AN: And so begins the second arc.


Will the Light Reach?
Blissful Unknown


There was dark. Shifting shadows twisted unnaturally against blinding light. Up upon a hill, two persons waited for him. Their calls reaching out, but never heard. Desperately, he tried to grasp their faded words, but the more he strained the less he understood. The two atop the hill began to turn—waiving their good-byes. "Wait for me!" his heart cried out, but the words were never uttered.

The light was dim. Ghostly silhouettes walked leisurely about. He recognized some, felt familiarity; however, this could not be. They were strangers, after all. Once in a while, he'd imagine faint laughter coming from the apparitions. Or whispered conversations. …Would it harm anything to take part?

Darkness encroached. It had done harm, he decided. When he had finally broken his silence and spoke, the startled eyes of the female silhouette proved it true. She had had such a beautiful laugh. (He remembered.) Boisterous. He had only inquired what could make her laugh as such. That had been a mistake. Immediately, the sound died from her lips. The quieted conversations ceased altogether, and, when no words came—

Something broke.

Jack lay motionless atop his bed—heart beating a deathly calm. Breathe in; breathe out, his mind instructed. In. And out. He repeated the steps a few more times—deliberately slowing his breathing (as best any eight-year-old could); the dull ache buried within his chest remained.

It confused him greatly. Wasn't there laughter in my dream? He could almost remember the full, joyous laughter—one from the belly. (Like Ol' Nate—the cattle rancher—when he had a few too many "not-for-yung'ns" around campfires. Jack liked his laugh.) But, if it was true: there was laughter in his dream, why did he feel so alone?

Jack tried to remember the details of his dream. Honestly, he tried. But the harder he tried, the faster the details faded. Eventually, there was nothing left.

A shadow streaked across his vision, yanking his mind back to reality. A monster? Jack searched the dimly lit room—vision jumping from shadow, to corner, to wall, and back again. Is that a tail! He focused on a small corner of the room, just above his left shoe (the one he had kicked off as soon as he were able earlier that day), where a thin, wispy black streak emanated from the wardrobe.

Light! His mind helpfully supplied. Not everything is as scary as it seems with light. Jack threw off his covers—intending to cross the squeaky boards (where the shadows dominated) to the wood-pile by the door. There he'd take a log: nice, thick and dry. (Preferably, one Jack could swing [should the monster attack while his back was turned].) To the hearth, then stoke the fire.

Jack paused—foot not-quite-yet on the floor. If it was a monster…would he have enough time to reach safety?

He should be fine. (Monsters fear fire, after all.)

Decision made, Jack placed his foot the rest of the way. The boards did not creak.

With fire stoked and wardrobe checked—the "monster's tail" having been a shoelace—Jack made his way back, safely, into bed. The silver eyes and sad smile he had seen outside his window a distance away: wholly imagined (and blissfully unaware of the concerned gaze of the one who came after).

If, by chance, the black knight of the chess-set, sitting atop the table located just to the right of the tall, oak wardrobe in the corner, had (mysteriously) gone missing. Well, that was for the boy to discover another day.


Constructive Criticism on: grammatical and/or spelling errors, pacing, characterization, plot development, and easily-readable format, is encouraged and welcome.