Dome: Episode One

A heartbreaking portrayal of ambition, betrayal, and intrigue, Dome is a serialized Science-Fiction Thriller that tells the story of a small group of people who try to figure out the reason behind the construction of this dome-city in the center of the world’s harshest continent.

Prologue

For a man who knows that our worst nightmares are about to come true, Jack Riddell has no trouble sleeping at night. “It is said that Caesar wept when he found out about Pompey’s death.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” the host of the show, a woman in her mid-thirties, asks. For the last hour or so, the richest man in the world has avoided giving her a straight answer.

Jack laughs. “A man’s character is determined by how he reacts in the face of adversity. By how strong his enemies are.” Ignoring the dumbfounded expression of the host, he adds, “I believe people should realize Dome is a simple reminder that we can fight against insurmountable odds and win.” Continue reading

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The Writer: Chapter 3

I appreciate you coming here, I really do, but you’ve got to stop looking at me like that. You remind me of my shrink. She kept staring at me in such a way, as if I were going to strangle myself with my necktie.

Have you ever heard of Sisyphus? No, it’s not a venereal disease. He was an ancient king. Nasty bastard. He enjoyed killing people. He was deceitful and his greed for power and money was insatiable. Eventually, the gods punished him by making him roll a boulder up a hill, but before he could reach the top, the boulder would always roll back down, so he would never complete his task.

Like Prometheus, who was punished by having his liver eaten by an eagle every day only for it to grow back and be eaten again the next day.

If you thought you were smarter than Zeus, he would punish you in a way you’d never forget. Continue reading

The Writer: Chapter 2

Octavio Paz once said that solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Sometimes I think this is how Hell is supposed to be. A dark, empty room. Or a huge city with no one but yourself for company.

I know that you’re here just because you want to find out what really happened to Oscar, but I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. I am going to read you one of my stories instead.

Why? Because every writer wants to be read, every storyteller wants to be heard.

 

Crossroads

 

“El sueño de la razón produce monstruos.”

Francisco Goya

His chest felt heavy, his legs tired. Dead leaves rustled under his feet. Nailed to the sky, the moon’s sardonic smile quivered among a cluster of cold stars. His body just a coffin for his soul, Robert seemed to take every footstep with infinite precaution, as if fearing that the dirt road would swallow his feet.

On each side, pine trees stood tall. Ancient guardians.

“Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of-” he tried to recite, but was interrupted by hounds barking somewhere in the distance. Long, reverberating shivers of sounds that seemed to had spawned from hell itself bashed against his ears. His black skin glistened with sweat; droplets shuddered down from his hairline to his eyebrows, down his temples. The skin of his neck burned, hot. His eyes glimmered in the dark void, hopelessly trying to peer through that endless ocean of fear and agony. He pressed the guitar to his chest, his long arms forming a desperate embrace around the black wood. The sharp smell of lacquer flooded his nose. Continue reading

The Writer: Chapter 1

The only thing that is worth remembering, and worth remembering over and over again, is that in this world, under all and any circumstance, nothing ever happens.

My name is Jonathan Fisher and I can stare at the sun longer than anyone else on this planet. Longer than you. And I am afraid you are not going to like me.

Most of the time I’m just a ghost, a shadow riding in the back seat of a bus, a whisper travelling across a Universe only ten miles wide. So it shouldn’t surprise you that the first event I can recall with an almost morbid precision took place on my twenty third birthday. That was the day we buried my father. Continue reading

The Writer: Prologue

There’s this neat trick they do in television, especially in hour long TV dramas. It’s called a teaser and its sole purpose is to make you want more. It usually ends with a cliffhanger just so you don’t change the channel when that lengthy commercial break starts.

Sometimes the teaser is a glimpse of a scene close to the end of that episode. This is how I’m going to begin my story – with a short scene close to the end.

I guess the first thing you should know is where this scene is taking place.

Imagine a centuries old oak forest, one that would creep most people out. Huge trees, rotten carcasses, contorted ghosts. Boughs, now useless limbs, lying on the ground.

The second thing you should know is “when.”

Henry James thought “summer afternoon” to be the two most beautiful words in the English language. So let’s say that’s our “when.”

Summer afternoon. I bet you’re thinking about sunlight slipping through thousands of leaves, twigs greedily stretching skyward. But maybe it’s cloudy, maybe fog curls around leaves and branches, a trembling embrace. The forest has its own sounds that appear to be most sinister.

Your lungs gasping for air, you’re drowning in that sea of ash-colored fog. You can’t tell what is what, you fill every shadow with doubt. Continue reading

The Labyrinth

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The labyrinth is a web of corridors going nowhere. A structure so elaborate it inspires fear and chaos in the minds of those trapped.

The labyrinth is, also, indifferent. It exists. What happens inside is ruled by different forces.

There must be a way out. A secret passage. A shortcut.

Those who ask why will get only one answer.

What if there isn’t one? What if the light at the end of the tunnel is an illusion?

This labyrinth has no sense of humor, even though many of its captives will laugh through clenched teeth, trying to free themselves from rage.

From desolation. From fear. From anger. From the dark silence that surrounds them.

It’s so quiet inside this maze that the only noise is created by your mind, by your eager heartbeats, by your footsteps.

You are alone.

Utterly and inconsolably so.

The rules that were used to build this maze cannot be used against it.

In a way, there are no rules. Continue reading

Mornings with Her

“There’s an ancient saying in Japan, that life is like walking from one side of infinite darkness to another, on a bridge of dreams. They say that we’re all crossing the bridge of dreams together. That there’s nothing more than that. Just us, on the bridge of dreams.”M.T. Anderson

Some nights I can’t fall asleep. So I drive around, stare at people on the sidewalks. Closed shops. Beggars. Thieves. Whores. Nighthawks. The damned and beautiful. When I do fall asleep, I always dream about her. Each and every night. We talk. We just talk. I tell her everything I never had the chance to tell her. She listens. I ask her all the questions that I need answered in order to let her go, but then I wake up. She smiles and the dream drops dead, dissipating in the shivering morning.

I miss her. A lot more than I ever loved her. A lot more than I ever thought possible. I think about her every day, I dream about her every night. The moment I open my eyes in the morning, for a second it feels as if she’s lying there beside me. For a second. Then I know she’s not. She’s gone. Forever.

They say it takes some time. To get over. To forget. To move on with your live. To replace. To realize that life is just the same without her.

They’re wrong. Life will never be the same. It never is. Only those who never truly loved can replace. Can forget. The rest of us? We spend whatever is left of our lives aimlessly wandering between love and hate. Between blaming ourselves or them. Between wanting to forget them and wanting to find them again.

It’s a terrible thing to go through. It’s out of your control, out of your reach.

I met her when I was twenty three years old. Just a kid. Whatever it was I thought about love, well… she changed all that.

[…]

Some mornings I don’t want to wake up. I just want to stay in bed, talking to her in my dream. Telling her all that I need to tell her, all that I want to tell her. I know it’s just a dream, but couldn’t it last until I get to see her again? I know it’s not real, but what is?

It’s just me and her. On a bridge of dreams. The rest is darkness. Infinite and cruel.

Saudade

All you can picture inside your head, over and over again, is you closing the door behind you. It felt… irremediable. Your own version of passing the Rubicon. That was the moment when the nostalgia of all that could no longer be began.

It is said that when two people break up, one feels relieved, free. It is over. It is time to move on. And the other one is left with the broken pieces of their heart, not knowing what to do.

Saudade. The love that remains, the love that no amount of poison could ever kill. The love that will eventually alter itself to become what is left when nothing can be done anymore.

It was beautiful… Continue reading