Eyes of All

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 4 (v.1) - Ocean's Limit

Submitted: May 22, 2016

Reads: 243

Comments: 1

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Submitted: May 22, 2016

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About 20 exiting, no underestimation. A battle will erupt between the holders of sens, and those who eat the flesh. One versus many, the intelligent see nothing, but the wise see a hole. Machine and man, electronics are effecient, but one can believe. A war, able to be won. Cracking metal with metal, a blade traveling where no eyes lie. Bushes were my allies while the hand in my grip swung like time ticked away slowly.

A day of pure dread about the state of deceased causes oneself to grow in shape. A scratch on my left ribs notified quickly for a plan, rather than raging recklessly. Out here, either I, or they fall, for Death's patience is shriveling, to be ready to not gain an eye-full of blackness for eternity. Life or death, chosen, I have.

One by one, taking out each of these monstrosities, curse, I say, the hour of time. Swerving through the eyeless machines, the friend I have come to know, was extending his farewell onto breaking foreheads, freezing material, falling downward, where leaves withstood the frosty wind. 

Retreat was a necessary option, as cybernetic legs pushed on.

Open scratch wounds along with bullet grazes torn away at my stone-like skin. I heald the stolen weapon, armor-piercing lead flew from it, heading towards what is considered as many. 

Though there is no time for count, hesitation is not on my list in order to obtain a breather. The tree-covered and dream-inducing forest was a last destination, a last chance.

My hand, being with the painful opening, was in a state of velvet color, the other onto my lips, pleading to stop sound of a living soul. Adrenaline allowing oneself to rush out of the leaves, and arms locking onto where an esophagus should be. 

Beating it with the blade stuck above the hip, below the weighing head. The connection of the host belongs there, a friend to the enemy.

The job was finished, less now, but not enough for a front,. The hunting spirit took control while moving to coordinated direction. 

Aware of a noise great enough to almost bring moisture, chaos elevated by lament. With instinct and elaboration in mind for hostility for what may come next.

Clear and loud aligned with ears, peering into the tree hole, sheltering a hidden identity. All at once, cognizing the visage of what resembled a child dashing  away from fear, currently smited by truth. 

From that single moment, fathom the past, accepting the existence of it, is a baby's step for a passage directing to a lone star, shining like the opposite side of the moon, for others to witness of what it beholds.

The gentle flow of the once, chaotic stream of the blockade called terror, quivered before me.

The shaking figure apprehended my presence at the end of a four-finger count, droplets from the arm's slashed cut slipped with a series of whimpers along a shaking beak.

Given perception of suffering by intent, a picture of a demon. 

"You seem hallowed, by the way."

Shushing before the rustling of grass, movement ceasing, shoulders firm, a plan was completed. The face busted open by the sharp end of the pick, no words shared in the space between me and the boy.

Air scurried in, and soared out briskly, but my hearts desired to unwind. Every single event that occurs, to want is not more me, resolution is.

Arms still covered the face, either way, a rude awakening will be planted onto the countenance when the thought of demise is faced with shocking verity.

Trudging through the dirt of the flooring, words did not dare to escape confinement. 

Feathers and tiny claws grasped my arm, now seeing eyes of childhood, expressing fright. Once again, who was I to crack a heart full of innocence.

The body gave away from the red liquid pooling out from the head, the plan was a success by the long run, for them, at least.

"Afraid."

"Fear is an adversary. Act to fight."

"Are you of my own?"

Did words counter me?

"I am your own."

"Brother."

"Brother."

I have forgotten who spoke first.

From that time on, now the true sign of purity is what is in context as attachment, but as I heard, cried once and tears onward from the self, family, was what it truthfully was. A truth shot into a hole where feelings lie, life to us, but death to him. The talons growing cold, losing track of the clock, which stated, "Good job."


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