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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

A fantasy setting story about a man who cannot die.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Zylon

Submitted: October 08, 2012

Reads: 101

Comments: 1

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Submitted: October 08, 2012



Chapter 1

The green LED on the VCR appeared to be the only light in the room. He blinked to get the numbers into focus.

7:48 they read.

Given the darkness of the room he assumed it was evening. But what day? How long had he sat there?

The grumbling of his stomach told him only a few days.

He stayed with his shoulders against the back of the chair, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Slowly the room came into focus. It was his living room. The television in the entertainment center. The door to the apartment. The art hanging on the walls. As his eyes focused, he could see the items he had collected over the years. Items from all the great cultures over the centuries; five thousand year old papyrus, pieces of armor from Greece, Rome, Germany, Mongolia and Great Britain, and art and statues from the major cultures.

The room came into view much clearer now.  He stood and faltered a bit, exhausted.  Allowing himself to get his footing, he realized his shirt was dripping with sweat.  He stumbled down the hallway, past the kitchen towards the bedroom.  Holding the walls and door frame, continually getting his balance back, he went towards the closet.  Distracted, he cracked his shin on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed.  Mumbling a curse aloud, he opened the sliding door of the closet.

Inside was an array of dress shirts, pants, sport coats and suits.  He grabbed a blue, pinstripe shirt with French cuffs.  Removing the sweaty shirt, he tossed it on the bed.  He walked over to the mirror to put on the shirt.  Quickly glancing in the mirror, he noted his unkempt hair.  Running his fingers through the sandy spikes, he straightened it the best his groaning stomach would allow.  He patted the defined muscles across his stomach, thinking that he had better get something quick.  He put the shirt on over his well sculpted figure; muscles bulging at every seam.  Leaving the top two buttons, he buttoned the rest across his dark-haired chest, following the trail down the center of his torso.  Leaving the shirt untucked, he triple folded the sleeves up until his bulging forearms would not allow another fold.

Walking more steadily, he walked to the kitchen.  Opening the fridge, he stepped back and quickly closed it again.  The slam rocked the double-door, stainless steel refrigerator.  The rotten fish and rancid meat smell blew into the room from the breeze of shutting the door.  “I must have been gone longer than I thought,” he muttered to himself.  His voice sounded gravelly.  His tongue was dry.  The hunger was clouding his judgment.

He strode over to the single window in the living room.  He pulled the cord to raise the light-blocking shade.  Looking outside, down the twenty-seven floors to the street, he noticed piles of dirty snow collected in the gutters.  “Dear Lord,” he thought.  “What month is it?  November?  Where was I?  And for how long?”

There was a closet door next to the window.  He lowered the shade as he opened the door.  He grabbed a dark cloak and draped it over the door.  He then pressed what appeared to be an empty spot on the inside right wall of the closet.  A large hidden panel slid open.  Inside was the scabbard and sword he needed to hold.

He pulled out the sword and stared at it.  It’s forging was like no other.  It had a 3 foot blade and was 10 inches across at its widest points.  It had an hourglass shape where the dual edges ended in points.  It was heavy but balanced with a large guard, a hand and a half grip, and a jeweled pommel.  It shined as brightly as it had the first time he had seen it: on his father’s wall twelve thousand years ago.

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