The Door
By Ryan Nesbitt
On this particular windy night two men, each from different worlds, meet each other for the very first time. The two men cannot speak, nothing in this world can. The only being that makes noise is the lush breeze that pushes the world, and these two men, onward. On this special night everything in this world is hallow and amplifies the wind's already bellowing call. What makes this night special and what brings the men to this forest in the middle of the night have the same reason. The only ones who know this reason are present in this forest; the men and the omnipresent wind. It all comes down to what's standing impossibly a few feet from where the two men happen to be. A door companied by only the negative space around it remains erect before the eyes of these men. No house, no tunnel, no frame, nothing; simply a lonely door which appears to have been standing for as long as the forest itself. The men know that they must pass that door. They were born to. They were also born knowing that once they enter this ancient door they will be granted the coveted ability to speak and will be silenced no more. However, the only thing that comes to a surprise for the men are each other. They had expected to be alone, as they had been their entire lives. The men have done nothing but stare at one another since they were aware of each other's presence. They notice their clothing is identical and that each other's eyes have the same longing and desire. Dumb-founded and angered by this new twist, they peer into the soul of the other and feel the same burning heart, filled with sorrow. These men realize that they are the same, and yet they already hate each other. Sensing this immediate conflict, the wind slides its silken fingers across the faces of the men destined for The Door, attempting to calm their hostile wanting. The men turn sharply away from one another to keep their composure intact and clench their fists to hold in their hurting desires. Just as the wind begins to calm itself one of the men makes his bold move and proceeds to The Door. A cracking twig quickly alerts the other man and pulls him out of his deep ponderings. He turns his head and his blood boils at the sight of his counterpart already heading to The Door. The angered man charges at the "Sneak-Thief" and hastily throws him to the grass. The fallen man looks up at the "Shover" and realizes he is experiencing physical pain for the very first time. The "Sneak-Thief" spouts a single tear and opens his mouth as if to cry in pain but no sound exits from his empty halls. The "Shover" is equally frightened and thrilled by the damage he has done to this sneaky creature. Again, the wind picks up speed and blows past the quarreling men. A circus of dancing leaves occupies the men's attention as they pass by in astounding joy. The "Shover" notices the "Sneak-Thief's" momentary vulnerability and knows what he must do. He turns slowly as not to alert the occupied thief and, watching his step along the way, heads toward The Door. The "Sneak-Thief" smiles and turns to look up at the "Shover" to show his appreciation for the dancing leaves, and rises to his feet when he sees that there is no one standing there. The "Sneak-Thief" looks in the most obvious direction and spots the "Shover" attempting to get to The Door. Just as clouds begin to collect over head and cover the moon's glowing face, the "Sneak-Thief" makes a run for his "Shover" and tackles him to the ground. The two men roll along in the dirt and grass, turning this vivid forest into their selfish battleground. The pacifist wind presses itself into the two men with more force than ever before, trying to bring them to their senses and let them see their erroneous ways. The clouds above them grow thicker and less pleasant and the world they are presently in becomes as dark as the hearts of the fighting men within it. However, the wind's attempts are to no prevail and the men continue to bring further suffering to themselves. The forest is filled with silent screams and the sound of fists connecting with bodies as the men beat on one another until one of them can no longer fight back. In this darkness they do not seem to be two men, but one being, flailing and kicking up dirt, an entity of simple nastiness that truly personifies the word "hatred". The sky rips open in one thunderous eruption and tears pour down on this pitch black world as one man puts an end to the waltz and slowly gets to his feet. This man is no longer a "Sneak-Thief" or a "Shover"; he is a man whose blackened heart will forever more hold no remorse or despair. This man who now stands before the life-less victim is a murderer. The sky brightens up in an awesome flare and for one split second a maniacal smirk, accompanied by speckled blood is present on the "Murderer's" face. He has killed his nemesis and, thrilled by the thought of it, he kicks him one last time. He decides that once he passes through the door and can speak he will continue killing. The "Murderer" looks at his arms and watches the rain wash off some of the blood. Whether it's his blood or his nemesis' he doesn't care, it makes him smile again and smear his stained hand across his face in a final show of his evil and insanity. The Murderer turns to the wind as if to defy it, as if to say he is the one who shall pass through The Door, he is victorious. After his deliberate boasting, he begins the final stretch and limps proudly to The Door. As the Murderer approaches the aged passageway and places his reddened hand on the white knob he checks over his shoulder to see if his assailant lies where he left him. As expected, the tattered corpse remains. The Murderer hesitates for a moment and contemplates on going back to further damage his nemesis, but decides against it and turns the handle, which almost lasts an eternity. The Door opens with marvelous ease, considering its apparent age and the Murderer steps inside and leaves the world of silence. The wind, rain, thunder and lightning bid their good-riddance to this killer and a final gust slams the door behind him. The Murderer is too surprised with what he is looking at to notice. What he stands in is not another world, nor is it the beginning of one. What the Murderer has entered is nothing more than a small room. The room is no bigger than an ordinary bedroom and is completely empty save the two chairs in the middle of the room facing one another. The Murderer looks desperately around for something else, something to make his life's journey worth while, but no, nothing. The Murderer spits in utter disgust, outraged by this cruel, sick joke. He turns around to open the door he entered in and leave this awful white room. What the Murderer finds in place of his only exit causes him to strike himself in anger. The monotonous white wall impossibly occupies the exact spot where the door stood only moments ago. The Murderer beats on the wretched wall, tainting its pure white colour with smudges and streaks of red violence. He crashes to the floor on both knees and stares at the two chairs in the middle of the room. With a face of twisted anger and rage the Murder opens his mouth to speak for the very first time. But, with no one there to listen to him, they become meaningless and are lost in silence as they always have been.
By Ryan Nesbitt
On this particular windy night two men, each from different worlds, meet each other for the very first time. The two men cannot speak, nothing in this world can. The only being that makes noise is the lush breeze that pushes the world, and these two men, onward. On this special night everything in this world is hallow and amplifies the wind's already bellowing call. What makes this night special and what brings the men to this forest in the middle of the night have the same reason. The only ones who know this reason are present in this forest; the men and the omnipresent wind. It all comes down to what's standing impossibly a few feet from where the two men happen to be. A door companied by only the negative space around it remains erect before the eyes of these men. No house, no tunnel, no frame, nothing; simply a lonely door which appears to have been standing for as long as the forest itself. The men know that they must pass that door. They were born to. They were also born knowing that once they enter this ancient door they will be granted the coveted ability to speak and will be silenced no more. However, the only thing that comes to a surprise for the men are each other. They had expected to be alone, as they had been their entire lives. The men have done nothing but stare at one another since they were aware of each other's presence. They notice their clothing is identical and that each other's eyes have the same longing and desire. Dumb-founded and angered by this new twist, they peer into the soul of the other and feel the same burning heart, filled with sorrow. These men realize that they are the same, and yet they already hate each other. Sensing this immediate conflict, the wind slides its silken fingers across the faces of the men destined for The Door, attempting to calm their hostile wanting. The men turn sharply away from one another to keep their composure intact and clench their fists to hold in their hurting desires. Just as the wind begins to calm itself one of the men makes his bold move and proceeds to The Door. A cracking twig quickly alerts the other man and pulls him out of his deep ponderings. He turns his head and his blood boils at the sight of his counterpart already heading to The Door. The angered man charges at the "Sneak-Thief" and hastily throws him to the grass. The fallen man looks up at the "Shover" and realizes he is experiencing physical pain for the very first time. The "Sneak-Thief" spouts a single tear and opens his mouth as if to cry in pain but no sound exits from his empty halls. The "Shover" is equally frightened and thrilled by the damage he has done to this sneaky creature. Again, the wind picks up speed and blows past the quarreling men. A circus of dancing leaves occupies the men's attention as they pass by in astounding joy. The "Shover" notices the "Sneak-Thief's" momentary vulnerability and knows what he must do. He turns slowly as not to alert the occupied thief and, watching his step along the way, heads toward The Door. The "Sneak-Thief" smiles and turns to look up at the "Shover" to show his appreciation for the dancing leaves, and rises to his feet when he sees that there is no one standing there. The "Sneak-Thief" looks in the most obvious direction and spots the "Shover" attempting to get to The Door. Just as clouds begin to collect over head and cover the moon's glowing face, the "Sneak-Thief" makes a run for his "Shover" and tackles him to the ground. The two men roll along in the dirt and grass, turning this vivid forest into their selfish battleground. The pacifist wind presses itself into the two men with more force than ever before, trying to bring them to their senses and let them see their erroneous ways. The clouds above them grow thicker and less pleasant and the world they are presently in becomes as dark as the hearts of the fighting men within it. However, the wind's attempts are to no prevail and the men continue to bring further suffering to themselves. The forest is filled with silent screams and the sound of fists connecting with bodies as the men beat on one another until one of them can no longer fight back. In this darkness they do not seem to be two men, but one being, flailing and kicking up dirt, an entity of simple nastiness that truly personifies the word "hatred". The sky rips open in one thunderous eruption and tears pour down on this pitch black world as one man puts an end to the waltz and slowly gets to his feet. This man is no longer a "Sneak-Thief" or a "Shover"; he is a man whose blackened heart will forever more hold no remorse or despair. This man who now stands before the life-less victim is a murderer. The sky brightens up in an awesome flare and for one split second a maniacal smirk, accompanied by speckled blood is present on the "Murderer's" face. He has killed his nemesis and, thrilled by the thought of it, he kicks him one last time. He decides that once he passes through the door and can speak he will continue killing. The "Murderer" looks at his arms and watches the rain wash off some of the blood. Whether it's his blood or his nemesis' he doesn't care, it makes him smile again and smear his stained hand across his face in a final show of his evil and insanity. The Murderer turns to the wind as if to defy it, as if to say he is the one who shall pass through The Door, he is victorious. After his deliberate boasting, he begins the final stretch and limps proudly to The Door. As the Murderer approaches the aged passageway and places his reddened hand on the white knob he checks over his shoulder to see if his assailant lies where he left him. As expected, the tattered corpse remains. The Murderer hesitates for a moment and contemplates on going back to further damage his nemesis, but decides against it and turns the handle, which almost lasts an eternity. The Door opens with marvelous ease, considering its apparent age and the Murderer steps inside and leaves the world of silence. The wind, rain, thunder and lightning bid their good-riddance to this killer and a final gust slams the door behind him. The Murderer is too surprised with what he is looking at to notice. What he stands in is not another world, nor is it the beginning of one. What the Murderer has entered is nothing more than a small room. The room is no bigger than an ordinary bedroom and is completely empty save the two chairs in the middle of the room facing one another. The Murderer looks desperately around for something else, something to make his life's journey worth while, but no, nothing. The Murderer spits in utter disgust, outraged by this cruel, sick joke. He turns around to open the door he entered in and leave this awful white room. What the Murderer finds in place of his only exit causes him to strike himself in anger. The monotonous white wall impossibly occupies the exact spot where the door stood only moments ago. The Murderer beats on the wretched wall, tainting its pure white colour with smudges and streaks of red violence. He crashes to the floor on both knees and stares at the two chairs in the middle of the room. With a face of twisted anger and rage the Murder opens his mouth to speak for the very first time. But, with no one there to listen to him, they become meaningless and are lost in silence as they always have been.