Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. To Whom It May Concern: by M.J. Garrett (top novels txt) 📖
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all their secrets being poured out of this kid's mouth like projectile vomit.
There the kid stood. The stories and finger pointing emptying the funeral home like a smoke grenade. I'm sure there was a point to all this. I'm sure there was some sort of motivation. Maybe a mission needing to be completed, but whose point was being proved? Whose agenda was being accomplished? I'm almost sure that our heroes, Nate and Carla, would have loved to see the chaotic mayhem.
While Nate and Carla zapped around the world, preaching their own message and converting their own followers, this boy singlehandedly brought this town and all its secrets to its knees. Pistols being fired through the mouths of the citizens, cars being halted as bodies fell from bridges and high-rise apartments, bathtubs being filled with blood and electrical appliances. All while Nate and Carla unmercifully filled their bodies with gibberish tattoos and unquenchable power.
Who is the real God? Who is the real Devil? Maybe the shape-shifting stranger with a million identities was right the whole time. Maybe this God who sat across the felt table filled with arrogance and poise, wasn't even God at all. Maybe we had it wrong. Maybe the purpose of Nate and Carla was being fulfilled, as these angels of death did the very job they were meant to do. Maybe we aren't judged by the things we do, but the things we don't do?
*
“Nate?” Carla spoke softly, “Why can't I come with you? I thought we were a team?” She asked, as she stood there on top of the world holding his tattooed hand. Her head leaning against his shoulder, they stared out into the vast nothing as he looked down at their joined hands. Confused, he looked at his hand and the writings; when connected to hers, it was completely legible.
“Look!” he said to her with the light in his head finally clicking on, “I can read it.”
Carla, looking down at their hands, sees that while their hands were joined, they created purpose. The tattoos weren't meant to be read alone, but meant to create something more powerful and understood when the two of them were together. Looking at the tattoos and then looking at each other, they smiled from the revelation.
“I'll tell you what...” he said with his eyes hidden behind his glasses, “...I have one thing that I need to do before we really get started.”
Looking at him, she knew what he was thinking. As one, their minds transferred thoughts without speaking a word. She quickly smiled and stood on her tip toes as she leaned in to kiss him. “I'll race you!” she said as she quickly vanished.
*
There he stood, pulling in the smoke from his cigarette, standing outside his childhood home as the sun was setting on the dawn of their future. There was no way that she could beat him here. She didn't even know where he grew up! There was absolutely, no way in the world, she could have showed up before him. Who knows, he thought to himself, maybe the fact that she could read his mind and thoughts have given her the advantage?
Squinting, he pulled the sunglasses off for a second, and flicked his cigarette carelessly across the parking lot. He slowly made his way toward the apartment.
One cigarette, filling the room with the stench of tobacco and menthol, sat on the counter top placed neatly in an ashtray. With an inch of ash still clinging to the red glow of burning tobacco, I notice the lipstick on the filter of the wasted cigarette. A thin small string of smoke slowly lifted toward the ceiling and disappeared into nothing. The ashtray was sitting on the corner of a neatly written letter that was placed there for me to find.
To Whom It May Concern:
He wasn't here.
To Whom It May Concern:
The end...possibly the beginning?
Imprint
There the kid stood. The stories and finger pointing emptying the funeral home like a smoke grenade. I'm sure there was a point to all this. I'm sure there was some sort of motivation. Maybe a mission needing to be completed, but whose point was being proved? Whose agenda was being accomplished? I'm almost sure that our heroes, Nate and Carla, would have loved to see the chaotic mayhem.
While Nate and Carla zapped around the world, preaching their own message and converting their own followers, this boy singlehandedly brought this town and all its secrets to its knees. Pistols being fired through the mouths of the citizens, cars being halted as bodies fell from bridges and high-rise apartments, bathtubs being filled with blood and electrical appliances. All while Nate and Carla unmercifully filled their bodies with gibberish tattoos and unquenchable power.
Who is the real God? Who is the real Devil? Maybe the shape-shifting stranger with a million identities was right the whole time. Maybe this God who sat across the felt table filled with arrogance and poise, wasn't even God at all. Maybe we had it wrong. Maybe the purpose of Nate and Carla was being fulfilled, as these angels of death did the very job they were meant to do. Maybe we aren't judged by the things we do, but the things we don't do?
*
“Nate?” Carla spoke softly, “Why can't I come with you? I thought we were a team?” She asked, as she stood there on top of the world holding his tattooed hand. Her head leaning against his shoulder, they stared out into the vast nothing as he looked down at their joined hands. Confused, he looked at his hand and the writings; when connected to hers, it was completely legible.
“Look!” he said to her with the light in his head finally clicking on, “I can read it.”
Carla, looking down at their hands, sees that while their hands were joined, they created purpose. The tattoos weren't meant to be read alone, but meant to create something more powerful and understood when the two of them were together. Looking at the tattoos and then looking at each other, they smiled from the revelation.
“I'll tell you what...” he said with his eyes hidden behind his glasses, “...I have one thing that I need to do before we really get started.”
Looking at him, she knew what he was thinking. As one, their minds transferred thoughts without speaking a word. She quickly smiled and stood on her tip toes as she leaned in to kiss him. “I'll race you!” she said as she quickly vanished.
*
There he stood, pulling in the smoke from his cigarette, standing outside his childhood home as the sun was setting on the dawn of their future. There was no way that she could beat him here. She didn't even know where he grew up! There was absolutely, no way in the world, she could have showed up before him. Who knows, he thought to himself, maybe the fact that she could read his mind and thoughts have given her the advantage?
Squinting, he pulled the sunglasses off for a second, and flicked his cigarette carelessly across the parking lot. He slowly made his way toward the apartment.
One cigarette, filling the room with the stench of tobacco and menthol, sat on the counter top placed neatly in an ashtray. With an inch of ash still clinging to the red glow of burning tobacco, I notice the lipstick on the filter of the wasted cigarette. A thin small string of smoke slowly lifted toward the ceiling and disappeared into nothing. The ashtray was sitting on the corner of a neatly written letter that was placed there for me to find.
To Whom It May Concern:
He wasn't here.
To Whom It May Concern:
The end...possibly the beginning?
Imprint
Text: Copyright © 2010 M.J. Garrett All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-1468037562 ISBN-10: 1468037560
Publication Date: 08-13-2011
All Rights Reserved
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