Scribble: To be expanded into something called "The Immortal."

      With each footstep he took, the trees behind him blossomed, only to give way to leaves that grew and fell in a heartbeat, leaving bare branches to blossom once more. As branches creaked and dripped with dew, depressions left by footsteps soon gave way to moss, then grass, only to wither away and disappear under snow, again and again, gradually hiding any hint of a path. Yet, ahead of him, the path remained clear, the trees still budding with the kiss of spring, and all seemed perfectly still.
      Is this what forever is like? he thought, as ancient eyes drifted along the road ahead.
      He looked at his soft, ageless hands, stopping long enough to be buried beneath snow that would melt away each second. No longer could he feel the cold of winter or warmth of summer's sun; only his sight could tell him of the season's constant shift. Looking into the air, all he could see was the rich blue of a thousand days and nights at once, merging into the richest color he'd ever known.
      "Almost as beautiful as her eyes," he whispered, lost in the wind, as moss slowly overtook his legs. "Almost..."

Scribble: Unfunny jokes.

A horse walks into a bar. The barkeep asks, "why the long face?" The horse says nothing, as it is a figment of the barkeep's imagination. One patron turns to another and whispers, "he hasn't been the same since his wife died." The other patron solemnly nods in agreement.

* * * * *

A rabbi, a priest, and an imam walk into a bar. The barkeep says, "what is this, some kind of joke?" The priest, upon catching sight of the barkeep, immediately turns to leave, rushing out of the bar. Before the imam can ask, the barkeep begrudgingly says, "she left me standing at the altar." The rabbi stands still, overtaken by the awkward silence.

* * * * *

A blonde and a brunette walk into a bar. The brunette orders a 7 & 7 without delay. The barkeep asks the blonde for her order. "None for me," she replies sadly, after a few moment's hesitation. "Are you sure?" asks the barkeep, noticing her seeming embarrassment. "Yes," she replies softly, before taking her leave from her friend and leaves the bar.

She passes by a tiny cemetery on the walk room, and struggles to slide between the old iron gates. After walking for a few minutes in the chill autumn air, she stops before a small gravestone, falling to her knees.

"I'm sorry, son," she chokes between sobs, clutching the piece of granite. "I couldn't keep you safe..."

From atop the marker, a dented toy car falls onto the frosty ground.

Scribble: This is how I've been feeling lately.

      His eyes nervously scanned his surroundings, methodically looking in every direction that wasn't obscured by trees. Finding no others nearby, he released a brief sigh, a single gust of steam quietly whistling into the chill autumn air. He was alone; of this, there was no doubt.
      Looking up at his evergreen audience, the lines of his face crinkled in resignation. Carefully undoing the buttons of his long overcoat, he could hear the constant clicking in his ears grow louder. Did it always used to be like this? he asked himself, his expression betraying no despair or longing.
      Another set of buttons awaited his fingertips, his digits mechanically undoing each and every clasp with the greatest of speed. Without looking, his hand strayed to his exposed chest, reaching out of instinct.
      A mass of gears and springs came out, lazily winding-down, leaving a cold, deep hole where his heart should be.
      Did it always used to be like this?

Scribble: Three years.

      A single candle burns. Life flickers in the breeze, while little gobs of wax trickle down pale cheeks, running along ridges of scar tissue.
      It's all a painting, sepia, faded, slight wear along the worn-away frame. No one knows the artist, though hushed rumors say he's long gone. Singature's hidden in the lines of the face, but not in any language we can read.
      Why this angle? Why this symbol? Why are we even here, staring at this damn painting for the third year in a row, when little insight has been gained? Did the artist know his message would be obscured?
      But there is no message. The artist was a madman, barely in control of his own impulses. Half these cuts on the canvas were his.
      No meaning but the one we assign . . . but what are we to make of this, then, when we want to just turn away and find some art that makes sense?
      Running along ridges of scar tissue, little gobs of wax trickle down cheeks, life flickering in the breeze.

RLW...