I felt the need to try and be creative today. So I wrote the first part of a short story. Let em know what you think.
I present for your reading pleasure the story of Oscar.
Oscar stepped outside, the familiar scent of the pungent moss and decaying leaves noted and barely registered in the back of his mind. It all seemed so alien to him now. His surroundings that once held his world and fragile concept of self in a reassuring embrace, now twisted into a unintended mockery of who he was just a hour ago. He looked at his left hand, noting a fresh cut across the meaty part of his strangely fleshy hand. Was it really his hand, he wondered. Was the blood that seeped slowly, almost lazily form a self inflicted cut really HIS blood? He closed his hand and opened it several times, each time amazed that it responded to his mental commands. The feeling of this body moving was both familiar and unfamiliar to him, as if he had both always been in this body and also never had been.
Oscar slowly turned so as not to stumble and fall while in a mental haze, and began to walk inside towards his bathroom, towards a mirror. The joy of experiencing this new sensation of walking almost overcame his urgent need to see what he looked like. He wanted to know how he looked. He could almost remember, he had…blonde hair, no that wasn’t right, it was black…it had to be. Maybe he had green eyes…maybe not. He tried to remember, as he passed through his small living room. He made it to his mirror after what seemed like hours, walking was strange, he had to move these stiff and ganagly legs. One in front of the other, oh shit this was going to take a while, he had thought. But now he was there with his prize… his mirror, his oracle that would answer the burning question he had about his identity.
He took a quick look, almost unable to contain his excitement as he turned this strange mass of flesh he called a head to face the mirror. Black hair, he got that right! Brown eyes, okay…wild unkempt beard…was he a vagabond? he certainly looked like one. He studied his features in the mirror and noted that he was indeed a strange looking fellow. He was almost able to grab faint memories of who he is, or was. But the memories danced just beyond his reach, mocking him.
The confused man stumbled back into is living room. He noted that all of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls giving space in the center of the room. And in that center stood a small table with candles still lit, illuminating an other wise dark room. Something pulled Oscar’s attention to the table, something was on that table and Oscar NEEDED to see it. With more enthusiasm than he had for the mirror Oscar made his way to the table.
Once he arrived at his destination he looked eagerly at what had drawn him to the table. On the table was a sheet of paper with strange squiggles on it. They looked almost…funny. Oscar could almost remember that these random squiggles were words, written in English by his own hand. Now they just looked amusing. There was blood pressed into the paper in two places, one right by some squiggles that read “Oscar Buhler” an obviously made up name of a fictional entity. The other blood pressing was by a much more real name. A name that resonated with power, and name that Oscar identified with. This was his name, it always had been, and always would be. There was nothing alien or unfamiliar with these squiggles, this name read “Belial”