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Eyes Of Gold A drop of blood dripped down from the rugged rocks above and landed on Alton Sawyer’s left palm. It didn’t startle him one bit. He didn’t feel it. Probably because his left palm lay thirteen or fourteen feet to his right. Sawyer was a smart man. He decided it was fourteen. His lip quivered. Tremendous pain engulfed his body and made the slightest movement torture. Not that he would get up anyway. Why would he? There was nothing live for. All he had once loved had been torn from his grasp. And it was his fault. Another bead of blood trickled off the cliff. It missed his separated left hand this time. Sawyer shifted his gaze to his right arm. It was still there. He slowly lifted it up and ran his remaining fingers through his long, dirty blonde hair. He felt something wet, just as he had assumed. As he pushed his fingers further, he felt a cut. A deep one. Sawyer normally would have cursed, but he didn’t see the use this time. Sawyer was big and strong. His face looked rough, yet he was certainly handsome at the same time. He had eyes of gold. That’s what mamma used to tell him. She would give him warm baths when he was a very little boy and hold his head firmly between both her hands. Leaning over the tub, she would kiss him between the eyes and say, “Oh, Alton. You’re gonna be somethin’ ya know that? You and those dashing golden eyes are gonna go places someday. Just be the man you are. And if you ever find somethin’ worth diggin’ for, you be damn sure to clear every speck of dirt in your way. Okay baby?” If only mamma could see him now. Baby Alton was 28 years old, slowly dying on an unknown desert mountain in the Great Salt Lake region out west. The funny thing is, mamma wouldn’t be disappointed in her little boy at all. Not even now. Because Alton Sawyer had done exactly what she told him. He saw something worth digging for and he went after it. But all it did was land him stranded and alone in the middle of the desert sun, where he was sure to die within the hour. But until he did, he figured to make the most of his time. An old friend back east used to always grumble about how "troubled minds make even dying torture.” He believed this now. And with that belief came a sudden longing for his old #life back east. Sawyer's attention reverted back to his severed hand. He could feel himself fading out of consciousness and decided he had but fifteen or twenty minutes before he was out cold. The wound was tightly wrapped to slow the loss of blood, but it was just a matter of time. Again, Sawyer was a smart man. But he was no surgeon. His left hand had once meant a whole lot to him. In the east, he had been a blacksmith. With that hand, he had built his own house and a family that loved him: a beautiful wife and a model son. Still, he was surrounded by his work. A blacksmith. Black. Darkness. Sawyer always knew he was not made for his profession. Born for adventure, he was not satisfied with his world, no matter how perfect it may have been. The world was changing. The Industrial Revolution had spread from Britain to the Northeast and he was stuck right in the middle of it. Demand began to go down and making a living became more difficult. The black world Sawyer lived in eventually turned to pitch. Unable to stand it, he packed up his bags one night and addressed his family. It had been February 1849. Thousands of men were heading west for a miracle. The miracle of gold. Sawyer saw exactly what the next man saw: an opportunity. This was his chance for the adventure he longed for and a #life of fulfillment. And he planned to bring his beloved family along with him. It was time for Sawyer’s golden eyes to escape the black and pursue what they were made of. Convincing his wife and son was difficult. He had basically dragged them along. They came for the sheer sake of staying by his side. Looking back, this was most painful for Sawyer. Their downfall had been his hunger. This is not to say that Alton Sawyer was a bad man. He had a loving heart. He lived for the greater good and his family meant most of the world to him. That was the key. Most of the world. They departed in mid-March and hoped to arrive near San Francisco in late August. It seemed reasonable. For most California-Oregon Trail travelers, it took anywhere from three to eight months. That was precisely the route Sawyer planned to take. For the first half of the trip, all went well. The mules hauled the weight of Sawyer’s ancient covered wagon to his approval. His son managed to stay entertained and his wife became less cranky as the days went by. The Sawyer family became whole. They all believed in their future. That it would be a bright one. One filled with the riches and luxuries of discovering a single, pure golden nugget. Then they hit Missouri in early July. They passed through Independence and suddenly it was as if they had left the entire world behind. Running into other travelers became a rare sight. The family felt alone. It was eerie: the lack of #life. Sawyer didn’t know the exact date of when it happened. His son had been extra-happy that day. He was excited to cross over into the Great Salt Lake territory, a place kids at school always talked so much about. But before the famous lake even came into view, Sawyer and his family were violently ambushed. Chapter 2 Down below, where the large dark cliffs met the pale sand at the mountain's edge, sat a wagon shattered into splinters. A women's bonnet rested on a nearby rock not two anvils away. Its strings blew in the soft wind. Sawyer shuddered, for it was stained with red. He had passed out. That didn’t surprise him. What surprised him was that he woke up. He looked back at his bleeding arm and saw that the blood loss had slowed. Dying was still inevitable. There remained a gash in his skull deep enough to hide a decent-sized gold nugget. One big enough to have made his trip worthwhile. But he didn’t have that nugget. And the hole in his head made living hard to imagine. Not to mention that he had no energy or desire to move. The wind kicked up and the bonnet lifted from the rock. Sawyer watched as the red blur tumbled across the #lifeless sand. He had bought that bonnet himself in 1841 for his wife. They were newlyweds at the time. If one were to take a closer look, they would find her initials embroidered in purple on the back. She always used to adore purple. Purple tablecloths. Purple sheets. Purple stockings. It was indeed the world’s newest and most interesting color. She said that quite often. The last time Sawyer had seen his wife she was wearing that bonnet. She looked terrific in it. His heart yearned to touch those lips again and his eyes dampened for her. He would do anything to see those purple letters at the back of her neck again. Those letters that she had liked so much. But she had also liked and owned many things that weren’t purple. Like her wicker sewing basket, that the first bullet had flown through. When that bullet passed through the basket and landed in the dirt, Sawyer ordered the mules to a halt. He jumped out of his caravan and waved up his arms. There were several men riding in on dark horses toward them. They were all armed. “Stop! Do not shoot!” Sawyer had ordered. Then he realized that he should probably grab his gun from the back. Which he did. Which had not been the right thing to do. The men were angered by this. They were savages and saw Sawyer’s action as a counter to their initial warning. “Cool it motherfucker,” the first had said as he rolled in. He was likely the leader. His eyes seemed to retreat back into his head. Looking into his sockets was like looking into a deserted cave. The sudden hostility astounded Sawyer. He was thrust into a situation he was unfamiliar with. He raised his gun. It was a shotgun. Then he got hit hard in the face with the butt of another. As his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, Sawyer heard four more gunshots. The right side of his head smacked into solid rock. He looked up to see four dead mules on the dirt with him. After he hit the ground, Sawyer would never again see the bonnet he had bought on his wife’s precious head. Chapter 3 Sawyer's train of thought was snapped. His body leaned back and lost support against the rock. He readjusted himself. Sort of. His neck twisted uncomfortably as his spine stiffened against the desert wall. Content, he began to alter his vision back to the bonnet. But before he could, a shape in the rock caught his eye to the right. At first, it just seemed like a neat design, naturally made by some sort of erosion. This he assumed, having no proper education and truly knowing nothing of the sciences in his world. As he studied it deeper, Sawyer realized that it faintly resembled a face. A young one, kind of like his son’s. Maybe he was pushing it. It was about time to begin going crazy anyway. But it filled Sawyer’s head with thoughts all the same.

The Cold -The Cold- The other day, sheer cold hit the air, stung the stiff branches, then sent out a prayer. It said "I know about living, and all the troubles abound, but just step outside, not a soul is around. Sure, the weather is biting, the blame is on me, move away from the worries, I can set you free." #youngwritershousehold

Our Story It's strange the wildly differing array of those who live that find themselves falling deeper and deeper into the epitome of destruction. It's strange to fathom the extremities of both good and evil each meeting in the same place coming to the same despicable end. It's strange that someone like me can feel so low yet I know I am quite extraordinary compared to the disgust I witness every day. It's strange to live still I figure it's strange to die. But the clearest point in living is to make a story of you and I.

Escape And I lay here And I look upon the bay before me I see all that my #life has longed for before me The reflection tells me how long it has waited for me I stare deeper and see shiny orange Knowing someday all I despise will be singed Because people change And rearrange Their once one faced ways Depart with immature frays And I remain here And blankly I see the world I look through my intelligence What I have built A new building constructed from my own cerebellum That knows all And feels all Or at least what I need for myself For me To become what I am And have built And what I have wanted And now achieved By doing nothing Except sitting here So I tell you Sit and think Look Feel Escape Within yourself Because eventually It works And I am living proof.