#create

Cold rain fell against my warm flesh.  Autumn had arrived.  I looked up.  The stars weren’t showing tonight – obscured by the thick blanket of storm clouds.  Not even the moon’s light found its way through.  It was November, rain season.  I breathed deeply, a breath that reminded me how long I must have been holding it in.  I felt nothing, though.  I looked around.  Brown leaves covered most surfaces, and those still clinging to their trees wouldn’t last much longer.  A large concrete wall stood directly in front of me, just as dilapidated as the graffiti covering its surface.  Behind me, railroad tracks bordered a river that crossed through the town.  The rushing stream and droplets of rain hushed the groans of my victim.  I stood there for several minutes, with him.  I watched as he bled. 

He lay at my feet with a tear cut into his throat, severing his carotid artery.  He had passed several moments ago, but still I stood.  The night’s relentless downpour washed away the blood from the knife still held in my right hand.  This was my way of cleaning the streets, one person at a time.  That and it satiated some sort of hunger I felt.  The next victim would be more meaningful, I thought as I loaded the body into the trunk of my car.  I had encapsulated it in an industrial grade plastic bag the previous night.  It was cleaner than it had been in awhile.

Stars flecked the midnight blue sky.  The countless sea of distant fireballs had always been enough to make me feel some semblance of wonder.  Nostrils flared; lungs pulled chilled air in, to cool the drag of fiery warm cigarette smoke lingering in my throat. ‘How long will I keep pretending?’ My mind wandered, but still it wondered.  It was a brisk night.  I exhaled; smoke tumbled down my jacket. I watched as it began dispersing and billowing around me.  It continued to disperse until there was nothing left.  Another drag was taken; cherried tobacco crackled.  An ashy trail of consumed cigarette lay in its wake. 

There was a perfect coalition of the cool air’s mellow breeze and the vivid display of stars above.  I had to change.  I have so much to offer, after all.  “Tonight’s the night.” I spoke aloud this time.  Flick.  My fingers snapped and tossed away a cigarette butt.  It tumbled and rolled across the asphalt before coming to a rest. The flame would live out its final moments, before my heel landed where it lay.  After no more than a twist of my foot, its flame was snuffed out; ground between the sole of my shoe and the rough surface of the sidewalk beneath. ‘Symbolic,’ I thought.  

I already knew where to start.  There was no hesitation.  I headed towards down town.

There sat a forest.  In many ways, this forest wasn’t unlike any other wooded area.  It’s set away behind winding meadows, bumpy hills and the green of farm filled valleys.

The forest’s landscape was of sparse, yellowed foliage.  Rocky, flat surfaces littered its orange, yellow and brown floor.  Harvest season was had begun.  Harvest month also happened to correspond with Feast month (hardly a surprising coincidence).  A month its inhabitants hold a yearly celebration of. They were short beasts, with plump bodies and fair skin.  Tufts of hair protruded from unexpected and often disturbing areas of their round bodies.  The tribe had a particularly unsophisticated monarchy established. 

The Troll King or Queen was a large troll, sometimes as much as twice the weight of the others.  This particular king was also a very hungry creature, constantly gorging on dead and fallen plant and animal life.  His Royal Blood had been determined decades ago, when he was born the largest troll of that generation.  He had since grown to be one of the largest troll kind has ever seen.

Harvest month happened once each year, and was the only time of year the Troll King had to worry about something other than consumption.  Feast was a time where the trolls tried to steal the neighboring farm’s livestock.  The rotund little devil planned the entirety of the month.  During which, it was left to the King’s servants to hand-feed their highness.  They had to make certain he was always eating.  Consummation created fat and flab was what the trolls believed indicated leadership.

Feast was a dangerous time to be a troll, as the farmhands were particularly aggressive towards them:  Running at them with pitchforks, bellowing from their fields, or the absolute worst — setting dogs upon them.  The Forest Trolls had to plan their course of action carefully.  They couldn’t handle another year without plentiful pumpkin ales, pig roasts, and chickens.  They were victims to their ever insatiable appetites.

 Today was the day of the unveiling, a week before their raid on the farm. All the trolls waited for his arrival, the disclosure of the plan he had slaved over the previous three weeks was at hand.  The troll’s population was a scarce one, barely containing more than fifty.

Three hours had passed since all the trolls had been accounted for.  Finally, the Troll King emerged, surrounded by his feeders.  They were small trolls whose duties were to ensure the Troll King is constantly being fed.  His attire consisted primarily of a tattered fuzzy sweater.  His round little arms stretched out the fabric.  His short, sausage fingers lifted to stuff a honey comb into his mouth.  Another feeder troll handed the Troll King a slab of moss covered in hundreds of ants scurrying to protect their eggs.  They too were shoved in, chewed and sloshed in his slimy mouth.

The population was especially excited this year.  This year’s plan was expected to be a brilliant one.  This would come hardly as a surprise when considering how much weight he was able to gain.  Fuzzy patches of hair covered his shoulders and back.  His long, squared teeth jutted out in different directions.  They had been stained yellow and brown for ages.  The trees and shrubbery shook under the force of his belch.  The time was at hand for the King to address his subjects.

Captain Wade Bishop was born into a life of adventure and passion.  Even as a boy, Bishop not only appreciated quality — he became it.  From his .455 Webley MK6 to the DHC-6 Twin Otter he flies, extravagance became synonmous with ‘Wade Bishop’.  In what only seemed to exemplify his appreciation of quality, Bishop’s appearances never lacked the company of a woman possessing hypnotic beauty.  Wade Bishop is a perfectionist who demands not only the best in himself, but in the things surrounding him.  Unsatisfied with caliber of stock around him, Bishop began to craft his own.  Born from this obsession in quality is the product you hold.