Brian Vinik was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1992. He began "writing" early in his life, though not in the literal sense - he would narrate tales to his father, who would write them down for him. As Brian got older, he began to write his tales himself, and has continued to do so to this very day. Within the past few years, he has also become interested in video editing. His videos have earned lots of praises and awards. Brian is a very active volunteer for the Young Adult programs in the Worcester Public Library and a member of the Teen Advisory Group. He is a student at Doherty Memorial High School.
Please click on the following titles of the videos and the story.
Edgar Allan Poe:
Trains Of No Return:
The Darkness of Perfection
By, Brian Vinik
Darkness filled the room. A darkness darker than night, almost tangible, covering every wall of the windowless space. A lone man stood in the shadows, looking into nothingness, for there was nothing to see. The darkness stretched on forever, just as it would last forever. It began as a disease of the mind - a contagious illusion of the perfect individual in the eye of the beholder. This shifting entity spread from mind to mind, leaving a trail of insanity in its path. It could become the most generous man, the wisest woman, the most innocent child; whatever the infected individual thought the perfect human was, the illusion would become. The sickness spread its way through the world, from beggars to the dirtiest street to high-ranking officials in governments. When the last sane mind was taken, the last hope for the world went with it. And so, in this dark room on this dark night, the man spoke to his own illusion. For him, the sickness was his deceased wife - she died before the sickness... she was spared. The man knew by now that he could not hold her in his arms, nor could he look into her eyes and see a person recalling cherished memories, for the sickness knew none to recall. This caused the man's own insanity, though the disease had other ways. No one was left to ask questions, but in a time before the sickness found the last sane mind, the questions were in great number: Where did the disease come from? How can it be stopped? The answers were never found. And so, the world suffered from its eternal madness. No one was left to cry, to pray, or to hope for some kind of redemption, and yet the world was never quiet, for everyone had their own lost minds to talk to. In one lone town, the sun was beginning to rise, an everyday light that did nothing to eliminate the everlasting darkness in the minds of the insane. One lone woman lay alone in her bed in her shadowy house. She was weak, crying, asking her illusion for guidance in the event that had just occurred, for she had long forgotten what to do herself. However, the disease knew nothing, and was only taken by surprise... by the birth of a baby boy. The infant, this faint hope, had nothing the disease could use to corrupt its find. No memories to recreate, no lost loves to resurrect. All that existed was the curiosity of a young mind, innocent, and thus incorruptible. The sickness realized that a new generation would slowly be born, and if it could not find something to infect it with, then the end of the darkness would be near. Screams echoed around the world. Not screams. Cries. Cries of innocence. Of longing. Of confusion. Millions of infants cried at the dark world around them, only perhaps seeing their mother or father staring off into nothingness, talking to nothingness. These infants were cold, they were hungry, and in the days since the last mind was taken by the disease, they had no one to care for them. The disease, the illusions, had instructed the infected to ignore the helpless babies. They weren't perfection, the victims were told, but illusions themselves. The infected trusted in their perfection, for why would anything perfect and seemingly real be wrong? The perfect beings knew what was best... they must. And yet in the town with the new baby boy, the sun rising higher, his mother heard her son's cries. She heard them, piercing and desperate. At the same time, beside the bed she lay on, stood her husband. He had died just months earlier in a war, but she had long forgotten that as the illusion of him became reality. The sickness itself did not know what to do with the children other than hope for their death. Yet everything has a weakness, including the disease. The mother looked at her illusion, and remembered. She recognized her husband's face, remembered suddenly the times she had with him, and the moment of joy the two had shared when they found out she was pregnant. And thus, the sensible thing for the husband to do in the situation of his son's birth would to be happy, and so the illusion, influenced by the mother's mind and sense, became happy as well. It looked at the son who’s father it impersonated, looked at the wife who’s husband it impersonated. She looked back, and again, remembered: A knock on the door. She opens it, careful of the bump that is her stomach. Two somber looking soldiers, mouths and noses covered but sad eyes perfectly clear, stand in the doorway. They don't need to speak. She falls to the floor, screaming, begging for the nightmare to end. And in the world outside, the growing disease sees a new victim, at the moment mentally weak... "You're not real." It was a simple statement with so much strength. It came from the mother's mouth. The illusion looked at her. Its solid appearance began to vanish as it started to become transparent. "You aren't real." She began to sit up, still weak, tears falling down her face. "You aren't my husband. My husband is dead." She looked at the illusion one last time. "He was spared from your hell." The illusion vanished, and the world, for the first time in what felt like ages, was real again. The mother looked at her crying child, scooped him into her arms, and still weak from childbirth, fled. She left her house, out onto the empty street, clothes still stained in blood. She did not know where she would go, or what her fate would be, but as she heard the lonely murmurs from the houses around, she knew that she would have to go away. Far away, to solitude, where the disease could not find her... or her son.
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