Gabe Krawec

Canada

My name is an anagram for "Beware Gack", so if my writing starts to heavily feature Gack, please send help. If I write about a "rag week back", it's too far gone. There's no hope. Good luck finding my inheritance, much less keeping it.

Message to Readers

Hey guys! Every time i write a piece like this, it's just so fun! Like, it makes me remember why i started writing, which is what this piece is about! Personally, it's one of my favorites. Maybe i write for the sameE reasons you do!

Why on Earth goes Gabe write? What is he doing??

October 21, 2017

PROMPT: Why I Write

2
You want to know why I, Gabriel H. Krawec write? You want to know what compels me to slap those keys and slather those pages in inky little shapes?

I don't think you're ready.

I don't think you can handle it.

---------ARE-YOU-SURE-?-------------  <------ Tough guys only past this point

Alright. Are you sure? You're a tough guy? (That is of course, a gender neutral term, but you're a tough guy, you know that)

It would seem that one day I was off seeking my fortune, just generally minding my own business when this elderly gentleman is upon me like a rat on a janitor. He says 

"Boy!"

And I just kept walking because I was seeking my fortune and if that was my fortune I was gonna go find a new fortune. But this guy's hard to lose. Guy can bob and weave with the best of 'em. I quicken my pace, he quickens his. And he's just going off: 

"Boy. Boy! BOY!!"

There is no stopping this gentleman, so I just start sprintin' like a car on a date. I'm talking heavy breathing stuff. and dude's in hot pursuit. I'm doing everything I can to stop him, I'm cutting corners, I'm crossing streets when the light is blinking instead of when you see the walking guy, which in retrospect was a bad idea because this gentleman was certainly not a law-abiding citizen.

So I'm at full speed, running through central park, and I'm just as overexerted as a baker on the Sabbath. But I have to keep running from this Boy-speaking gentleman. 

Then I pause. I can't hear him anymore.

Relieved, I threw myself into the public fountain. I was finally cooling down when I saw it. He was on top of a building. And not like a residential house or anything. This is something you could really shake a stick at. The gentleman had my girlfriend in one hand and a grappling gun in the other.

And so I'm just shocked I'm like "Sweet honey what are you doing with that gentleman?" and he's like

"Here comes the cavalry, boy!"

Next thing I know this dude has fired his grappling gun into the fountain from the building, creating a zipline of sorts, and you have to understand, this was all out of the deep blue. I'd barely climbed out by the time he slid down and was back to boy this and boy that with my girlfriend in tow. Like, she was totally down with it.

So I'm just running from the love of my life and this gentleman, but it's a moist situation. Like, I was just in a fountain and on top of that, I'm sweating. I can't keep it up. So I'm sprinting down mainstreet calling for help but no one will help me and I start to wonder if I'm in a nightmare but I see an Iraqi food cart

AN IRAQI FOOD CART

Even my subconscious  couldn't come up with such a thing. I vault the counter and flip the darn thing as a form of cover. Only problem is that I flipped it towards myself, and there was a bunch of boiling hot oil in there. So I'm as fried as a car on the Sabbath, struggling to get free from beneath this Iraqi food cart as my flesh smolders, but it's no use. They catch me. 

So My girlfriend just bursts into tears and this gentleman starts cradling my head and I don't know if it was the boiling oil in my face but I could have sworn my reflection in his eyes was upside down. So he's all like:

"Boy. Why did you run."

And I kind of wanted to tell him it was because he was being weird, but I ended up just screaming because of the crushing weight of the Iraqi food cart and the pain from the hot oil. But he clearly wants an answer. He just keeps saying it, getting more desperate sounding each time.

"Why did you run."
"Why did you run?"
"WHY DID YOU RUN?!"

I manage to choke out "I'm sorry.", but he's already comforting my girlfriend and telling her it wasn't supposed to be like this. Then he crouches down and starts cradling me again, and the pain stops. This wave of relief washes over me. Then he's like:

"Boy. You ran. Now you cannot stop running. You belong elsewhere. We can't hide you. You cannot stop running."

Then before I can get a darn word in edgewise he opens his mouth and it was wider than a mall on sale. And he didn't have teeth or a tongue or anything, it was just a void. and he's all

"I'm so sorry. I know it hurts. Listen closer. Listen between the lines. LISTEN TO INFINITY"

And after that I've never been the same. Literally. I lost all memories before that, and they change almost daily. The only way I know is when I write. I can check the words. I just hope they still have the same meaning as when I wrote them. Things are different. But lately I've started to suspect Infinity has been choosing what I write. In the beginn̢̼i̧͇͔͓̗͓̫̠n͉̯͇̼͝g̸̙͖̣͓̘ ͎͈̪͢I͔̻̥̘̺̝ͅṇ̡f̵i̜͓̪̹͈͘n̘̤͈ḭ̢̼̱͍t͍̼̗̰y̠̖ ̳ͅw̛͓͖͙̤̘a̭̞s̤͈̰̞͍ ̬̳̜̖̠̰̖s̖͉̗͉͖͍t͕̖͘a͏̝̞̬͔͙̱t̖͇͖̯̺̤̲i̷̭̝̣̮͈c͍͡.̮̪̦̱̗̟ ̧̰͕̮B̼ͅu̥̬͞t ͟i̟͉͙͍͈̞̟t̤̺̲ ̷̰͈̠k̘̻e͔̯͙̤͎e̹p̸s ̻͍̲͕̟͢g͔͎͕e͉t̤̮͈̬ͅt͓̞̩̝͠ͅi̬͡n̴̟͎̘̤̲̦̯g̺͉̙̪̱̼ ͙̝͙̞q҉̖͉̳͖u̥͍̲̝͇̙i̪̮̟ete͏̜r̤̗͍.̤̼̳
Why do YOU write? I'd love it if you dropped it in the comments! <3 <3

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