Quick note - This is a first attempt, so feel free to post or email comments.
I'll decide whether or not to continue based on feedback x_x
Thanks a ton!
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Dust particles and tiny wood splinters danced in the visible rays of sunlight slanting downward at odd angles through various wooden beams, pews, and several pieces of furniture that hadnt been distinguishable in a number of years. It had been a church, once. Not a very big church, and of modest coffers, but after the Panics and evacuations, it, like so many other structures, was forgotten and left.
The world had changed. Some said for the better, some just didnt say anything at all. None were old enough to remember the start of the Panics, but the children and grandchildren of those who had been around were told and retold about the disasters of Gunsmoke. In time, the tellings of heros in red, holes in the moon, and giant "plants" became stories for village fires on cold nights. As the addage goes, stories have some kind of basis of truth.
This church, like so many others, was a long-standing tribute to the Panics after the Red Man dissapeared. But this place was unique. Sitting square in the middle of the desolate, skeletal ruin of what was once a city of some forgotten name, this church held something precious. It held life. Life, though, in this instance, was of questionable consequence. In all appearances, the place was dead in every sense. Only some geometrical miracle had held the place together for the two hundred some-odd years since it had been razed. But protected the beams and pews, splintered like so many bones of a mutilated animal, formed a cubby that protected an area where the altar had once been. By some grace from above, looters, the weather, storms, and time, had left this small, cavelike corner of the world untouched. In later years, when this area was described, people would say it was a shelter of God. Perhaps it was.
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Darkness swirled behind closed eyelids. The man, he thought he was a man, managed to breath. Even that involunatry action seemed so new, so foreign. He drew breath, and felt muscles that should have atrophed, withered, and dried away; he felt them stretch. A few more breaths of the dust-laden air, and he let the familiarty set in, letting his body remember. At a risk, he allowed his eyes to crack open. Fortunately, the world did not explode into a brillance of sunlight. Instead, he likened the luminance to standing in a room with opaque blinds drawn. He didnt know where the thought came from, but his consciousness was collecting now. It was dim, and he could feel hair in his face, he could feel the wood floor beneath his knees. He was kneeling. He squinting his eyes against the immediate fatigue from their apparently long period of inactivity. After a brief eternity of blinking he managed to lift his neck with a sickening crack. No pain, just a sensation that told him he'd been asleep too long. When had he fallen asleep? Come to think of it, where was he? At an alarming rate, he realized he knew nothing. He took stock for a moment; a hole, it seemed. Wooden planks and pieces of stone debris littered the floor around him. About four feet across, he guestimated. Nothing familiar here, until he saw it. Above him, resting at an angle, was a cross. A large wooden cross acted as a protective roof for his cubby.
Images flashed through his head. A man in red, himself as a boy, a man in a grey suit holding a metal cross, a blue haired man with a skull on his shoulder, and then the man in grey again. It all happened between blinks, and he squinted and rubbed at his eyes with fumbling hands. Shades of the past, perhaps. He looked himself over. He was apparently well dressed before he fell into his assumed slumber. A faded blue suit eaten away in places, and a hole in the right breast. He shrugged. That action too, seemed distantly familiar. Thoughts began to coalesce into a bit of sense. He didnt know who he was, but for the moment, that wasnt too terribly important. He was hungry, alone, and he needed to get out of this place. He hesitantly moved his legs under him, and moved into a crouch. The pain he expected never came. Instead he slipped into the position easily. Maybe he was flexible and didnt remember. He reached up and put his hands on the rough wood finish of the cross-roof. Hesitantly he pushed against the wood, using his legs to force leverage.
And then everything went to hell.
The strong-seeming wood of the cross gave way as if made from ash. The man never hesitated, he dove through the falling splinters and crossed his arms over his face as he landed heavily on a pile of collected rocks that had once been a section of the wall. He had no sooner landed, than the loud creak of boards and crumbling rock reached a creshendo, and came thundering down into his previous sanctuary. He didnt know how he knew to move, but he was thankful for instinct. Carefully he picked his way to the floor, walking on stiff legs and constantly flipping ratty, long hair from his eyes. He shook his head at a mounting headache and briefly made for the largest hole in the wall across the floor. How did he end up in a church? How long had he been asleep? He barely realized he had acted before he froze. He ran his thumb over the featureless silver lighter in his hand, and attempted to look down at the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Whatever calms the nerves, he slipped the lighter back into a pocket and continued.
First things first, he decided, get out and assess his situation on a slightly larger scale. He had almost climbed the last pew seperating himself from his chosen exit when the legs of the pew gave out on him gave out. He fell forward, but instead of landing on the loose gravel and dust-strewn floor, he landed on something exceptionally hard, and covered with some kind of canvas. He winced, lightly putting a hand to the side of his face and sitting up. Whatever it was, it was half buried under dirt. He set about uncovering the buried treasure, and eventually succeeded. All at once, everything changed. Memories flooded into his thoughts, old instincts raced to the surface, and he realized old habits die hard. The canvas was still in perfect shape, if faded, and the buckle clips still shone without a trace of rust.
He remembered those last moments, then. Kneeling, asking for more time. Asking to be with - no, he wouldnt delve that far into his thoughts. He reached down and hefted the familiar weight of the Punisher. He had his request granted. He and his closest friend, the Punisher. He didnt know how it happened, or how long he'd been "out", just something else to figure out. He shook his head and looked back toward the makeshift door. Maybe a second chance was his turn to do things right, to do things over. Too many questions, too many shades. He picked his way outside, and managed to squint against the blowing wind of midmorning.
"Shades of the past," he whispered. He had no idea what to do, so he did what he always did. Nicholas D. Wolfwood picked a direction, and walked.
I'll decide whether or not to continue based on feedback x_x
Thanks a ton!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dust particles and tiny wood splinters danced in the visible rays of sunlight slanting downward at odd angles through various wooden beams, pews, and several pieces of furniture that hadnt been distinguishable in a number of years. It had been a church, once. Not a very big church, and of modest coffers, but after the Panics and evacuations, it, like so many other structures, was forgotten and left.
The world had changed. Some said for the better, some just didnt say anything at all. None were old enough to remember the start of the Panics, but the children and grandchildren of those who had been around were told and retold about the disasters of Gunsmoke. In time, the tellings of heros in red, holes in the moon, and giant "plants" became stories for village fires on cold nights. As the addage goes, stories have some kind of basis of truth.
This church, like so many others, was a long-standing tribute to the Panics after the Red Man dissapeared. But this place was unique. Sitting square in the middle of the desolate, skeletal ruin of what was once a city of some forgotten name, this church held something precious. It held life. Life, though, in this instance, was of questionable consequence. In all appearances, the place was dead in every sense. Only some geometrical miracle had held the place together for the two hundred some-odd years since it had been razed. But protected the beams and pews, splintered like so many bones of a mutilated animal, formed a cubby that protected an area where the altar had once been. By some grace from above, looters, the weather, storms, and time, had left this small, cavelike corner of the world untouched. In later years, when this area was described, people would say it was a shelter of God. Perhaps it was.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Darkness swirled behind closed eyelids. The man, he thought he was a man, managed to breath. Even that involunatry action seemed so new, so foreign. He drew breath, and felt muscles that should have atrophed, withered, and dried away; he felt them stretch. A few more breaths of the dust-laden air, and he let the familiarty set in, letting his body remember. At a risk, he allowed his eyes to crack open. Fortunately, the world did not explode into a brillance of sunlight. Instead, he likened the luminance to standing in a room with opaque blinds drawn. He didnt know where the thought came from, but his consciousness was collecting now. It was dim, and he could feel hair in his face, he could feel the wood floor beneath his knees. He was kneeling. He squinting his eyes against the immediate fatigue from their apparently long period of inactivity. After a brief eternity of blinking he managed to lift his neck with a sickening crack. No pain, just a sensation that told him he'd been asleep too long. When had he fallen asleep? Come to think of it, where was he? At an alarming rate, he realized he knew nothing. He took stock for a moment; a hole, it seemed. Wooden planks and pieces of stone debris littered the floor around him. About four feet across, he guestimated. Nothing familiar here, until he saw it. Above him, resting at an angle, was a cross. A large wooden cross acted as a protective roof for his cubby.
Images flashed through his head. A man in red, himself as a boy, a man in a grey suit holding a metal cross, a blue haired man with a skull on his shoulder, and then the man in grey again. It all happened between blinks, and he squinted and rubbed at his eyes with fumbling hands. Shades of the past, perhaps. He looked himself over. He was apparently well dressed before he fell into his assumed slumber. A faded blue suit eaten away in places, and a hole in the right breast. He shrugged. That action too, seemed distantly familiar. Thoughts began to coalesce into a bit of sense. He didnt know who he was, but for the moment, that wasnt too terribly important. He was hungry, alone, and he needed to get out of this place. He hesitantly moved his legs under him, and moved into a crouch. The pain he expected never came. Instead he slipped into the position easily. Maybe he was flexible and didnt remember. He reached up and put his hands on the rough wood finish of the cross-roof. Hesitantly he pushed against the wood, using his legs to force leverage.
And then everything went to hell.
The strong-seeming wood of the cross gave way as if made from ash. The man never hesitated, he dove through the falling splinters and crossed his arms over his face as he landed heavily on a pile of collected rocks that had once been a section of the wall. He had no sooner landed, than the loud creak of boards and crumbling rock reached a creshendo, and came thundering down into his previous sanctuary. He didnt know how he knew to move, but he was thankful for instinct. Carefully he picked his way to the floor, walking on stiff legs and constantly flipping ratty, long hair from his eyes. He shook his head at a mounting headache and briefly made for the largest hole in the wall across the floor. How did he end up in a church? How long had he been asleep? He barely realized he had acted before he froze. He ran his thumb over the featureless silver lighter in his hand, and attempted to look down at the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Whatever calms the nerves, he slipped the lighter back into a pocket and continued.
First things first, he decided, get out and assess his situation on a slightly larger scale. He had almost climbed the last pew seperating himself from his chosen exit when the legs of the pew gave out on him gave out. He fell forward, but instead of landing on the loose gravel and dust-strewn floor, he landed on something exceptionally hard, and covered with some kind of canvas. He winced, lightly putting a hand to the side of his face and sitting up. Whatever it was, it was half buried under dirt. He set about uncovering the buried treasure, and eventually succeeded. All at once, everything changed. Memories flooded into his thoughts, old instincts raced to the surface, and he realized old habits die hard. The canvas was still in perfect shape, if faded, and the buckle clips still shone without a trace of rust.
He remembered those last moments, then. Kneeling, asking for more time. Asking to be with - no, he wouldnt delve that far into his thoughts. He reached down and hefted the familiar weight of the Punisher. He had his request granted. He and his closest friend, the Punisher. He didnt know how it happened, or how long he'd been "out", just something else to figure out. He shook his head and looked back toward the makeshift door. Maybe a second chance was his turn to do things right, to do things over. Too many questions, too many shades. He picked his way outside, and managed to squint against the blowing wind of midmorning.
"Shades of the past," he whispered. He had no idea what to do, so he did what he always did. Nicholas D. Wolfwood picked a direction, and walked.