction or adultery can erase the love of a marriage that had been cultivated and nourished for years. One little lie can erase fifty years of trust that was building between friends, business partners, family members, lovers, you name it.

Raising a child takes work, the work of parents, of family, of friends, of neighbors, of teachers, of mentors. Kindergarten, grade school, middle school, high school, college, higher education, a real job, years of help financially, morally, and mentally, all accumulating and directed at a single life. It takes thousands of hours from hundreds of people directed at years of learning, of training, of patience, of straining, of worry, of care, of love, to raise a single productive life in this world.

Yet, it will take only a second to pull the trigger.

This knowledge has set me free. It freed me to realize how lost we truly are in ourselves, our own fantasies. We lie and say we have real problems, real love, real truths, real relationships, real friendships, real justice, real morality, and real important everythings. We forget that this world is an accident, and we are nothing more than the results of that accident. A rabid, cruel tree happened to grow and we, the twisted fruit, fell off and made more trees.

This, we call life.

We have no love, just physiological lust. No truth, just matters of opinion. No real relationships, just people we met and mated with. No real friends, just Homo sapiens we happen to biologically match interests with. No truth, no morality, no justice, no problem. Nothing at the core of humanity, deep down within ourselves, is truly, philosophically important.

I have studied this great fact. I have learned this great fact. I go to my final sleep accepting this great fact.

Now, it is your turn. Fate has now forced my hand to act as I have always wished to, and I am glad.

In truth, we’re shadows, pretending to be real. When we shadows finally depart this world, the world will keep turning and not care that its shadows are all gone. No life after death, no forgiveness, no true, eternal importance. We may pave our roadway in this world with honest, hard-earned bricks and mortar or with the blood and bones of the defeated downtrodden. A man may help an old lady across the street or push her in front of a bus. A mother may raise her children with care, tenderness, and what she mistakes as love, or she may rob the child from her womb, slit its throat, cook it, and eat it.

There is no difference between these choices.

There is no difference in any choice.

A new day will soon be dawning.

A new day of purposeless purpose, loveless love, meaningless meaning, hopeless hope, merciless mercy, and unforgiving forgiveness.

We are, after all, nothing but shadows.

As the visitor closed the book, the sunlight had all but vanished. The shadow from the gravestone, once prominently displayed on the visitor, was now indiscernible from the surrounding darkness.

Looking skyward, the visitor almost smiled, prepared to face the new day.

Chapter 1

A Beautiful Day

My god.

What a beautiful day.

What an absolutely beautiful day!

No doubt about it.

He awoke that Monday with a cheer-filled heart as he leapt from bed. The story he had handed in on Friday was a winner.

The strain was worth it. I’ve finally produced something even Barnaby won’t be able to criticize. That’s an accomplishment in and of itself!

My! What a beautiful day, though! I should really go for a jog outside—but then I would have to compete with traffic and other joggers. Besides, I can never time it right to be back here on my schedule. No, I shall be content to look out the window at this majestic day.

Paul Berkely considered himself a man of minutes. A man of time and the lack thereof. There was never enough time in the day to get everything accomplished that he believed needed to be done.

As per his weekday routine, within five minutes he was on his treadmill for a twenty-minute jog. He did not particularly enjoy or believe in exercise, but he did believe in low cholesterol. After the jog, he would hop into the shower for almost precisely ten minutes. This was followed by drying and dressing, an activity he calculated to be five minutes. This left twenty minutes to get food together, eat, and get out the door. All in all, it would take sixty minutes for him to start his day, an amount of time he considered to be obtusely overreaching on his schedule. He struggled in justifying spending sixty minutes a day (at five days a week, that’s three hundred minutes) wasting away on what he considered the unfortunate necessities of life.

On this particular morning, however, this predicament was the last thing on his mind.

This article is a winner, a clear masterpiece of literary genius. I can feel it. No doubt about it, he thought as he skipped into the shower. It took me months of research and time, precious time, to learn of them. To transform the verbal word to the written word. To convey the visual of the homeless on the streets to the living rooms of the masses.

Now, I just need to show up to work on time, lest I mitigate the good news. How much time do I have? Oh, good, two minutes ahead.

As he ravished the last bit of cereal, he anxiously checked his watch.

Fifty-five minutes consumed, five minutes early. A good day.

Paul opened the door of his little house and made his way to his car, Old Betsy. She may be old, but she sure is reliable, no doubt about it.

The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and a cool breeze greeted and comforted his skin. It was as if nature itself had awoken with a pleasant, warm glow.

Yes, a beautiful day, no doubt about it.

*     *     *

This sorry excuse for a story wouldn’t fly with readers if you gave it wings and a jet engine! For Pete’s sake! BERKELY! I would use it as toilet paper, but I would never dare to soil my otherwise meticulous anus with this abomination!

The stack of papers Thomas A. Barnaby was holding made a louder than life thud as it landed on the desk in front of a newly disheveled and twitching Paul Berkely. Barnaby ran his fingers through his short yellow hair, a look of disbelief and hurried agony firmly planted on his face.

What were you thinking, Berkely? What could you possibly have been thinking?

Well . . . The word caught in his throat. Mr. Barnaby, I was trying to—

NO! No, no, no! That is the wrong answer, Berkely! The correct answer is ‘I wasn’t thinking, Mr. Barnaby. That’s why I handed this in.’ Had you said that, you would have salvaged the little remaining respect I had for you as a journalist!

Barnaby crossed the carpet to his office chair and plopped down hard, the doomed chair crunching under the weight of Barnaby’s massive frame. Paul was reminded why Barnaby had gone through three office chairs in nine months.

Berkely, we need, we need . . . Barnaby leaned forward and stammered, clearly trying to control himself. We need to have a coming-to-Jesus meeting here.

Oh no.

Let’s rewind the clock, shall we? When you first came here, your work was promising. I would describe it as ‘promising,’ not ‘rather promising,’ but ‘promising.’ That promise started to bloom into a lovely flower, I being the bee of pollination. Let’s not discount my time and effort here, either. Then, it all stopped. A muddy boot came along and stomped on your little flower, Berkely. Now, I must be frank here because I can’t continue taking work like this. Your writing hasn’t been the same since the divorce. I understand that to a point. I’ve been through four myself, but, Berkely! That was over a year ago!

Barnaby gazed at Paul, his eyes pleading for understanding.

Paul cleared his throat. Mr. Barnaby, you asked me to write a piece on a topic of my choice. I did so, to the best of my ability. I went and interviewed hundreds of people at homeless shelters and at food lines, not to mention the random homeless people on the streets. I ate with them. I followed them everywhere, many places—not to be rude—but many of the places were not very clean. I slept in the same houses. I even lived with them in some cases. I learned all about them. Now—Paul pointed as he again cleared his throat; his eyes had not stopped begging for mercy and understanding—those papers on your desk are the result of two months of my research, Mr. Barnaby. I told their stories in a professional and educated manner. I did all I could and, with all due respect, I did it well, I think. It is a great piece that shows the humanity of the people and the struggles they go through, there’s no doubt about it.

With every muscle visibly tense, along with the uncomfortable, awkward, and focused gaze, Barnaby was paying attention, that much Paul knew. Then his expression changed dramatically, and with a sense of dread, Paul realized it was not a look of understanding that now greeted him, but a look of pity and disbelief.

Oh, Berkely . . . Berkely. Now that you feel better after letting your emotions run high, and you’ve changed your tampon, let’s be adults for a moment. You did a lot, I’ll grant you that, but do you realize what you didn’t do? No answer. Berkely, you sold the people. You didn’t sell the story.

Um, what do you mean? Paul asked.

Barnaby shot from his chair like a spring and began pacing. The wheeled chair took a beating as it slammed against the back wall.

Berkely, in most cases, I don’t need to have this talk with my journalists, as they already understand what I’m about to say, or they learn it quickly enough. In your case, I can see that we need crayons and cardboard. Berkely! You’d best understand that we are not in the business of spinning fairy tales about people and their struggles. That might be what the ignorant masses say we do, but it isn’t what we actually do. We—Barnaby walked back to his desk and leaned over it precariously—sell. We SELL, Berkely!

We ‘sell,’ sir?

Yes! Barnaby fell downwards into his chair, the crunch beneath him only adding to the moment. We sell. We sell stories. Stories grease the machinery that keeps our gears spinning and feeds the beasts of capitalism and consumerism. The people are an afterthought. We use the people to sell the story to, but at the end of the day, our story is all that matters. We sell to the people. We don’t spin yarns about the people who buy.

Huh? Well, no nodding and smiling on this one. I have to understand this. Barnaby looks serious enough to fire me.

I, I am truly sorry, sir, but I don’t understand. The story is the peopl—

BERKELY! Barnaby flashed his temper but quickly shut it down. Paul recognized the look all too well, and feared it.

I am one wrong word away from another bad-metaphor-filled tirade.

Berkely, Barnaby said. I can’t believe I didn’t notice this problem earlier. Maybe I’m spending too much time at conferences. The divorce has clearly warped your brain, and you went from a journalist to a moralist, idealist, idiot, I don’t know!

Now, that’s just not fair at all, and rude to boot.

Mr. Barnaby, I fail to see what my divorce has to do with anything. Paul was as defensive in his tone and posture as he dared to be with Barnaby. In his mind, it was extremely aggressive.

Barnaby didn’t notice.

Well something did! You’ve stopped writing the story and started writing the people! You had an occasional bad habit of it early on, but that habit has turned into a routine! You don’t see it? Okay, maybe I am not making myself clear. Let’s try an example. Can you name a single person who died on 9/11?

Paul thought about it. And thought about. And thought about it. This is embarrassing.

Well, not off the top of my head.

Nor could most, except immediate family, and that is my point! We give the statistic. That is the story—thousands of Americans dead. The statistic is the story we run with. It is the focus. NOT, not the actual poor, screaming souls who died. Non-journalists don’t understand that. They don’t understand this business. Deep down, we don’t care about the boring lives of CEOs Tom, Dick, and Harry who worked in the Twin Towers and who got up that morning like they had the last one thousand mornings. Those other thousand mornings are their boring little existence. That’s their business. The masses, our audience, those who grease our wheels and keep food in our tummies, whether they realize it or not, never would have cared about CEOs Tom, Dick, and Harry and their boring lives either, had they not been part of the story.

Barnaby paused to study Paul. Okay, I can see I’m not getting through. Barnaby squared his shoulders for the long haul and rolled his chair forward until the top of his little potbelly rested on his desk. Listen carefully, Berkely. Deep down, our audience doesn’t care about the people, whether they lived or died. They are nameless strangers who only became an interest AFTER the REAL story broke. What they care about is the story. Barnaby’s voice became wild with enthusiasm. He yelled as if he was speaking to a full auditorium. The story tells them that CEOs Tom, Dick, and Harry died in a burning hell! A fire that ravaged their bodies mercilessly as steel, rebar, plaster, and marble twisted and melted from the flames until finally the Twin Towers, a symbol of freedom, came crashing down!

Barnaby slammed his hands on his desk, signaling the finale of his performance. The story may take many shapes, but there is always a story. The story was two towers falling. The story was the statistical loss. The story was religious extremism. The story was the unprecedented attack on American soil. The story was fear. FEAR, Berkely! That is relatable to our audience. That brings it home, on their doorstep! That story is relatable. The only interest our readers have in the boring lives of Tom, Dick, and Harry is their fear of ‘what if that had been me or my family, and will it be next time?’ That’s writing the story, not writing the people.

A pause in the conversation gave Paul a chance to think, and Barnaby a chance to keenly study his lone audience member who was trying to grasp the slippery bombshell he had just been handed.

I-I’m not sure about that, Mr. Barnaby. Barnaby’s head cocked sideways as his brows narrowed. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I believe that people are . . . well, they are the reason I became a journalist in the first place, sir. The people. Hearing about them. Hearing their lives. Hearing what is actually going on out there. The people are what matters to me, Mr. Barnaby. People . . . they are the story. You can’t separate the two.

You really believe that drivel?

Yes, sir. That is the truth. There’s no doubt about it.

Barnaby sat up straight, taking an austere posture and tone. Berkely. I will only say this once. You will not make it in this profession—or any other—if you are that naive. Truth has been dead for some time now. It was replaced by sensationalism and higher sales. I suggest you get that memo before you have no sensationalism, no sales, and no job. Barnaby leaned forward, menace not in his face but in the movement. And that, Berkely, is the ‘truth.’

As the door slammed behind him, Paul looked sideways out a nearby window.

My, what an ugly day . . . there’s no doubt about it.

Chapter 2

Not What Was Expected

We sell the story, not the people.

These words raced in circles in his mind. The story is the focus. According to Barnaby, the story is the reason for my existence as a journalist. But what is the story? The story is people, or so I thought. What does it mean to write it, but NOT the people?

Paul knew better than to ask for clarification. Barnaby, the oracle of wisdom, had spoken with finality. That was as much help as Paul would be receiving.

But the question remained, even if an easy explanation did not, and time passes whether one has answered life’s harsh questions or not. Three weeks flew by, and Paul was still without a major story worth selling.

He tried everything he could imagine: changing his writing style, redirecting angles of stories that Barnaby had approved of in the past, and even rewriting the first section of his latest story. Barnaby refused to give it a second glance.

With each failure, Barnaby became more austere. This, Paul knew, was the kiss of death. He had witnessed the silent treatment from Barnaby before with journalists that Barnaby had fired soon thereafter. An emotional and angry Barnaby was a positive, because then Barnaby sincerely believed he had a journalist with potential, someone worth tempering in the fire of his wisdom. A withdrawn Barnaby meant all hope was lost and yelling just wasn’t worth the effort.

Barnaby had also stripped Paul of choosing what stories to cover. Instead, he was assigned stories too trivial for other journalists to willingly cover.

First, the inordinate amount of stray cats downtown, then, reporting that humans can’t tickle themselves, then a survey that less people are going to horror movies, and who could forget that uber-exciting story that the bridge on Twenty-Seventh was being repaired?

Who cares? Hardly anyone drives there anyway.

And now, now he has me working a political event, and not even an exciting one at that.

It was Sunday night, and Paul was in the first row of the Sunshine Enterprises Arena. The basketball court had been replaced with a wide platform that rose a little over four feet from the ground. The overhead lights dimmed, and spotlights outlined the speaker in the darkened arena.

Hmm. Poor guy. Must have a gland problem.

Anthony Frankling was small in stature yet unnaturally wide. He stood at five feet, four inches tall and weighed over two hundred fifty pounds. His smile seemed to extend past probability, which gave the impression that his round face was far too large for his small head. Frankling offset the calamity of his portly and unshapely appearance with his thunderous voice and a constant, cheerful disposition.

It also helped that he wore some of the sleekest and costly suits Paul had ever seen.

Well-funded already, and his campaign is in its infancy.

Good evening, everyone! Frankling roared with anxious vigor. His voice, an explosive baritone, resonated through the crowd. "I am delighted to be here, in this great city. Faith, family, and truth. These ideals lay the foundation for what will be my political career. Faith in ourselves. Faith in this community. Faith that what we need from Washington will get done, if we elect the right people to do it! Family; my wife and I have two wonderful children, and I can assure you, I would be nothing without them. And truth. Truth is what ties it all together. Truth is lacking in Washington, but that is something I intend