New World Order: Prologue, Part One

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


The man appeared in a rectangle of shimmering purple light, a Door. Striding forward with confident purpose, he stepped over the twitching bodies of those who had been cut down when the Door had opened. His careful steps left a trail of bloody footprints behind him. Without looking back he nodded curtly, signalling he was free from danger. He couldn't see anything beyond the coruscating purple-ness, something he hated about Doors, but he got the answer he wanted as a corner of the Door swung down until the tall rectangle folded into a purple line. The line retracted into itself and disappeared, leaving no sign that the Door ever existed.

Barren and rocky, the ground he stood on reminded him of the world he had left behind. Weary and very nearly broken, he had escaped through a door much like the one that had brought him here. Grimacing, he banished the seven year old memory. No one could stop him this time.

Small hands plucked at his cape. He looked down into the awestruck face and said, “Do not be afraid.”


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