• A Suspenseful Mystery...

    ----------------------------

    Where he was, it was cold; an icy field of hate, torture and curiosity filled the windy air with ever choking oxygen. Indeed, the devilish atmosphere that strangles and clamps onto the lungs of its victims suited him just as fine. The land complimented the shadowing fate for the one with even colder eyes, and for it, he had that darkening ambition to match its mood.

    The one with fire-grudging daggers for eyes was male and did not appear to be over the age of 18. He had short, dark brown hair that was spiked downward, intentionally; covering the icy blue eyes he genetically was given and was stuck with for the rest of his purposeless life. Even for wearing green or brown contacts, they would never mask the mystic facts, the cold secrets, the painful sufferings, and the doubtful dreams he carried on his shoulders ever since that dreadful day.

    He strolled on the cold grounds towards a town, a town he was not familiar with. He had his tight fists shoved in his jean pockets, his leather black jacket shielding his past of slashes embroidered with scars of flames that were hidden behind his aching and freezing jewel of hatred.

    He kept his eyes forward, steadied and focused. Scanning the sign that read in bold letters, No Travelers, he grunted, standing in front of the iron pole that must had lay around 5 miles from civilization. Then, suddenly arching a silent grin, his icy blue eyes converted completely blank and somewhat seemingly intense; staring right through it, as if seeing nothing but the other world itself, the sign made an abrupt screeching slash, violently bending over backwards with sudden force. The high-pitched whistle of clashing metal ignited, crescendoing even louder, the sign making an incomprehensible twist among the gust of winds that harshly follow. Ascending upright, the pole unknowingly tugged upward, being snatched across the unimpeachably strong force that hurled it roughly through the depths of air. Hurdling towards and mistakenly striking the birds that were unfortunately flying by at the time, the sign zapped like lightning, its currently smashed, crunched, and jagged sharp edges of rust pierced those of one of the bird’s wings from inside out as it flung off into a further distance, taking the blue bird with it. The tumbling sign crashed onto the ground approximately 30 yards south east behind him. The bird that got caught by the jagged ends of iron wasn’t moving once it had been struck vigorously by the piles of sharp rocks that leaned near a cliff down the valley.

    With that, the sign out of his way, that is, he took his leather gloved hand that bared a hole in the middle of it and ran it through his ruffled hair. He looked back, the poor blue bird appearing motionless, bleeding its mammal-warm fluid, called blood, all over the broken sign that leaned on its face. He then looked forward, knowing there was five miles left to go before he could rest—and to get something he came there for. Using his right hand that had the slightly ripped black glove on it, he pulled out a bright yellow liter and a smelly cigarette he stored. He lighted it, taking in a puff, and then breathed out slowly, the glossy smoke smothering the brisk air of which the temperature was lower that day. He had put the light away a moment later, and then searched his coat pockets for the pack, however, not having felt its contents yet. After realizing that the cigarette in hand was his last, he sighed in deeply followed by another low grunt.
    “Damn it,” he simply stated, somewhat frustrated. He glanced back at the white sign that lay dirty with the dead blue bird cramped in its grasp. He shook his head, looked straight forward once more, and marched, marching towards the meaningful destiny that displayed the foreshadow of his chaotic beginning; the beginning of the end, in all honesty.

    ----------------------------