Day 274 – Pilgrim – Short Story

I’ve travelled far, across these lands in search of something, trying to find that one thing, that something, you all have, that something that keeps you where you are, stops you from traveling, stops you from, yourself.

Cold, warm, wet, wild, I’ve seen it all, and more, beauty and ugliness, hate and love, but, I’ve never found my home, only something else, not the something I yearn for, not the something, I wish to find, but, how can I find it if I do not know where it is? If I do not know what it is?

This journey I have undertaken, has shaped who I am, has made me hard, when I need to be, the deepest jungles make you do what must be done, when life and death is chosen through your own actions, beasts roam lands, hunting not to kill, but to survive, to feast, to feed themselves and there young. I have no family, I have no pride, I am a lone wolf, hunting for my own survival, but yearning for something, more.

But what is it? What is it that I seek, that I desire?

Is it what you have? Is it what you could give me?

No, it’s not that, it’s not your life I want, it’s your life I want to take. You see, this world, it offers nothing for me, all I see are lies, imperfections, things that cannot be fixed, things that cannot be repaired.  It they continue, they move forward, broken, diseased, when, they should end.

That is my something, that is my role.

I’ll never have what you have, I’ll never have a home.

But, one day, you and I will share a moment, and then, I will move on to the next, and leave you to wallow in your sin, as the light fades from your eyes, and you are once more, part, of this dying earth.


Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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