Dark matter (Self published in 2015) First edition.

Dark matter

#1 - The way things end. posted - July 5, 2013. 2:26pm

I stood there, in the driveway I had walked up and down thousands of times, watching my father walk carefully behind the snow blower sending a cascade of glowing snow into the large bank in the yard. It was December, the Christmas lights were up and we had just been dumped on throughout the day. My father thought it was best to get the driveway cleared out tonight. I didn't feel the cold, but I knew it was since I grew up here; it was very cold in the winter. I travelled in jeans and a T-shirt as always. It was easier. My dad's breath froze on his face as he cursed and jostled what he quite fondly called an infernal machine. I looked over to the front door and the memory repeated itself: I was the little boy who came out into the cold with his big coat, scarf, hat and mittens to help his dad. I smiled. The little me walked through the cleared path and hoisted the shovel, waited for instruction then began breaking up the tight snow the plough had left earlier that day. If you weren't use to this, it was very disconcerting. You could not allow yourself to fall through the cracks; the dream would keep you if you let it. To me, it was real; I even left shoe prints in the snow when I walked through the path towards the house, but to them, it was merely a phantom, invisible, that visited.

What I learned from my first meeting after I was accepted into the order was that dreaming actual memories was frowned upon, but not exactly forbidden, only warned against in the event that your mind would become trapped in a perpetual memory loop. You'd be stuck—comatose. I paid attention in these meetings and all briefings that took place in the important first month. What knowledge I did gather I stored in the privacy of my subconscious. As the months went by I began to wonder why this was true. Certainly, we did things in dreams that most others would think suspicious at best, criminal at worst. I wondered what made memories so dangerous? I thought I had figured it out. I thought. I only watched my memories. They weren't dreams. I was not seen nor was I affected by weather, debris or anything else. I had it figured out.

Walking up the familiar three steps, my hand glided against that rustic looking white brick and black grout. My mother was baking Christmas cookies. I paused there, taking it all in, even the walls, covered in that plastic brick paneling. I missed it. It's been many years since it was taken off. The main section of the house now looked nothing like this; it has been remodeled a couple times. This was the house of my childhood though, and my memory was exact; the layout back then was very accessible, and the three rooms were all connected to the main area. I took a seat at the kitchen table; it was a big one with matching chairs, and my mother's placemats set up on it. I could hear my brother plucking away at his cheap guitar and wondered if he would ever really get the hang of it. My sister was young then, a baby pretty much, but I saw no point in going check on her. They had warned me about memories. I sat there and smelled those cookies baking away, and Christ, I wanted to eat them. My brother hit a high note just when I felt a sharp jab in my stomach—the kind you get when you most likely have food poisoning. I had to move. I checked out the old green walled bathroom and those hideous little tiles that could never stay clean. The fucking pain! I nearly doubled over. "I'm coming out!!" I yelled. Nobody in the house heard this, but I suspected the man at the other end did. And then there was a sharper pain. "It's not here."

He ended my trip down memory lane prematurely. Pissed as I might be, this was just the way things were: short lived. I caught one last whiff of those cookies before my eyes opened and could barely make out that cold steel barrel pointing right at my face. "Time's up fucker." The voice said.

# 2 - The way of Prometheus. posted - July 23 2013. 12:17am

Rubbing my eyes to get them tuned to the light, the only thing I still saw properly was that damn silver gun barrel. The big faceless blob became clear and known to me after a few more rubs. I said, "I told you to stop jabbing me with that fucking gun." It was Quinn, my sleep assistant. He was assigned to me six weeks after joining the Order of Ravens. A good guy for sure, but his methods left much to be desired. "This shit's gonna hurt for a week." I rubbed my stomach now and it was as if he'd left a hole in there.