Enthusiasm

Patterns by John 55555:

It's a good thing to take pride in one's work and to be enthusiastic about one's chosen (or unchosen) medium of toil. He had been very enthusiastic while he lived.

The postmortem told us nothing, which in a way, told us all we needed to know. I at least had actually expected the purely negative results to the many tests. These kinds of postmortems have become fairly commonplace in my endeavors, and they always remind me of Sherlock Holmes' significant incident of the dog in the night-time.

Perhaps we will never know how they died, but I already believe I have discerned why they died. It was obvious almost from the start which deaths were merely to distort the edges of the pattern and which were the truly motivated murders. Whenever one of my operatives drew near to him, he lashed out. Sometimes like a intelligent, indeed, ingenius human, but other times like a wild animal cornered in its den. There must be two people doing these, the styles of murder are somehow distinct to me, though for no reason I can define. One corpse is as pristine as any of the others. I did not reflect long on the particular body before me. I said a silent prayer for his soul, and laid the docket of papers on the pile of identical ones.

But these things were not what was truly devouring my sleep and gnawing at the edges of my sanity. I have sent out many, many operatives to find the individual who destroyed our headquarters in Amherdst, and many of them found tracesm clues, leads to follow. These had plunged deeper into the web, weaving through the complex patterns of the world, sorting out the normal from the abnormal, and eventually, the paranormal. I cannot comprehend how they saw the things they did, found the clues and made the deductions from the shreds of theories that they developed, all leading to the two men that all of us seek.

Each one who had found these clues followed them up, drawing ever closer to the creature and the genius, following notions and seeming imaginings step after step, but each step was true.

But why, why had all of the victims been blue-eyed?

 In Sight by Will Tolkien:

It was a clear morning, and not a breath of wind stirred the desert. The buzz of insects was loud and harsh in the air that was now beginning to shimmer in the rising heat.

A flutter and a rush of movement broke the stillness, and a few insects scattered from the brush nearby, their rasping interrupted. A figure rose from the sand, tossing off the heavy sand-cloak that had covered him during the night. He stood and brushed himself off, spitting dust from his mouth. Then he turned toward the sun, shading his eyes.

There, in the distance, lay his goal. To the north and south, the horizon was flat and featureless. To the west, it was broken into gullies and dunes. But to the east…to the east, ragged towers and dark pinnacles rose against the sky. A city. Ancient and ruinous. The marks of a time before fire and destruction.

Jack felt a thrill run through his body—excitement, anticipation. He was almost there. Just a few more miles. He shook himself again, banishing the last vestiges of sleep. Soon he would walk the avenues of giants. Soon he would look upon the empty houses and sift from the wreckage what knowledge he could.

Perhaps there he would find answers to his questions...

He retrieved his satchel and tied the sand-cloak in a bundle, slinging both over his shoulder. The cloak had hid him well, and the night had been silent—free from the sounds of beasts or of men or of those who hunted men in the darkness.

He was ready at last. At last! He squared his shoulders and began the descent. It would be a hot day, but he scarcely felt it, so strong was his enthusiasm. The miles stretched before him, wavering in the rays of the low-hanging sun.

Jack left the dunes behind as he entered the flatlands and the crunch of gravel replaced the swish of sand beneath his feet.

He readied himself, and breathed…

…and began to run.

 Enthusiasm by Andrew Velox:

Little Sally was excited. It was nine o’clock Christmas Eve, and even though her parents had sent her to bed an hour ago she could not fall asleep. She was wide-awake, her eyes open. She clenched her favorite blanket tightly, staring at the door as if she expected something to bust through any minute.

The minutes went by, and still she could not fall asleep. She could not tear her mind away from thinking What presents would I get this year? or When would Santa come? Santa. Her parents had taught her about the good ol’ St. Nick years ago, about how he wore his big red coat, his fluffy red and white hat. How his stomach bulged like a boulder. His hearty laughter always accompanying the large smile plastered on his face.

She remembered how she had visited him a few weeks before. She had even woken up early, just so she could be first in line to greet him at the local mall. She sat on his lap, and immediately she felt as if she was in heaven. The kind old man listening intently, jolly as ever.

“You’ve been a very good girl this year,” he had told her happily. She was ecstatic. She bounced on his lap, her auburn curls bouncing with her as she thanked him the way any young girl did when this excited: over-eagerly. The old man laughed again, truly enjoying seeing the happiness in the kids that came to see him.

Sally sat on her bed, smiling at the memory. She loved Santa. Almost as much as mommy and daddy. She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was almost ten thirty. She yawned, the tiredness finally overcoming her despite her excitement of what was to come the next day. Her eyes closed but she quickly forced them open, shaking her head and staring at the door again.

But soon her eyes closed again, this time not opening until the next morning. She awoke before six, quickly jumping out of bed, grabbing her favorite blanket and teddy bear – Snuggles, as she dubbed him – and racing down the stairs, the enthusiasm filling her body. Half way down the Christmas tree was in sight, along with all of the beautifully-wrapped presents. Santa had come! she thought gleefully to herself.

She bounded down the steps even faster, rushing to the foot of the tree and tearing open the packages that had her name on it as her parents entered the room behind her.