The Last Son of Jupiter

Introduction
The following is a collection of a story currently in the works. Essentially just brainstorms, they are numbered according to the order that I wrote them not chronologically in the story.

I.
She's been on my front yard for nearly two weeks now. she's just there in her make-shift vinyl tent doing whatever one would do when camping on a front lawn. she just suddenly showed up one day and she's been there ever since, not showing any signs of retreat. i never saw it coming but really, if it would happen to you neither would you. every time i peer out my front window to catch a glimpse of a passing car rumbling my floors or someone laughing in the sun i always see that fucking ugly tent there, laying seemingly haphazardly. i would really like to make her leave but surely you can admit that not everything is as easy as you may think it is. i suppose the sensible thing to do would be to invite her inside where it is warm and cozy, but the fact that she ended up in the yard in the first place is a pretty ridiculous thing and to invite her in would be, shall we say, ludicrous.
at the risk of redundancy, i just don't know how this stand off will end.


II.
It's the hum. I'll never understand it, but the hum of this place is what gives it life. You can be alone at 3am, and yet you know that you can simply submit yourself to the hum and the loneliness melts away. It saturates your soundscape and resonates in your skull, vibrating your body to the same frequency as the red brick walls, the flapping doors and the plexiglass windowpanes. In essence, you become the same as that which surrounds you and in that there is no alone, only what is. The hum is a soothing lullaby, and I, the child, crying out for comfort.


III.
Damn fucking coffee. Stale two day old coffee. Microwave can give it warmth but it can't make it taste good. Where the fuck is that delivery man? Kids playing in the street. Cars racing down the street swerving to miss them. But no fucking delivery man! At least I have my coffee. Maybe I'll learn to enjoy it while I wait for my package.

I keep looking out the window for the delivery man. There are no longer any kids and a car passes in rare occurance. Waiting is never an activity I've enjoyed. My door is opened several times in a futile attempt to see if
the package has been left in my mailbox. Each try turns up the black bottom of the steel box lined with rusty screws and other unidentifiable metal objects. My mind is racing circles now, like a cat chasing its tail.

When is my package to arrive? The racing stops. I hear a voice say "334." Well, perhaps I shouldn't describe it as a voice; it was more like jsut a thought that popped into my head. A seemingly uninteresting number to most but I take it to mean 3:34, as in the time my package is to arrive. But this is absurd. I am not a psychic. Nor have I ever believed in such things. But nonetheless, I cannot get this idea out of my head. 3:34.

It's 3:00 now and I switch the television that is on but not being watched to an episode of Seinfeld. I stare blankly at the screen but all that is in my head is that time. Not before long the show is over and the clock is showing me 3:29. I pray that 3:34, is just an overactive imagination.


IV.
The voice on the other end of the line had a hypnotic soothing to it. With each word she whispers I fall deeper into a subconscious scene. I swear I've heard this voice before but where? I look at the clock ticking away and think in my dreamy haze that I've been on the phone for nearly 40 minutes, yet I can't recall a word the voice has said to me. As if on cue, the voice suddenly speaks in a different tone, saying only "3, 34," and ending the call. I am left in my kitchen with the phone still at my ear and the dial tone absorbing into my head. I feel alone now. An indescribable transcendent loneliness. I remember feeling this way only once, after a certain surreal dream, when I was a child. This brings up the image of a man with a long jacket but I quickly re-submerge the dream back into the depths of my memory. I let the phone drop to the white laminate floor and write down the only thing I remember about the Voice. What did she mean when she said "3 34?"


V.
...and that night in the cave a strange man appeared before me about two hours into my shift. He was not a worker as he had none of the company regulated safety equipment on. He wore a long tattered forest green jacket and slick black boots and his face was haggard with a long gray beard. I had no idea from where he came - I just turned around and he was there - nor could I understand how he was still standing without a gas mask. The fumes surely would have taken care of him. Up until this point he had been merely standing there, seemingly in his own world, without any knowledge of my existence. But now he was staring directly at me, his eyes empty orbs shooting fear into me. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a shiny stainless steel object out and held it in his hands. From where I stood, I could not tell what it could be, until he raised it and slid his thumb across it, making a flame and igniting the air all around him and myself. As the flames engulfed I could feel my skin and hair melting off of me and I watched it all seep in the earth below. The bright fire blinded me and I slowly receded into an previously unknown darkness. I was alone now and all around me was empty. I looked up to where the old man once stood and in his place was a sight that sucked what breath I had left in me. To my surprise the what had taken his place was another. Someone from my past and someone I paradoxically knew far too well yet never really knew at all. I tried to speak but my lungs felt like a charred black. I simply fell back to the ground and closed my eyes, for the person before me was the 16 year old version of myself.