Out Like A Lamb Part 7: Thank You

Another originale by William Wallace.

Concept by William Wallace.

Inspiration by William Wallace.

Characters created, developed, and manipulated by William Wallace.

I’m so uninterested in your ignorance that it’s disgusting. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything?

A man is standing in the middle of a road during a downpour. It is late evening and the rain clouds give the world a blanket of darkness. A streetlight illuminates the man’s presence. His shadow stands many years taller than him. The rain strikes the ground and it sounds like moments of static. Cars rarely pass by and when they do they slow to a comfortable speed. The drivers and passengers, if there are any, stare blindly at the man who is staring at the ground. They assume he is homeless, or at least very poor. They don’t know his wealth because you can’t read it in his appearance. He is rich beyond belief. The value of his wealth is measured in emotions and associations not in material items or currency. In his hands he holds a book written many years ago. It is a Thrice Told Story. The pages are soggy and soiled but the ink does not run. He flips the pages methodically as he reads with great care. There are thousands of pages but he keeps reading and reading. It’s hard for me to acknowledge that as I look at the man I’m really looking at myself. I stare at the mirror constantly but I don’t recognize the reflection. I’m standing in the rain reading this story and writing it as well. The Thrice Told Story. I want to reach out and stop myself… I want to ask myself why I’m just standing there. Move, do something, get out of the street! I yell out. But I don’t listen. I’m ignoring the person yelling. I yell again and I still ignore it. A car approaches from the distance and I plead for that man to move. I hear an onlooker scream for me to get out of the road but I read on. Keep reading and reading. The car grows closer and the headlights grow brighter and it starts to slow down. I am hysterical on the sidewalk and my voice cracks as I shout. The onlooker is growing frantic but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.

I promised that this is only the beginning…

I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.

I reach out to myself but something is wrong. I don’t reach back. I notice that my skin is falling off of my body and my intestines are sprawled out behind me as if I have a tail. It’s dragging behind me but at least it is not a chain. If I can just make it out of the rain then the flood might stop. Answer me Thomas, you fucking idiot. Reach back. Take the hand. Get out of there. But I don’t. I tell myself that if the rain would stop I would sing out and sing out and sing out and sing out. But it doesn’t and I can’t. My vocal chords are shredded from the incessant monologue, which insinuates that it never stops. It doesn’t stop. Stop talking Thomas, you fuck, stop talking. Stop talking and sing out.

Stop talking. All they do is keep talking. They tell you everything but they’ll never tell you about the friends you lose. I guess it’s just assumed and observed and brushed under the rug. Should we even assume anything? It’s strange that at this point I need more than a few bottles to get anything going. To feel motivation. And don’t I always sounds reflective? It’s pensive, I don’t want to keep giving off a feeling of nostalgia but don’t memories make your world go ‘round? Apologies look cute on paper but what if you don’t mean it? If you don’t mean it don’t even bother to think it in passing. Passing. Passing. All we are doing is passing by each other like ghosts.

And oh how I would love to do everything you want to do. We could travel the vestibules and valleys and everything in between. Is that wrong to say? Are we just deceivers? I hope not. But if we are then deceive me because I am in awe of the virtue. I couldn’t believe I was so nervous. I even had to change my shirt. But after you expressed similar signs of tension I was relieved. I can commiserate. Cross my heart, I swear. I swear that you’re making me nervous but I can’t help but like it. Oh God how I would love to do everything you want to do. I swear it.

The shriek is almost unbearable. “What made you go?” Every part of her shakes as she says it. Every road every plain every hilltop every shrub every crack in the pavement quivers as she yells. What can I say? The congregation is shouting. “This is what it takes? This is what it takes?” I try to apologize but I am muted by her grief.

[Excerpt] I exist in a radius circled with dust older than the ashes of my family's American flags. We pay by the hour to be amused by the meek. We obtain virtues from our Mothers and Fathers who obtained virtues from their Mothers and Fathers and so on and so forth. I have never claimed to be a patient man and I know I am no such thing. If you let me in the door I swear to you I’ll leave in a minute. I’m only here to take a minute. Am I losing my grip? My knuckles are being beaten to the bone and I can’t hold this minute anymore. And what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it… Machine wash warm with like colors. Use only non-chlorine bleach when needed. Tumble dry medium. Cool iron if needed. For more information see “Out Like A Lamb Part 7” by William Wallace. [/Excerpt]

I recall breaking down scratch tracks and demos and now I realize that this is all we do. I want a listener but this is just a rough mix and I want it to be professional. So I’m just sitting here with my golden crown and my golden pen and some alcohol terrified that this is all it will ever be. You are miles from home and what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it. Discover the password like a scavenger hunt and clean out my vaults, please. I’ll play the bank and I’ll never speak a word of it. Across the street they will look out of barber shop windows in horror but I promise I will not let them speak this to anyone. I won’t. Their faces are half charred by the fires of their Daddy’s wars. The rain trickles slowly down the drain but it’s not red with our blood. The thunder roars loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you hear is the rain. The static discharge. Just the rain.

I sat down at the bar one night and I started talking to an elderly man. We were both at the bar alone and over drinks we started to talk about life. Listen to me, he said. I want to tell you something. I am an old man, years past my prime. But I want to tell you something. Go to school and learn. Learn as much as you possibly can. Get a good job and find a good wife. Do what you have to do to take care of her. Support her. Work hard. Have kids and teach them things like respect and integrity. Be stern but fair. Never show signs of weakness. Take care of your parents the way they took care of you. Be a provider. Show people respect and they will respect you back. Buy the cheapest house in the nicest neighborhood. Fix it up, take pride in your house. When they play the National Anthem you stand up, take your hat off, and put your right hand over your heart. When you go out… to the grocery store, to a restaurant, to a gas station, to the airport and you see a man in his military uniform you shake his hand and thank him. Even though he can’t drink in uniform you buy him a beer and tell him that it will be alright, he deserves it. He will refuse, but you don’t leave until he shakes your hand. Respect your elders because they are wise, they have worked their whole lives for this wisdom. Their hands are cracked with honor. Take pride in what you do and have pride in your children. When you grow old they will have nothing but good things to say about you. You may even get awards for your contributions. If you live this way you will never be forgotten. Your family and friends will attend your funeral by the dozens. Your name will live on. Do what I say, and I promise you they will remember. Oh, and one more thing. Stick around until the bar closes… and at last call buy two drinks.

It was so passive, that conversation and, and, umm, oh I’m such a fucking lush…

William Wallace

BraveHeart

The Red Cup Rebel.

The Midwest Magician

Out Like A Lamb Part 9

There’s something about a working class town that sends chills up my spine. The same way I have to pay attention when the National Anthem is being sung. I sit passenger over an overpass and look to my right in a foreign city and see smoke stacks, factories… small houses, fireplaces… smoke stacks, factories… it reminds of home and family. Every time I blouse my pants it’s the product of the hard work and blood of my father and his father. And oh, oh your friends say Delaware is beautiful. But they didn’t live here and they didn’t die here. Where the cracks in our family’s hands line the streets and the corners. Where the cracks in our family’s hands are more than stories and scars. Saturday mornings spent listening to marching bands. Saturday nights spent sitting around a fire in the backyard. And a history of tradition left under a Christmas tree next to a hospital bed year after year.




I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams out. “I bleed lines of mules and madmen.”
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams and screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen.


And the walls mute her. They mute her if she is screaming. She wants to reach out but she doesn’t. It gets buried deep underneath her skin and bones. All the way under her organs and blood cells. The blood travels from her heart to her brain which conducts the fingers holding the pen. And her pen writes her story in a book kept under lock and key. Just like her heart. But still she screams. What do you think about all of this? Sometimes I think there’s still nothing like your smile.


So… what do you think about all of this?


I think that I took you to my parents house and introduced you to my friends and I think I write it all here because I could never say this to you. I’d be a little embarrassed and you would never admit to wanting to hear it anyway. Although I think you do. You just don’t want to want to think you do. But you do. It’s supposed to get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t. Not for all of us.


I think I’ve seen a lot of beautiful cities from airport windows. Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, San Antonio. I was there between flights and that was it. I think I’m too used to packing bags. I’m too used to saying good bye. I’m too used to embracing. I’m too used to getting dropped off. I’m too used to all of this…


I’ve been having dreams lately. I dream of dreaming at home. In one of my dreams I dreamt that a little girl was sitting on a fence outside of my window and she wouldn’t stop crying. I also dream about people, people that I know and some I haven’t met. People of all walks of life and we socialize beautifully.


Too used to all of this… I get out of the car and hug my Mother, I always hug her first. I make sure she is first. She always starts tearing up at this point. I hugged my Grandmother yesterday, I wonder what she thinks about all of this? I know she hates it. I shook my Brothers hand earlier. I am proud of the man he has become. I am proud of everything he does. After I hug my Mother I will shake my Fathers hand and I can tell that he is proud, as much as we hate saying goodbye. This is how it always is. I walk inside the airport and get in the security line. Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are…


Before all of this I say goodbye to my friends. We hug and reminisce and hug again and repeat the cycle until I finally have to walk out the door. We always leave on good terms but I develop a hatred for every single one of you. I have to admit it hurts when I’m asked by others how you’re doing. You vanish and return based on my appearances. I’ve always wanted our definition of family to be more stable than that and if we have different opinions then so be it. I will see you when I see you, I just wish you saw my house more than I do.


Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are just waiting and waiting. And I stand behind them bleeding lines of mules and madmen. I notice a sign to my right that portrays what an “expert traveler” looks like and it looks like me. Nothing but carry-ons because I’m never staying anywhere for long. This line is moving far too slow and I’m wondering how the security line could possibly take this long. It’s an assembly. Take off belt, empty pockets, take out laptop. Place all belongings in a plastic bin. Take off shoes. Walk through the metal detector. Gather belongings. Fill pockets, put on belt, put on shoes. Stare at a screen and hope that your gate is not the farthest one from where you stand. And of course it is. I hope there is somewhere I can have a drink at close to my gate. There isn’t. My iPod is drowning out all sounds. “Flight 1931 to Denver is now boarding first class and priority flyers.” I’m not going to Denver. Finally my zone is allowed to board and it’s funny because I’m in civilian clothes and I get no special treatment. I board/bored. I struggle to find room to stow my carry-on as a flight attendant greets me. I’m already disgruntled because I have the middle seat between Crook in His Suit A and Crook in His Suit B. Their condescending eyes descend on me and I can only hope they are as upset as I am. The flight attendant goes through emergency procedures and I could care less. I hate flying. The Captain gives his mandatory speech and we taxi down the runway. We gain speed and ascend. I’m not allowed to listen to my iPod yet, but as soon as I hear the flight attendant give me permission I play my music so loud I can’t even hear the jet engines. It’s like I’m not even flying, like I’m not even there. Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.


These fucking dreams again. This little girl is following me around and before I can even speak she says “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” And she keeps repeating it over and over. She follows me in every dream. I try to touch her, to move her from my path, but she is constructed of the toughest porcelain you can imagine. She has one phrase. “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” I wake up constantly. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.


Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. I pretend like every word he sings is about me. Yeah, that’s my vanity. I pretend like every word she ever writes is about me, but that was actually true at one point. We reach a cruising altitude. I’m currently wondering how I’m going to deal with all of this… I mean, I’m only 40 minutes in to a 4 hour flight and I have to use the restroom already. The Suited Crook to my left with the aisle seat has his laptop out already and I would hate to inconvenience him. I can’t nap because my mind is racing and I don’t want that little girl around right now. I’m already coping with loss. A constant cycle of loss, cope with that. Coping and coping. I finally muster enough of the appropriate amount of courage to ask the Crooked Suit if he could let me out. He looks at me like he’s annoyed, but he agrees. I urinate and I wonder if I tried to open the hatch how quickly I would be beaten. I also wonder why the middle-aged flight attendant didn’t follow me in here. There’s occasional turbulence. But fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.


These dreams again.


Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Up here, oh up here, everyone is so vulnerable. Everyone is so vulnerable up here. We have that in common. What happens when innovation becomes the standard? Sometimes I feel under fire like I’m Joseph the Dragon Slayer. I want you to tell me where it comes from, because I already know where it goes. For right now it’s following longitude lines and GPS coordinates. Ground stations and waypoints, look it up. My music is playing and that’s what is making me feel grounded right now. “Many children will burn soon . You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh no. I feel asleep for a second, and that little girl is offering me some water while a unicorn is handing out pretzels. Thank God that it’s only the flight attendant for now. I look out the window past Crooked Suit B and to my complete horror I see the sky open up and a dragon flying out of the fissure straight towards the plane (plain). The little girl is riding on the dragons back and she saying “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh, no. I wake up in a panic. I’m sweating and nothing is abnormal. The Captain tells us we are beginning on our descent. The flight attendant tells us to turn off all electronics and… fuck this.


I lose my short term memory for what feels like days at a time. It might be by choice. Maybe it’s because I can ruin relationships better than I can start them. I guess. Yes, I guess I get mine. And guessing is what you do when you’re not sure. You consider the options and guess. And I don’t even care.


As we descend I think about how my Mother always asks me to write something nice. So this next part is for her.


As we descend the steps are basically repeated in reverse order. I hope we enter a black hole on the way down and I somehow wind up in my mid 1990’s day dream. I go there frequently. And trust me, we are descending.


Andy, Billy, grab your jackets it’s time to go over to your Grandparents. Christmas morning.


A father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin… things will never last this way. We could never be that lucky. We could never be that family. We grab our jackets and get in the car. Our drive is short because we always lived close. And here is the kitchen table. All cutlery laid out perfectly. Decorative plates and napkins. We could never be that lucky. And this is my Fathers world.


This is my Fathers world and you are just living it. And I thank you. And I thank you. And you. And I thank you. Thank you.


Another orignale by William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb part 7 coming soon.

Sole Control (Extended Version)

I was just walking down the street when my friend Dustin stopped in front of a Foot Locker and pointed out an advertisement hanging in the window.


“You see those Jordans? Man, those are the Jordan X’s. They got all his accomplishments inscribed on the soles. These are going to be the hottest shoes when they come out.”


I was only like 12 years old and had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t even really like basketball, but I saw those sneakers and knew I had to have them. The black, red, and white color scheme wasn’t anything my eyes hadn’t seen before but they still hypnotized me. I looked down at my ratty all-white Reebok Classics and felt embarrassed. I went home that night and started scrounging up any nickels and dimes I could find underneath the cushions of my parents sofa. I didn’t come from a poor neighborhood, my family did well for themselves, but I knew there was no chance in hell that my father was going to buy me a pair shoes for $175. No way. I didn’t even bother asking because I was afraid of his response.


I started dreaming about what I would look like in those Jordans. I wanted some classic fit Ralph Lauren Polo khakis, a nice Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and maybe one of those Chicago Bulls Champion crew neck sweaters… no, how about a throwback Flyers varsity jacket from Mitchell & Ness? Sometimes I can’t remember what I was thinking. Yeah, that sounds right. I didn’t even care that the red wouldn’t match with the orange, I just had to have it. So how does a pre-pubescent existence come up with that kind of cash? I turned into a brainstorming machine. I would walk around downtown pretending to be some abandoned kid and the old ladies would give me money. Sometimes I would just try to pick pocket them, in which cases they practically always caught me. Late at night I would smash car windows to see if the owners left their wallets or some loose dollar bills in the center console or glove compartments. I usually just came up with some loose change found in the cup holders. I would go into Laundromats and press every coin return on the washers and dryers. Once in awhile if I felt motivated I would go to the old Veterans houses that lived on my street and offer to mow their lawn or wash their cars for a few dollars, but that was rare. I was about fast cash… mostly fast change, but I had to start somewhere.


It took me 3 months to save up that money, but I did it and I bought those Jordans. I was almost too afraid to wear them, especially because the rest of my wardrobe was significantly lacking. Faded blue jeans and a dumb ass Midway Little League All-Stars t-shirt didn’t exactly compliment my prized possession. Either way, I was hooked. I did whatever I could to get the newest, freshest, most talked about shoes before anyone else had them. Whatever it took. As I got older the level of my crimes began to elevate. In high school I was introduced to marijuana and figured fuck it, I’ll sell a little bit for the money. It was easier then getting a job, without a doubt. My sneaker collection began to grow from Jordans to Air Ones to Air Max 90s, 93s, 95s, 97s. Anything with that check and even some New Balance and Reebok Pumps thrown in there. Blazers, Nike SB, Structures, Trainers, Stabs, Adidas Classic Shell Tops, Wallys, it didn’t matter, I had it.


As it turns out, I wasn’t just addicted to the shoes. I became obsessed with the lifestyle. Fashion is expensive, so my endeavors were forced to expand. I started dealing a little cocaine. Actually more than just a little. You know how it goes. You start in the minor leagues selling dimes to your friends after school and graduate to the majors. We all know the story so let’s just skip all that.


I had a nice apartment downtown after I dropped out of college. Chemistry was really the only class I needed. English, Sociology, Western Civilization? No thanks. I was driving around in a BMW M3. Black with black rims and a subtle tint. For business purposes I drove a not so glamorous Toyota Camry four door sedan complete with dryer sheets lining the trunk. It had a nasty dent on the passenger side door, maybe from a shopping cart but who really knows? I didn’t smoke cigarettes but occasionally I would burn some non-menthol Newports or Camels inside of my car just to eliminate any lingering odors. I was, by no means, a kingpin. I still answered to somebody who answered to somebody else who answered to somebody else and etc. However, I did oversee the movement of a fair amount of drugs.


In my apartment I had to dedicate a room to my shoe collection which had begun to get out of hand. I was buying shit that wasn’t even special edition or dead stock. Just regular Nike Classics in plain colors. I had a lot of Euro releases that I gave up an arm and a leg for, but they were worth it. The way the 97s gleam when a camera flash hits them, it’s incredible. And the look on peoples faces when I was walking around in Air Max 95s that had Burberry print? Priceless. Ugliest shoe I own, but it got attention. Was that what was I looking for? Maybe. Or maybe it was that feeling you get, you know the one. It’s hard to explain. You walk into that little boutique and see those Air Structures down towards the bottom of the display. Teal with blue and a little black. You know that nobody in a 10 mile radius has any idea how hard those sneakers are going to hit when you put on your Ralph Lauren Polo khaki shorts that you wear a little high because you’re ahead of the game, a pair of black socks mid-cut on the ankle so you can see the Champion “C”, and a black short sleeved t-shirt with a front pocket on it. It’s sort of like when you’re fooling around with some girl above the sheets and she’s licking on your ear and shit and you touch her on the outside of her pants but you hit that spot and she thrusts her hips into yours while skipping a breath and you KNOW you are about fuck this girl. Yeah, sort of like that. But better, because you talked the oriental woman down to 70 dollars which is more than a fucking steal. They should lock me up for that in itself.


Anyway, some pressure was applied to a few of my affiliates and I got touched. Same old story. I’m doing a little bid upstate and my life is pretty much ruined. All of my shoes are being kept in a storage space for me and I’ve been tossing around the idea of selling them once I get out to make a little money. I probably won’t though. I’m standing here looking out of this little window in an orange jumpsuit with some numbers on the back in the freshest Orange/Black/White Air Max 90s you could ever find. Orange laces. I just wanted you to know that. Now would be a great time to have that Flyers Varsity Jacket from Mitchell & Ness. See you in five to ten.


All for the sneakers.


William Wallace

Unfinished

These plains are unfamiliar but still they roll.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve become a stranger to landscape.
It’s almost disenchanting. Almost, but not quite.
Not quite only because when I feel like a mechanism I know it’s only a product of my own mind.
To converse: to feel human. To feel more alive than you could ever make me.
It should get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t.
You have not reached my age or clout.
That in itself is troubling, but not enough to make things stir.
You have not reached me.
It should get easier now that we’re older but it doesn’t.
More RF transmissions stealing our vision.
Our pets have been spayed and neutered although our own crimes are going unpunished.
However.
Would you even lend a helping hand?
Where do your laurels rest? By the wayside?
Throw all caution and safety there.
Do something unexpected.
I’m aware of the nutrients that have been lost in battle
And when I find them I put them underneath of my pillow.
Maybe he will come down and regret with us.
Oh, Good Evening to you, Governor
And Good Evening to you too, Sir.
How else shall you break us down?
Good Evening to you too, Sir.
Good Evening, Governor.
What taxes have you planned for tomorrow?
How else are you going to rob my father?
And you, Ma’am… Good Evening.
How innocent do you plan on being perceived?

(There was supposed to be more in between here.)

I have shattered the concave and everything was left.
I extracted your essence that enables my existence.
Inhale, exhale your reflection.

Willam Wallace - The Heart, Blood, and Care Taker of the GMK

Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of To Be Continued...)

but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.




I promised that this is only the beginning…




I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.



What happens when innovation becomes the standard?



I promised that this is only the beginning...


To be continued...

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Part 8: Thomas Writes A Story

My name is Thomas and I wrote a story. There were pictures to go with it, but I lost them in the fire. What fire? No, just read the story. They have a lot of waivers.


Dragons are real and my story is about them.


There was once a dragon slayer that had never slain a dragon. However, a dragon had never slain him so he managed to maintain the title. Monsters are not real and this dragon slayer did not slay them. If he did, he would be a monster slayer, but there are no such thing as monsters so this entire situation is hypothetical. It was interesting that the Kingdom he belonged to allowed him to boast as a dragon slayer. Have you ever met a bar tender that doesn’t tend to the bar and continued to refer to him as a bar tender? Of course not.


I shall call the dragon slayer Joseph.


Joseph had dreams of becoming a knight. He was something of a klutz so he never really achieved his dream. The King never “knighted” him, instead, he was given a special duty. He was ordered to protect the Kingdom from dragons. It was a cruel joke. Nobody within the Kingdom believed that dragons existed, so they ridiculed Joseph. He was not the pride of anything or anyone.


He remembered no family and no friends. Just his sword and his shield and the woman that never loved him.


“Good Morrow, Joseph… slay any dragons lately?” This is how they mocked him. Joseph looked so knightly but he felt so empty. I shall call him Joseph the Dragon Slayer.


Unbeknownst to Joseph and the whole Kingdom, but only to his fortune, a dragon lurked in the shadows of the (k)night. The dark abyss and the terrible unknown. This dragon kept his watchful yellow eye on the Kingdom and dreamt of scorching the fortress with his flaming breath. He would leave the trees without leaves and the wives without husbands.


The unassuming Dragon Slayer would fall with the Kingdom. Rest in peace on the hills and power in the valleys.


The dragon decided the day he would attack. The Sun rose in the east on this fateful day.


The dragon let out a cry so the whole Kingdom could hear it.
A battle ensued so epic I can only describe it in lyric.
The dragon attacked with a force unforeseen.
An attack that could only be dreamt in a dream.
The war had begun, the dragon breathed flame.
Every locked door hid a child and dame.
Horses were cooked, their riders were ash.
Buildings collapsed with a bang and a crash.
All hope was lost for the King and the Crown
Then Joseph stepped out with a leap and a frown.
Joseph faced the dragon with fear on his skin
All thoughts of survival were soon stretched thin.
The dragon looked at Joseph with a curious grin
This man could not possibly believe this battle he could win.
The dragon breathed fire to boast his power
And Joseph marched forward with not even a cower.
The dragon was amused with the daring young man
Not knowing that Joseph had devised a plan.
Women and children prayed to the lord.
And Joseph marched forward with his shield and his sword.
The dragon raged on with his fiery breath.
As Joseph pressed on towards inevitable death.
Joseph approached the dragon from behind
And gashed him deep all along his spine.




Back to the regular prose. After the dragon was slain a royal dinner was arranged for Joseph. It was held in the castle’s dining hall where the décor was extravagant and the food was exquisite. The ceremony was invite only and the guests were of high value. After the meal the King called Joseph to the throne and said “Joseph, you saved the Kingdom and preserved our reign. This is the only way I can thank you for saving our lives. I shall hereby proclaim you Sir Joseph the Dragon Slayer and present with you a suite in the royal palace and a wife fit for only a King.”


The guests cheered and chanted “Long live the King! Long live Joseph! Long live the King! Long live Joseph!”


However, Joseph stopped the chant and revealed to the crowd and the King that the Dragon had not been killed. Rather, he was planning another attack. The crowd gasped, the King was speechless, but Joseph devised a plan and spoke with such conviction that he won not only the noblemans heart, but the Kings and the peasants. He wanted to strike first with a small battalion he had put together. They were to leave at midnight of the next day. The King approved Joseph the Dragon Slayer’s plan and provided him with all of the knights and equipment he requested. The kingdom gave their blessing and nervously applauded their hero and protector.


The small contingent gathered in the (k)night ready to march towards battle. No one lined the streets and no one was cheering. Parents put their kids to sleep hoping and praying that Joseph could slay the mighty dragon.


“They will write stories about us.” Joseph told them this in confidence. This is that story.

As the soldiers marched towards the battle they chanted:
And it won't be long
'Till I get back home


An originale by William BraveHeart Wallace


If you haven't already done so, go to The Infamous Mag and snag both covers of their new magazine and check out the William Wallace article in it.

Part 7 soon.

Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of February 17th)

An originale by William Wallace:

Concept by William Wallace.


...loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you...


I only really ever wanted you on Valentine's Day. And you when I was bored. And you when I was far away. Oh, and there was you, who I only ever wanted when I was close. And there was you too, and I don't remember when I wanted you, but I did. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. Just a regular Mundo de circo.


For further reading, please see Out Like A Lamb: Part 7 by William Wallace (Wallace 7).


By,
William Wallace (forward slash) Gold Medal Kids in a Gold Medal Kingdom