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The Horizon's My Target
#WritcoStoryPrompt113
Write a story about a time-train. You're standing right in the midst of a railroad track.
"There are two sides to every story: One that is positive and the other is negative. You have to choose between two sides, but you have no idea which one is which."
All Kas could think about from the words stained blue on the stone brick walls were:
So this is death.
Well, limbo, a path through death the ending will be the same though,
He was dead.
Or dying, he wasn't entirely sure. It made no nevermind to him, his fate was pretty pointless and quite worthless.
Still he shrugged kicking a loose pebble the sound reverbed around the tube tunnel he could see his own breath though he did not feel cold.
He shrugged off his jacket and was somewhat surprised to see the gaping hole in his heart. So that's how the great Kas Windler died, shot in the heart bleed in mere seconds and fell stone cold.
He poked at the wound in wonder it left a trail of dark blue on his fingertips it stung slightly when he pushed on it but then a soft thump began its rhythmic charge, almost like a heart beat if he imagined hard enough.
Kas looked back to the wall with the words, rereading them delicately, 'two sides to a story' Well, isn't that just poetic? He thought his story had ended a long time ago.
Looking down the train tracks, they stretched on tartar and tartar like the edges of the world, there was no end, yet there was no light at either side, both being dark and musky smelling.
"Does that make this the epilogue?" He asked to no one, his words pathetically wavered and fractured into nothingness as the echoing stopped.
"I thought it would have be nicer," He grumble rolling his eyes, he was tired, more tired than he should have been.
He began to walk.
Picking a random direction out of the two, and following through with it, he didn't turn back, not once, didn't look back or let his steps falter.
He walked for what felt like hours.
He did not become hungry, didn't want water, scratch that, he didn't need water. He wasn't thirsty, his legs ached however and back became sore, his fingertips becoming numb and tingling.
He resorted to digging in the gravel, his trench coat becoming a thick gray on the cuffs trying to pry out the train tracks, to make his hands wake up. Using the pebbles he started cutting the red bricks, leaving words and phrases from when he was alive.
Pictures of monsters, threats, people he once knew, places he been, things he had said, things he wish he did, were cut and chiseled into the walls of the tube, he left them all behind. He continued walking.
He didn't look back.
He was never going to look back.
He didn't want to, afraid by what he might see, his younger and older brothers, his wife, his son, his father holding the pistol in his hand, slick with sweat and tears.
Kas marched on, until he realized the walls became open, the way out? Possibly. Stopping once hearing he heard the rhythmic crinkle of something paper hitting stone, weirdly loud and shrieking, the noise being amplified in the tube.
Stepping out of the train tube, letting his eyes adjust to the red lights blaring, moving forward hearing a crunch below his foot, looking down finding old beaten cards. He picked on up.
The king of hearts, how bloody poetic.
He tossed it aside, observing his surroundings seeing benches and the walls turning gray and the blocks becoming bigger, electronic signs in red all saying 'canceled' or 'severely delayed' Kas as someone who had taken the tube enough times knew that nothing was coming.
Climbing from the train tracks onto the waiting platform, he saw the most peculiar duo of people he's ever seen. Both turned to stare at him, playing a card game, one being incredibly young, yearly twenties wearing a dirty green hoodie smoking a cigarette and the other being around late thirties or early forties wearing an old suit with white in his hair, both were male.
Kas didn't know it then, but he would stay the rest of his eternity bound there, playing cards on the stone floor, sleeping on the metal framed benches. After a while he found a guitar, painstakingly stringing adjusting the truss rod and retuning it. He was more of a writer than a singer, still he remembers a few songs he made either for himself or his family.
He sung, he sung of train tracks, of a son without a father, of two brothers without their glue to keep them together, of stone brick walls, the feeling of being shot and a mutiny against yourself.
"I figured out what could move me,"
He sung of train tracks.
"I'm sorry but Boris I'm leaving,"
Of the barriers they kept in place so no were to fall off and hurt themselves, of the trains cruising by at ungodly speeds never once stopping at their platform, loud and ringing.
"I'm not good for anyone here"
He sung of kings and queens of cards, of love poems and horror stories, he sung of a man named Kas.
"We reach the end of a decade."
He sung of himself, and things he wished to say, and things he didn't, he sung of monsters and people he once knew, phrases repeated like curses and prayers.
"I can't believe that I'm leaving"
He sung, then yelled, then began to sing again, some days he would curse himself, curse his father, his family wife and son, other days he would sing of how his father's hand was shaking when he pointed the pistol and kept his eyes averted from his.
"I don't think I want to leave you."
He learnt Spanish to sing to the young man, would sing with an American accent to the older man.
"I don't think I want to leave you, here alone"
He would sing of their lives, the lives of historians, of what they would see when they found their bodies and pretend like they knew what happened.
"Knock down the pubs before helping you"
He sung of Injustice and mutinies and coups, of parents killing children, of children killing parents.
"and burn down the towers before helping you"
He sung of things he only hear joked about online
"charge for your health care before helping you"
He sung of habits and addictions, the smell of nicotine and the blue shade of blood.
"They'd make you jump under trains before helping you"
He sung of train tracks.
"I don't think I want to leave you."
He sung of a man named Kas
[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]
Art by Slightly singed on Tumbler
Song called 'I'm sorry Boris'
I don't even know either, don't question anything.
© Unavailable
[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]
Write a story about a time-train. You're standing right in the midst of a railroad track.
"There are two sides to every story: One that is positive and the other is negative. You have to choose between two sides, but you have no idea which one is which."
All Kas could think about from the words stained blue on the stone brick walls were:
So this is death.
Well, limbo, a path through death the ending will be the same though,
He was dead.
Or dying, he wasn't entirely sure. It made no nevermind to him, his fate was pretty pointless and quite worthless.
Still he shrugged kicking a loose pebble the sound reverbed around the tube tunnel he could see his own breath though he did not feel cold.
He shrugged off his jacket and was somewhat surprised to see the gaping hole in his heart. So that's how the great Kas Windler died, shot in the heart bleed in mere seconds and fell stone cold.
He poked at the wound in wonder it left a trail of dark blue on his fingertips it stung slightly when he pushed on it but then a soft thump began its rhythmic charge, almost like a heart beat if he imagined hard enough.
Kas looked back to the wall with the words, rereading them delicately, 'two sides to a story' Well, isn't that just poetic? He thought his story had ended a long time ago.
Looking down the train tracks, they stretched on tartar and tartar like the edges of the world, there was no end, yet there was no light at either side, both being dark and musky smelling.
"Does that make this the epilogue?" He asked to no one, his words pathetically wavered and fractured into nothingness as the echoing stopped.
"I thought it would have be nicer," He grumble rolling his eyes, he was tired, more tired than he should have been.
He began to walk.
Picking a random direction out of the two, and following through with it, he didn't turn back, not once, didn't look back or let his steps falter.
He walked for what felt like hours.
He did not become hungry, didn't want water, scratch that, he didn't need water. He wasn't thirsty, his legs ached however and back became sore, his fingertips becoming numb and tingling.
He resorted to digging in the gravel, his trench coat becoming a thick gray on the cuffs trying to pry out the train tracks, to make his hands wake up. Using the pebbles he started cutting the red bricks, leaving words and phrases from when he was alive.
Pictures of monsters, threats, people he once knew, places he been, things he had said, things he wish he did, were cut and chiseled into the walls of the tube, he left them all behind. He continued walking.
He didn't look back.
He was never going to look back.
He didn't want to, afraid by what he might see, his younger and older brothers, his wife, his son, his father holding the pistol in his hand, slick with sweat and tears.
Kas marched on, until he realized the walls became open, the way out? Possibly. Stopping once hearing he heard the rhythmic crinkle of something paper hitting stone, weirdly loud and shrieking, the noise being amplified in the tube.
Stepping out of the train tube, letting his eyes adjust to the red lights blaring, moving forward hearing a crunch below his foot, looking down finding old beaten cards. He picked on up.
The king of hearts, how bloody poetic.
He tossed it aside, observing his surroundings seeing benches and the walls turning gray and the blocks becoming bigger, electronic signs in red all saying 'canceled' or 'severely delayed' Kas as someone who had taken the tube enough times knew that nothing was coming.
Climbing from the train tracks onto the waiting platform, he saw the most peculiar duo of people he's ever seen. Both turned to stare at him, playing a card game, one being incredibly young, yearly twenties wearing a dirty green hoodie smoking a cigarette and the other being around late thirties or early forties wearing an old suit with white in his hair, both were male.
Kas didn't know it then, but he would stay the rest of his eternity bound there, playing cards on the stone floor, sleeping on the metal framed benches. After a while he found a guitar, painstakingly stringing adjusting the truss rod and retuning it. He was more of a writer than a singer, still he remembers a few songs he made either for himself or his family.
He sung, he sung of train tracks, of a son without a father, of two brothers without their glue to keep them together, of stone brick walls, the feeling of being shot and a mutiny against yourself.
"I figured out what could move me,"
He sung of train tracks.
"I'm sorry but Boris I'm leaving,"
Of the barriers they kept in place so no were to fall off and hurt themselves, of the trains cruising by at ungodly speeds never once stopping at their platform, loud and ringing.
"I'm not good for anyone here"
He sung of kings and queens of cards, of love poems and horror stories, he sung of a man named Kas.
"We reach the end of a decade."
He sung of himself, and things he wished to say, and things he didn't, he sung of monsters and people he once knew, phrases repeated like curses and prayers.
"I can't believe that I'm leaving"
He sung, then yelled, then began to sing again, some days he would curse himself, curse his father, his family wife and son, other days he would sing of how his father's hand was shaking when he pointed the pistol and kept his eyes averted from his.
"I don't think I want to leave you."
He learnt Spanish to sing to the young man, would sing with an American accent to the older man.
"I don't think I want to leave you, here alone"
He would sing of their lives, the lives of historians, of what they would see when they found their bodies and pretend like they knew what happened.
"Knock down the pubs before helping you"
He sung of Injustice and mutinies and coups, of parents killing children, of children killing parents.
"and burn down the towers before helping you"
He sung of things he only hear joked about online
"charge for your health care before helping you"
He sung of habits and addictions, the smell of nicotine and the blue shade of blood.
"They'd make you jump under trains before helping you"
He sung of train tracks.
"I don't think I want to leave you."
He sung of a man named Kas
[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]
Art by Slightly singed on Tumbler
Song called 'I'm sorry Boris'
I don't even know either, don't question anything.
© Unavailable
[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]
