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“Toasted Roles” (Story 5 in a series that began ) by P. Orin Zack (02/03/2011) The uniformed officer across the table from Ben turned his outspread hands palms up. “Yeah, I get why you decided to turn yourself in, Mr. Benoit. That part I understand. And I commend you for taking the initiative. But this is not an issue for the D.C. police. You’re charged with stealing that motorcycle in Kansas. They’re the people you ought to be talking to, not me.” “That may be true, Lieutenant Grimes,” Ben said gingerly, “but when I entered a federal office building earlier today, the security agent there told me that word had been put out to detain me because I had left the state. He warned me off before putting my ID through the system so I’d have a chance to deal with this myself rather than involving Homeland Security, the FBI, or whoever else might be interested in having my neck. That’s why I came in. That’s what I’m trying to do.” What he hadn’t told the lieutenant was that he had intentionally trashed that motorcycle. But he hadn’t simply seen what was about to happen in enough time to avoid the crash and plowed on regardless; he’d seen it a lifetime ahead. Truth be told, it was simply the latest in a series of precognitive memories that he’d let determine the course of his life, and which had earned him more than one fortune. This time, however, it didn’t work out as he’d remembered it. Instead of being picked up by a businessman with the key to his next fortune, he watched the guy drive blithely past. Ben’s charmed life had run its course. Full stop. And if that Kansas state trooper hadn’t stopped a Greyhound to see him on his way, he never would have met Robert Verdun, he never would have left the state, and he certainly wouldn’t have joined the guy’s one-man mission to change the world. Grimes shook his head. “Then it’s a federal matter, and still not our business. I really can’t do anything for you, Mr. Benoit.” “But surely the police in D.C. cooperate with the ones in other states,” Ben pleaded weakly. “I think you may have missed something important here, Mr. Benoit, so let me spell it out for you. The District of Columbia is not a—.” The sharp crack of someone’s head hitting a filing cabinet in the crowded station’s lobby stopped Grimes in mid-sentence. He peered through the smoky glass behind Ben for a frozen moment. Seconds later he muttered something, vaulted to his feet and took off. Ben grabbed his chair arm and twisted around in time to see a number of people stepping back from an agitated man with his fist in the air. Bob and his math-geek buddy Franklin, whose building they’d tried to enter earlier, were standing astride the door of the glassed interview room, their conversation now clearly back-burnered. Franklin glanced over his shoulder and drew back as the door flew open and Grimes dashed between them. Ben rose and called out, “What the hell is going on out there?” By the time he reached the doorway, Grimes had spoken with two other officers, and from the look of it, was coordinating the response. A plainclothesman was kneeling beside the woman who’d fallen into the filing cabinet, making sure she was okay, and a patrolman was calmly ordering bystanders to stand quietly at the perimeter of the room. But the more he calmed the crowd, the angrier the man became. He glared at the officer directing foot traffic and shook his head in agitation. “That’s right,” he said loudly, looking at the frightened faces surrounding him, “be good little sheep and follow the blue man’s orders. You wouldn’t want to be unruly like the Egyptians who brought down their government, now would you?” Bob nodded towards the man and spoke rapidly. “He just walked in and started picking fights with people. That woman tried to intercede, and he pushed her away. She tripped over someone else and fell into the filing cabinet.” “Picking fights?” Ben said. “About what?” “Well, just listen to him,” Franklin whispered, condescension coloring his voice. “He’s been on about people submitting to authority ever since he got in here. And all these idiot cops seem to want to do is play to his paranoia. That lieutenant of yours orders his men around, and then they do the same to the bystanders. He’s not exactly helping the situation, if you ask me.” Bob gave him a withering look. “Then tell them, Franklin. If you know something they don’t, go over there and do something about it!” “Not on your life, Robert. One thing I don’t do is to get involved in things that aren’t my business. You know that.” “Yeah, well,” Bob said, perturbed, “I also know why you don’t get involved. And it has nothing to do with what’s happening right in front of you.” Ben looked him a question. “Hmmm?” “Mathematicians,” he muttered darkly. “Franklin here’s all about theory, about being a dispassionate observer. That’s why he took up being an amateur auctioneer, so he could watch the bidders and figure out what makes them tick. That’s what he did to me when I was at the ChiCon IV auction, and that’s what he’s bloody well doing right now.” Franklin winced. “All right, all right,” Ben said, nodding. “So you want to be an observer. Fine. But then you’ve got no excuse for not noticing things, and you’ve already demonstrated that you have.” Across the room, Lt. Grimes took another step towards the man. And although he raised his hands to signal that he wasn’t armed, the other officers looked like they were itching to take him down. “Okay, now,” he said in an authoritative voice, “I understand that you want to have your say, but you’re going about it the wrong way.” “The way things look right now,” Ben continued, “I’d say that your observations may be the only chance he has of resolving this mess before it spirals out of control.” Franklin frowned. “So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell me exactly what actions the officers should take to defuse the situation, and I’m going to tell Lt. Grimes what you said. I’m not going to claim the idea as my own because we both know I wouldn’t have a prayer of explaining your rationale. You’re going to do this because choosing not to would interfere with that nice quiet life you’ve got planned for yourself.” “I will not!” He turned to Bob. “Call off your dog, Robert.” There was a hollow metallic crack as the man slapped his hand against a desk. “I am, am I? Well, one thing I’m certain of is that I have your undivided attention. And judging by the way your itchy-fingered subordinate over there just jumped, his attention seems to be a bit too undivided.” Grimes motioned his men to relax. “There,” the man said, pointing excitedly at him, “you see?” He looked around at the bystanders. “He’s even got them trained to chill out on cue. Puppets! And every one of you is doing the exact same thing out in your lives. They seduce you into wearing their prefab roles by getting you to wear labels like ‘Democrat’ or ‘Republican’! Or you kiss up to someone so you can get a job, like these blue men did, and you live out the little scripts they stuff in your brain.” Ben grabbed Franklin’s wrist. “What should he do?” The man turned his back to Grimes so he could address a knot of bystanders cowering near the bathrooms. “They call you ‘consumers’ so you’d forget that you’re really citizens and focus on the role they want you to play. Buy stuff. Go into debt.” He glanced at one of the officers, and smiled. “Turn yourselves into pitiful wage slaves to keep them in luxury so you’d forget what you really are. You’re citizens! You’re why this government was created, and you’re the ones who gives it power over you!” Franklin gaped at the man, his breath shallow and ragged. “What should he do? I’ll tell you what he should do!” Ben shook his head. “Don’t tell me. Tell him.” Bob echoed the sentiment. “Do it.” “All right, all right.” Franklin squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then lowered his head and struck out towards Grimes, his fists clenched at his side. “Well, well, well,” said the man, looking directly at Franklin. “What have we here?” Grimes turned to look and started to warn him off, but Franklin continued on, ignoring the lieutenant’s firm command to go back. “Who is that man?” The guy pointed across the room. Franklin raised his head and made eye contact. “Someone who wants to know your name.” Grimes lowered his voice. “What are you doing?” Franklin responded in kind. “Giving him a little respect.” Then, looking again at the man, he squared his shoulders and said, “I know where you’re coming from. I really do. And I’d like to know who you are.” “Well, at last, an actual citizen of this benighted country. I’m Ronald Dvorkin. And you are…?” “Franklin Goertz. I’m a bit surprised that you bothered coming in here, though. After all, if there’s anyone who’s all gung-ho about the role they’re playing, it’s someone with a job that requires them to wear a uniform.” He gestured at Grimes. “But you haven’t really answered my question, Mr. Dvorkin. You’ve given me your name, but you haven’t told me who you are.” “Who I am?” Dvorkin’s stance eased. “Yes. We know that you’re very concerned about people getting so deeply into the roles that they play that they forget who they really are. And, I hope you’ll forgive me for this, but all I know about you right now is that you’re playing the role of someone who’s decided to disrupt people’s hypnotic trance and wake them up. What I don’t know is why. You see, you strike me as a man on a mission. But whose mission is it? Yours… or someone else’s?” The bystanders were no longer afraid, no longer huddled at the fringes of the room. Some had stepped closer, and a few had even sat down to listen. Lt. Grimes was perplexedly looking around. Even his body language had mellowed. “Well,” Dvorkin said, nodding, “now that you mention it, I did get the idea from someone else.” The woman who had fallen into the filing cabinet sat up and cleared her throat. “Now do you see my point?” “Your…?” “Yes. When you came in here, you were more interested in talking than listening. You accused several people of being willfully blind the moment you opened the door. I tried to get you to talk to them first, but you’d have none of it. And when you raised your voice in anger, I said I’d hear you out.” “Placate me. You wanted to placate me.” “No,” she said, standing, “I wanted to understand you. But that wasn’t what you’d come for.” “Well, then,” Franklin said, stepping closer, “you were playing something of a role yourself, then, weren’t you? So whose role was it? Who did you get the idea from?” He frowned and looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Oh, come on, Mr. Dvorkin. You’ve come all this way to talk to us, at least tell us why. We’ve all got secrets. I’m a closet homophobe, but I try not to let myself be sucked into that role.” He pointed towards Bob and Ben. “That guy over there let his life be ruled by his dreams, for heaven’s sake. Could your secret be any worse?” His eyes widened and he stared at the two men by the interview room. “Dreams?” Ben shook his head in irritation. “Memories, but yeah. So what?” Dvorkin slumped. “So did I. I mean… I didn’t do what they said. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Not obeying.” He rubbed his face and fell into a nearby chair. “It was like hearing voices, except I kept living out the orders every night.” While Lt. Grimes and his men took over, and a small group of bystanders crowded around to listen, Franklin turned and walked back towards Ben and Bob, his face pale and his arms swinging limply. Ben extended his hand. “Thank you, Franklin.” “For what?” He grinned. “For that fortuitous bit of stagecraft. I think Dvorkin over there has led a bizarre kind of reflection of my own life. I spent years following a crooked path through my memories of the future, and he resolved not to listen to his dreams. It’s weird, though. Neither response really worked out too well.” “But I thought you’d made two fortunes by doing that?” Ben nodded. “Sure, but like he said, I was playing a role, rather than living my life. This way may be chancier, but I think it’s a better deal.” They listened in on Dvorkin’s public confession for a few minutes more, and then Bob poked Franklin in the shoulder. “Which reminds me, you’ve just done something that I’d thought was impossible.” “Oh?” “Yeah. You changed roles. This morning, a team of wild horses couldn’t get you to get personally involved in anything, and now look at you.” “Mmmhmm. Well, maybe it was the excitement of the moment. In any case, I’m glad I finally had the courage to tell my nasty little secret.” “What,” Bob asked, “that bit about being a closet homophobe?” “Well, yeah.” “I’ll let you in on a little secret, then. It was only a secret to you.” THE END Copyright 2011 by P. | 13,014 | 1 |
A solitary man sits atop a hill watching over his silent village. Scarcely any candlelights left peeking through the windows of the quaint homes settling down for the night in the green valley, surrounded by towering fir trees. The man adjusts his back pressed against the colossal tree he's chosen as his chair. His knees brought nearly to his chest and bare feet discerning the massive roots that have protruded above the land's surface. He watches silently in the cool moonlight with just the sound of the river's water wheel working hard into the night. "Sir?" A feminine voice speaks out high in the branches. "Sir, you've been here for quite some time." "I have." He responds, his gaze on the village unmoving. "Are you resting?" The voice asks. "I am." The man says. "May we have a chat then?" The voice swoops down from the canopy above. A bright white dove lands gracefully on the branch jutting out next to the man. Its eyes silver and glowing faintly in the night. "If you don't mind, that is.” "Chat about what?" The man asks as he stretches his neck. "Well for instance-" the dove coos. "What are you watching for?” The man takes a deep breath and looks to the dove. He lifts his arms above his head and feels his hands against the rough bark of the tree. "For my daughter" He says. "Why?" the dove asks. "To protect her" The man says resolutely as he looks back at the small home on the edge of the village. The dove follows his eyes and stares with the man. Through the window a small girl sits on her mother's lap as she is read her chosen story of the evening. She has the man's eyes and nose along with the mother's ears and lips. The girl fights valiantly to stay awake but after some time slowly succumbs to sleep and is brought gently to bed by her mother. "She's beautiful" the dove says quietly to the man. “You don't have to worry anymore." The man turns and looks sternly to the dove. "I have to stay." He says indignantly. "There are too many uncertainties. What if something happens while I'm-" the man bites his lip and hangs his head. He stares down to the cold soil below his mistreated feet. "She is a rock." The dove says softly. "She is a child." He croaks. "No, she is a rock." The dove briefly beats its wings and perches neatly unto the man's right shoulder. "A rock tossed into the river's current. She may flow with, or against it, but never without. She will feel the harsh waves, the storms, and the peaceful banks. They will form the rock over time into the brilliantly smooth stone that has experienced it all." The dove whispers into his ear. "And on one day, when that stone finally leaves the current and comes to rest, you will find it, and she will tell you of all her journey while you bask in how beautiful her very soul has become." The mans squeezes his arms and digs his toes into the burly tree's roots. A knot surges in his throat, barging through the blockade his life has slowly build and manifests into the corners of his tightly clenched eyes. "Now my dear sweet, precious stone." The dove presses into his cheek, absorbing the running tears. "Tell me of your current. | 3,159 | 2 |
Give Your Mom My Best One day a long time ago, my mom had to come to school to talk to my teacher about how I kept farting in class after lunch. It didn’t happen every day. But the most recent episode had caused the girl next to me to get sick all over her desk, and the teacher had had to clear the room. So it was becoming a real problem. Mom said something like “oh my, he never does this at home.” She looked at me like she expected me to be embarrassed or apologize. I wasn’t and I didn’t. I didn’t think it was anyone’s business. Then my mom called my dad. He was on the road to San Antonio, but she still insisted he be part of the conversation. She put the phone on speaker, told him he was on speaker, then put it in front of her on the table. He said “hello” from the wind tunnel of his car. Mom only stared at the phone the whole time my teacher talked, like she was waiting for dad to say something to get this all over with. He never said anything after hello. There was a horrible crunching sound on the other end of the line and the sound of my dad screaming, sounding closer and further away as he and his phone tumbled around in the car like a couple of socks in an empty dryer. Nobody did anything. We just all sat there frozen listening to my dad whimpering and moaning a hundred miles away. Then my mom screamed and grabbed the phone and screamed at my dad over and over if he could hear her or if he was ok. My teacher asked if she should call 911. Mom kept screaming into the phone. She got up and stumbled out of the room on her high heels. I heard her screaming all the way down the hall. My teacher just looked at me and started crying. She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me crying. She turned around in her chair and grabbed a box of tissues from her desk. She slid them across the table to me, only I wasn’t crying. Anyways, I only mention that day because I saw my teacher today at Walmart. She looked a lot older, but I recognized her. It was like in the movies when they take a pretty young actress and give her all the makeup to make her look older, but it’s obvious she’s just the same person in a lot of old makeup. That’s how she looked. She saw me there in the store and she recognized me too, because as soon as she saw me she looked away and zagged down the next aisle, which I didn’t think was an aisle she needed to go down since it was sports equipment. I didn’t try to follow her or anything. Just kept walking toward the beer aisle. After a while I guess she thought it was safe to come out, and she rounded the corner of the beer aisle too. When she spotted me again, I did a little wave. She looked back around the corner to see if she could get away again. But she couldn’t. Or she didn’t. She pushed her cart over until it was next to mine. “How are you Ricky?” she asked. I told her I was fine. And that nobody had called me Ricky since I was a kid. “Well, yes, you’re an adult now aren’t you. I’ll never get over how fast you all grow up.” She looked at her watch. I said “It’s ok Miss Applebaum, there’s nothing you need to say.” “Oh, please, Ricky, you can call me Betty. We’re both grown up now.” That was the first time I ever thought that maybe a teacher can still be growing up herself while she’s been given so many responsibilities over so many helpless little kids. I don’t know if that’s how she meant it when she said it, but I thought it all the same. We stood there quietly for a while. I asked her if she still taught. She said “Oh no, I’m retired.” I congratulated her. After a little bit more silence, she looked in my basket and said “Oh, that’s that new Amber Ale from Karbach, isn’t it? I haven’t tried it yet. Is it any good? I told her I liked it ok. “Can you point me towards it? There’s so many different beers now, I can never find what I’m looking for.” I pointed her off in the way I’d just come. She looked past me, and then our eyes locked, just for a second. “It was good seeing you Ricky. Give your mom my best.” She touched my shoulder. Then she wheeled her shopping cart away down the aisle, toward the Amber Ale. | 4,144 | 1 |
Cold sweat tricked down his back, as he pressed it against the bolder. He could hear his pursuers behind him. He tried to catch his breath, - coughed, then spat into the dirt. “Spread out!” he could hear the shout reverberate through the canyon. “He can’t escape.” He found his brush. He licked the tip and took some of the black paint from his arm. He squinted, and started to draw impossibly tiny shapes across the bullet that he held between his finger tips. Elegant, precise. The smallest error here would spell his doom. A bullet punched through a bolder, way to the side. It left a whole bigger than his head. Small bits of rock flew everywhere. Red dust like mist, settled slowly in the still air. How crude. “Last chance” he heard the voice yell “I don’t want to bring you back in pieces”. He didn’t answer. He drew. Another crack, - another potential hiding spot gone. He put his small brush into his shirt pocket, and took out his old trusty revolver. He stared at it for a moment mournfully. The chambers where empty. Only the bullet left that he held between his fingers. He placed his pocket watch on the ground next to him. Checked the hands. It was time. He chambered the bullet carefully, cocked the hammer, pointed the barrel to the ground and pulled the trigger. A small click was his reward. He took a breath, checked the watch, closed his eyes. He yelled “I surrender”. His voice sounded older then the remembered. He stood up slowly, Hands in the air, the gun hanging from his thumb inside the trigger guard. “Finally” a gruff voice to his right mumbled. He turned to see his pursuers standing in a half circle at the moth of the canyon. Only three left of what must have been a group of 8 in the beginning. They pointed their guns at him. The rifle of the man on the left was probably enchanted, though it was hard to judge from this distance and with the sun in his eyes. He squinted. “Finally the wizard is out of tricks! Come here, nice and slowly! And keep your hands above your head!”. If he only knew. He took a last peek at his pocket watch, sitting forgotten on the ground. Not much time left. He walked forward slowly, deliberately. With every step closer to his doom or his salvation, he did not yet know. The spell was not something he commonly used. In truth, he had not even tried it out yet. He walked forward, and judged that he was close enough. “Here” he said and slowly lobbed the gun at the feet of the bandits. The middle one, probably the leader lifted it up carefully. The two others drew in closer, mesmerized , trying to see the prize without loosing sight off their quarry. The gun would fetch a high price, he knew. Even higher then his body. The one on the right let out a small whistle. “Do you see these markings, i have never seen anything like it! We will be rich!” And with that, he knew the time was up. He jumped backwards and hid his body behind a bolder. The three bandits instantly changed their focus back to him. A second passed. “Shoot the wizard!” he heard the leader yell, and that’s when it happened. A huge explosion ripped across the canyon. Debris shot everywhere like canon balls, fired from artillery. He cowered behind the rock till the noise subsided and the dust settled. He stood up slowly, and knocked the loose dust from his cloth. When he reached the mouth of the canyon, not much was left of the bandits. Their bodies where nothing more than scattered smoking pieces of meat, some still with cloths attached to them. The animals would soon take care of what was left. A boot stood lorn next to the remainder of what once had been his revolver. He picked up the pieces and stared at them with regret in his eyes. He had been caring this weapon for nearly five years now. A couple of steps further lay a hat. He picked up and set it on top of his graying hair. Other then that, nothing that could be salvaged was left. He put his broken revolver into his mantle pocket. He would need to make a new one, or better, forge a new one from the old. And he knew precisely where he needed to go. He took a last look back at the carnage, spat and whispered “Abracadabra. | 4,165 | 1 |
This is a fictional "true crime" podcast comprising 10 episodes, written as a podcast script. I'll be posting twice a week. Episode 1: A Macabre Discovery Jack Moorask, surveyor: I’ll never forget the day I found the toe. It was real clear and brisk, a perfect winter’s day in LA. My partner Rodrigo and I got going early to our job site in the Palisades. We were hired to mark the boundary between two neighboring properties. We were up on the slope in the wooded area at the back of the houses, the area that borders Sunset Boulevard. I was setting up my tripod when I saw the sun flash on something blue on the ground. I thought it must be a dead bird, but the color looked too bright, so I walked over to check it out. It was a human toe, a big toe, with sparkly nail polish. Chloe Quinn: Welcome to Between the Lies. I’m your host, reporter Chloe Quinn. In this podcast, we’ll examine a crime that sent waves of shock and terror through an affluent community and a decade later remains unsolved—the killing of a seventeen-year-old senior at Malibu High School. Demelza Intriago went missing on September 12th, 2013. After a drunken argument with her ex-boyfriend and a rival girl on Zuma Beach, she stormed off—and vanished. Five months later, surveyors conducting a topographical study found her bones, twenty-one miles from where she was last seen in Malibu. Here’s Jack Moorask, the surveyor you heard at the top of the episode, with the rest of his story. Jack Moorask: The toe looked like it was gnawed off by an animal. I called Rodrigo over. He took a look and wondered if more body parts could be around. Both of us looked up the slope at the same time and saw a clump of old tree trunks. We glanced at each other and without saying a word, we walked up to it. I don’t know what it was that told me to check it out, my spidey senses, I guess. I got on my hands and knees and used a stick to dig deeper until I could look under the logs with my flashlight. I saw what looked like human bones and remnants of clothing. Rodrigo took a look and agreed. We called 911. Chloe: Demelza’s death hit everyone at Malibu High hard. As you might imagine, murders are rare in a community where Hollywood royalty like Mel Gibson, Martin Sheen, Pierce Brosnan and many others live in beachfront mansions or atop cliffs with expansive views of the Pacific Ocean. Malibu’s spectacular coastal scenery has appeared in countless movies and TV shows. But for all its fame and wealth, Malibu still has a somewhat small-town vibe to it. The city has fireworks on the Fourth of July. At Christmas, kids have breakfast with Santa at city hall. But it’s a rarefied small town all the same. McDonalds sits across from Nobu, the famed sushi restaurant owned by Robert DeNiro. You can buy a $600 minidress in the same shopping center as a bunch of bananas or a bottle of aspirin. Running through Malibu’s twenty-seven-mile-long strip of coastline, much like the scenic Pacific Coast Highway, is a divide of class and privilege. Because for all its well-heeled residents there are also the countless, mostly invisible legions who work for them. The maids, gardeners and nannies who take the bus that runs along PCH. There are also the teachers, small businessowners, clergy. Every so often, something happens to cause the sides to clash, and the breach lies exposed like a raw wound. It’s like when an earthquake occurs, and Los Angelenos wring their hands about living on top of tectonic plates. Until they forget again. That’s what happened in Demelza Intriago’s killing. The prime suspect in her murder was her former boyfriend, Lars Magnusson, the son of Oscar-winning movie director Anders Magnusson. Demelza and her family are at the opposite end of the social spectrum. They were immigrants from Venezuela and employed by the likes of the Magnussons. Demelza’s parents were, and still are, the caretakers of a mansion owned by Australian actor Bazza Molloy, who lives in Sydney most of the time. Her mom also cleaned houses and her dad worked as a handyman to supplement their income. Some people called Demelza and Lars “the odd couple” and said their three-year relationship, which ended three months before Demelza went missing, was really about external needs for each of them: for Demelza, climbing the social ladder and for Lars, rebelling against his parents. Others praised the fact that they got together despite the different worlds they came from. Demelza’s death raised painful questions about social class: whether lives are valued based on how much money they represent, about the lack of accountability that money can buy, the friends and favors that fame draws, and the loneliness and vulnerability of being a foreigner, of being different. We’re going to explore those questions later in the podcast, but to start off, let’s delve into the facts of the case. This is what we know about the events that led up to Demelza’s disappearance: Soon after leaving her job at a restaurant, she was last seen on Zuma Beach in Malibu around 11 p.m. on a warm Saturday night, September 12th, 2012. Lars Magnusson, Demelza’s former boyfriend, and some friends were partying at a hidden cove on the beach when Demelza arrived unexpectedly. She was drunk. Very drunk. She and Lars argued, then she left by herself and vanished. Her body was found by the surveyors five months later. My first stop was Detective Desdemona Nimmo with the Los Angeles Police Department. She was assigned the case because Demelza’s remains were found in L.A. not in Malibu, which is policed by the county sheriff’s department. Detective Nimmo has been a detective in West L.A. investigating homicides and other major crimes for over a decade. She has a brisk, no-nonsense air of efficiency and a deep voice. She’s a little intimidating, in fact. But after talking to her throughout my investigation, I came to see she has a softer, compassionate side. She sees herself as an advocate for victims who cannot speak for themselves, the ones who’ve had their lives unfairly snatched from them. Detective Nimmo: Every victim deserves justice, and every perpetrator should be held accountable. It’s really that simple. Chloe: I’m driving with Detective Nimmo along Sunset Boulevard. She’s going to show me the spot where Demelza was found. Sunset runs from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA through some of LA’s most storied communities like Bel Air and Beverly Hills. My favorite stretch of Sunset runs through an upscale area called Pacific Palisades. The road curves and winds through an area studded with eucalyptus trees. Then it passes through the business district before descending a steep hill to end at the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean. We’re not going that far though. Detective Nimmo: We did not have a lot of evidence or witnesses in Demelza’s case, but it is still an active investigation. The truth is we don’t know if the killer targeted Demelza or if she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We don’t know if the perpetrator killed her intentionally or accidentally, if they killed before or killed since. Chloe: Detective Nimmo pulls over. On one side of Sunset is the ranch where Will Rogers once lived. In the 1930s, Rogers was one of Hollywood’s highest paid actors famed for his cowboy tricks. His property is now a state park. But we’re headed to the other side of the road, down the side of a steep, rugged ravine. Nimmo: When Demelza was found, hundreds of people left flowers and stuffed animals all along here. It created a real traffic hazard. Chloe: Today there’s no sign that this was the final resting place of murdered teenager. We clamber over a guardrail and make our way down the slope. Detective Nimmo warned me to wear sturdy shoes and I’m glad I took her advice. I lurch from tree to tree, so I don’t fall headlong down the incline. Detective Nimmo is descending sideways. She’s obviously done this before. I decide to do the same. Nimmo: This is it. Between these two trees. Chloe: We’ve come to a patch of earth between two eucalyptuses. The tatters of yellow crime scene tape flutter around their white trunks. They almost look like ghostly sentries guarding the spot. Nimmo: I come here every so often, mainly to check if anyone has been here. Killers sometimes go back to the scene of the crime. They might leave a clue. Chloe: In silence, we stare at the soil as if waiting for it to reveal the secrets that it holds. The hum of traffic up on Sunset is faint. A car horn breaks our reverie. Nimmo: The call came in midmorning. Remains of a body found. I investigate all suspicious deaths in West L.A., so I caught the case. Judging from the location down the embankment, I thought it could be someone who’d fallen and died of their injuries, but as soon as I saw the shallow grave under some logs, I knew we were looking at foul play. Someone had put her there. We found fabric from a pink T-shirt, denim shorts and a white canvas sneaker, as well as a pendant and an earring of a giraffe belonging to a matching set. Those items immediately rang a bell. When I got back to the bureau, I checked our missing persons reports. The description of the clothing and jewellery Demelza was last seen wearing matched what we found. Dental records later proved it was Demelza. Chloe: The autopsy determined that the cause of death was strangulation. With the body so decomposed, it couldn’t be determined if she’d been sexually assaulted, but it looked like she died around the time she disappeared. Nimmo: My theory is that she was killed the night she disappeared and was already dead when her body was brought here. The killer was looking for a place to dispose of the body and chose a spot that’s difficult to access on purpose. There was no sign of a struggle or anything else that would have shown she was killed at the site, but we had heavy rain that winter so any evidence would have washed down the slope. The remains had been disturbed by animals, but we could see that she had been placed in a fetal position, with her hands crossed on her chest, her head bowed. Probably so the killer didn’t have to dig a big hole. Burying bodies is a lot of work. Chloe: Not much in the way of evidence was found. Too much time had lapsed. Nimmo: We found some DNA under her fingernails, but it was in such a degraded state that it didn’t tell us anything other than she tried to fend off the assailant. She put up a good fight. Chloe: You know how on TV shows the detective has one particular case that haunts them? Demelza Intriago is that case for Desi Nimmo. She has a photo of Demelza pinned to her cubicle wall. It’s Demelza’s senior class portrait taken the week before she went missing. In the months that followed her disappearance, it became instead the picture used on missing persons posters and in the media. Nimmo: We’ve received many leads over the years. I check out each and every one. This remains an active investigation. Chloe: Lars Magnusson, Demelza’s former boyfriend, remains a person of interest in the case, but he fled the country. Nimmo: Lars is a Swedish citizen, and we believe he’s in Sweden. His family moved there right after Lars graduated high school. But even before then, he lawyered up and refused to cooperate with law enforcement. We have a border alert on him if he returns to the country, but to our knowledge he has not re-entered the United States although his father travels back and forth. Chloe: Sunrays beam down through the trees onto Demelza’s resting place giving it a celestial glow. It seems appropriate, as if nature is marking the innocent life that was stolen well before its time. There’s not much else to see. We head back to the car. Using social media, I tracked down one of Demelza’s friends from high school, Tessa Kesselman, who’s now studying for a PhD in anthropology at Boston University. I caught up with her on a visit home to Malibu and we went to Zuma Beach where Demelza was last seen. Zuma is an iconic California beach. It’s almost two miles of golden sand with crystal clear water and lots of white-capped waves that make it a popular destination for surfers. Like many things in Malibu, it’s had numerous moments of fame. It was the location of the final scene in the 1968 movie Planet of the Apes. It’s also mentioned in the lyrics to the U2 song “California.” Gwen Stefani named her second child Zuma. To local kids, though, it’s simply a place to kick it. Here’s Tessa. Tessa Kesselman: It’s like a lot of childhood things. You grow up with them, so you take them for granted. You don’t realize how other people see them. Whenever I tell people I’m from Malibu, they’re, like, ‘Wow. That’s amazing.’ But Malibu is not paradise. Nowhere is. (Sniffs) Sorry. I get emotional when I remember Demelza. Chloe: The day we go to Zuma, it’s cold and grey. The beach is deserted. We get out of my car and walk across the sand. The ocean wind lashes us like a whip. Tessa: A group of kids found this small beach between two, like, headlands. It’s tricky to get to. You have to walk on the rocks then go around the headland on a narrow ledge with the waves crashing behind you, but it was worth it. The cove faces the ocean so it’s totally private. We built fires, drank, smoked weed. The usual teenage stuff. I went there a couple times, but I wasn’t a regular. You still up for checking it out? Chloe: Tessa points to a big crag of rock jutting into the sea. Waves crash on a rock bed leading up to its foot. Wait, you mean we’re going around that cliff? Tessa: Yep. Chloe: The things reporters do to get the story. Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the cove, a tiny half-moon of sand bordered on both sides by tall rocks, the cliff face at the rear and the ocean in front. Getting here was a little scary, to be honest. Tessa: Honestly, it was creepy. I didn’t like coming here at night. There’s an overhang somewhere, here it is. If it was cold or raining, we’d huddle under here. This is sure bringing back some memories. (She chokes back a sob.) Chloe: We find a dry patch of sand and sit. Tessa: Demelza was never a party girl. She’d go along with drinking and smoking weed, but she never initiated it. She was a serious student, a striver. She wanted to do well and please her parents. Her family had gone through so much to get to this country. They’d lost everything in Venezuela. She didn’t talk about it much, but she told me once, right here, in fact. I was struck by how much she’d gone through compared to us, how spoiled we must seem to her. Lars was just the opposite. He had everything. Actor good looks, blond, blue eyes. He lived in a big house. His parents had money, fame. But like a lot of kids in Malibu, there was pain behind the façade. His mom drank. She’d been an actress back in Sweden but could never get her career going here. His dad was a director, but he was hardly ever home. He was always showing up in the tabloids with some starlet on his arm. Lars acted out. In ninth grade he started using drugs, like heavy shit. Crack, meth, you name it. He was suspended for fighting, got detentions for talking back to teachers. I think Demelza was the stability he was missing in his life. He knew she wasn’t with him because of his dad’s fame. She’d never even heard of his father. Chloe: The summer before Demelza went missing, she and Lars broke up. Everyone was surprised. Tessa: I don’t know what really led up to it. We hadn’t been that close until she called me right before school let out for the summer and told me they were over. She just said he was immature. I figured she finally saw him for the loser that he was. Honestly, I thought it was good she got away from him. She got a job bussing tables at Poseidon’s, the biker bar up near the county line on PCH. That Saturday, I stopped in there to say hi to her and see what time she got off work. She hadn’t returned my calls for a few days. She seemed tired, kinda distracted. She apologized for not getting back to me, said she’d been working a lot of overtime. The place was packed so we didn’t have time to chat. She said she was working until closing and told me she’d call me the next day to make plans to get together. Then out of the blue, she asked me if I knew Thirza Povich. I said I didn’t and asked who she was. Demelza never got a chance to answer. Her boss called her to a dirty table. He seemed mad she was talking to me, so I left. I didn’t want to get her in trouble. Chloe: After she went missing, it came out who Thirza Povich was, Lars’s new girlfriend. Tessa thought it was an odd coincidence, or maybe it wasn’t. Tessa: Demelza had never mentioned Thirza before, then the same night she shows up where Thirza and Lars are hanging out? I can’t help but feel those two things are related. I couldn’t believe it when I heard at school on Monday that she was missing. I just couldn’t get my head around it. I’ve always wondered what I could’ve done that afternoon at Poseidon’s. Could I have prevented her death in some way, waited around to ask about Thirza Povich, called her later that night? I mean, if just one person had made a different choice, including myself, maybe she’d still be alive. Chloe: I named this podcast Between the Lies because my aim is to dig up the truth that has fallen between all the rumors and outright lies in this case—the whole truth, not the half-truths, not the omissions of truth. Anyone who knows anything about this case at all, drop me a line on the website. Working together, maybe we can solve this murder. Next time on Between the Lies: Male voice: Everything was great until Demelza crashed the party, like literally crashed. She tripped and fell to the ground, giving us all a start. Kyle said, ‘Nice of you to drop in.’ We cracked up. We thought it was a hilarious joke, except Lars. It was like he knew right off that Demelza being there was bad news. | 18,099 | 1 |
“Hey! Watch where you’re driving!” I yelled at the car which flew past me, nearly taking my head off. I continued walking to my friend's house. He texted me the night earlier saying, “I have something life-changing.” I was not that excited, considering the last “life-changing” thing John had was his new PS27. I opened his door, and ah! “Get down, Tech-9!”, I screamed at his dog. He needs to learn to power off his dog when he’s not using it, he’s gonna waste the battery and then come crying to me for a new one. I walked to his room and smelled the scent of pizza drifting out his door. I wondered if that was his “life-changing” thing. “Ay, John! I’m here,” I said, knocking on his door. He opened the door and ushered me in, looking behind me as though a CIA agent was there. “Adam,” he said, “What’s good?” I asked him what he had and he opened the drawer next to his bed, pulling out what looked like a prescription bottle. He opened it up and shook the contents out onto his desk. One tiny, blindingly red pill came out. “This is going to change the world,” he exclaimed. He plopped on his couch, telling me to come and sit down. For the next hour, he explained what it was, how he made it, and how it was going to change the world. “You’re telling me with this one pill, I can live forever? Yeah, right,” I expressed doubtfully. “Yep, and I saved it just for you, buddy,” he said, handing me the pill. I took it, said, “Why not?” and swallowed. Over the next couple of months, nothing happened. I wondered if he just gave me a placebo drug to mess with me. However, over the next couple of decades, I started to see some changes or the lack thereof. Where were my gray hairs? I started to realize that I might live forever. As the years passed by, my parents died. My children died. I fell into a deep depression. Drones dropped food at my house and I just sat in my bed, doing nothing. I wished I had not taken the pill, that I died with the rest of my family. One hundred years passed and I never left my room. My grandchildren had died and my great-grandchildren were not far behind. One day I woke up, telling myself I should rise out of the depression. Whatever had come upon me inspired me to see how I could make a difference. I opened a new tab on my computer, pulling up the news. I scrolled through, looking how I could help. What is wrong with the world, I pondered. “So much,” I said, surprising myself. I had not spoken for the past century - there was no reason to. I started the Adam World-Changing Foundation and reached out to my friend to see if he would like to help. He texted me back, saying “I’m good bro. I got all the pizza and video games I need at my house, and I can do this for the rest of my life! Why would I care about the world?” I shook my head, realizing that only I would have to do it on my own. I started new businesses, providing jobs to humans who were out of work. I built farms with the help of those I hired, making fresh food that I gave out to as many people as possible. I provided cars and homes and started initiatives to clear the smog that was clouding our sky. I sat in my bed and reflected on how the past fifty years had gone, and how much good I had done. Everything was going great! My phone rang. That’s weird, I thought, why am I getting a call from the hospital? “Yes, this is Adam,” I answered. “Sir, I am very sorry. Josiah and Sophie have passed away,” they responded. No! No! They couldn’t be dead! I fell to the ground, a puddle of tears at my feet. “Beep! Beep! Beep!” I wipe the crust out of my eyes and get up. I look around, wondering why my bedroom looks different. “Adam! Breakfast is ready!” someone screams. That’s weird, no one lives with me. A woman I have not seen in a long, long time opens the door. My mom. “Mom, what year is it?” I ask. | 3,923 | 1 |
/ / Ethan had us staying in one of the former slaver homes. It was a beautiful cottage, with a white brick exterior with tall, thin windows that allowed the light to bathe the spacious rooms within. Still, I couldn’t help being aware of the ghosts around me. There were still old dresses in one of the closets, cotton fabrics dyed bright and vibrant colours. The blankets I slept under were filled with fine duck down, but their edges were frayed and the hue washed out from its predecessor’s use. Each scratch on the dining table, each creak in a cupboard door, told tales from lives that used to live here. From all accounts, lives of bad people. But still lives, ones I was aware were likely ended by the people I now helped. Perhaps because of those spectres, I spent a lot of my time outside. The home sat next to a large reservoir, and each morning I bundled up as warm as I could, wrapping myself in two or three sweaters, before dragging a chair from the dining room and sitting by the water. Sipping hot water, I’d watch the warblers swoop across the lake, grabbing at the mayflies and mosquitoes that hovered above the surface. It was a beautiful spot. And if it weren’t for the cold that slowly seeped in between the layers of fabric, I could’ve stayed there for hours. Instead, it was usually only twenty minutes or so before the frost crept in around my ankles, and I could no longer ignore the fog forming on my breath. There were a number of the homes along the reservoir, each one fifty or so metres apart. Enough distance for privacy, but close enough to wave at a friend on a nice warm day from your respective gardens. The others had been reclaimed for the workers, six families now occupying a home that had been for one. Fidella seemed to be one of the lucky ones who moved into the manor homes. On my fifth day, as I sat outside watching the dawn refract across the reservoir, I saw her exit a red bricked home at the far end of the lake, and amble round to where I was spot by the water. “Hello, Ferdinand. Ethan…” I could hear her forcing herself to not give him a title. “…hoped you would be willing to join him in the mines today. He asked me to bring you down to him.” “Of course. I’d be happy too,” I replied. I returned the chair inside, grabbed another layer for the windswept walk, and we began our descent towards the mines. “How do you find living in one of the homes by the reservoir?” I asked, as the buildings disappeared from view. “It’s nice. I have to share a room with my sister’s family and our parents. But it’s much better than where we all were.” Her eyes glanced to the ground in front of her, a hint of shame at enjoying her relative luxury. “Does Ethan live by the reservoir?” Fidella shook her head sharply. “No. We offered it to him. Even to have to himself. He refused. Said the homes should be for families and not a single man.” She nodded towards the coast. “He still sleeps in his old bedroom down by the ocean. He has a bit more room down there now anyway,” she chuckled. “Others all want to give him space. Half of his room moved out.” Cutting across the path in front of us was a small stream that carried the overflow from the reservoir. It was incredibly shallow, as if the water hadn’t quite found its best route across the path to erode a channel and instead, it spread out in a broad, thin film. Still, the conversation briefly paused as we stepped across the dry patches. “Has the reservoir always been there?” I asked as I picked my path through the water. “Oh no.” Fidella said. “It was dug out. A long time ago though. I think more than a century.” I thought how much effort it must have taken to move that much soil. “Surely the reservoir can’t be too deep then?” “It’s deeper than you would think. We work hard here.” She grinned with an odd pride for her ancestors. “It goes down several metres in the middle. They were going to go deeper but stopped when they found coal?” “Coal?” “Yes. That’s how we discovered the island had coal and why the mine was started. The entrance tunnel goes right by the reservoir’s edge. Though the mine’s a bit to the north. But as I said, those who used to be in charge didn’t care much for it. They weren’t interested in making the place better.” “At least they built the reservoir to give the island enough drinking water.” She winced briefly. But it was the briefest show of emotion, the rest of her body maintaining its posture - back straight, with her hands held in a clasp in front of her. “I think they built it more for the view. That and to stop the water muddying the fields. They *cared* for the cows.” There was a pain in her voice. Old memories of her place in society. Slavers, livestock, then slaves. I felt a heat under the collar of my shirt that defied the January air. “How’s your new position going?” I asked, quickly shifting topics. “Good. I think.” Her face returned to its usual passive expression. “We had a couple of traders come by yesterday, so I spoke with them. One of them said they may even have something to help with the mining.” “That’s great,” I encouraged. “Yes. I just hope I can do Ethan proud.” She said, as we turned around the edge of the hill, the sound of the mine reaching us as it snaked and echoed between the hulls. “But I think the position is a good idea. It will help connect us to other islands. The old rulers never would have done this.” “It seems like he has someone great for the position,” I grinned. We reached the yard in front of the mine. Work was underway - a supervisor barked instructions, a cow let out a disgruntled mood at the cart tied to shoulders. Still, it was quieter than I expected, as though everything were in slow motion. The miners walking out looked forlorn, their heads bowed. Those heading in sauntered slowly. Ahead, I saw Ethan parting the crowds. I went to raise a hand in greeting, but I was met with a glower. His face was red, his fists tightened up in balls, his spiked hair tilted forward like a spear. I stopped, panicked at the threat. I prepared for the worst, trying to understand my sins, when I realised his glance was behind me. “I’ll be right with you, Ferdinand,” he muttered, passing, his eyes still fixed on his target. Following him, I saw a thin, short man hunched sheepishly. He had a forced smile., and his eyes kept switching between Ethan and a patch on his arm he was scratching at. “Hello Ethan,” he spluttered. “Geordie, why are their cows grazing in field seventeen?” Ethan paused one pace from him, a good distance to swing a punch from. “I told you no livestock in that field. It’s too close to the stream.” “They needed to go somewhere-“ “I told you, no livestock in that field,” Ethan repeated, jabbing his finger. “That field’s been in rotation for decades. It’s had cows in it every year since well before we were even born.” “Yeah,” Ethan huffed, lifting his head. “I’m pretty sure there were cows in there twelve years back. The same year we had that cholera outbreak and six people died. Do you remember that?” Geordie slumped his head, his gaze now firmly on the itch on his arm. “It’s one incident, fifteen years ago. The livestock almost certainly had nothing to do with it.” “No. There was another. Couple of decades back. I’m sure of it. When we were kids.” “I don’t remember tha-“ “Well I do,” Ethan shouted, cutting him off. “I remember their deaths.” Ethan waited till Geordie looked up before continuing. “The field slopes downward. When it rains all that cow shit runs downhill, and into the stream at the bottom. Then it ends up in the well water.” “The well’s sealed,” Geordie shook his head. “I’m telling you, Geordie. This isn’t a discussion. I’m ordering you. Move the cows. We are not risking the lives of our families.” “Where are they going to go?” Geordie said, showing his palms. “Half the fields are still in disrepair.” Ethan responded without missing a beat. “Why?” “We’re down on staff. Half our best farmers are up here in the mine. We’ve only just got enough to plant crops and tend to the animals.” “Make it work.” Ethan’s frame was rock solid. “How?” “I don’t know. That’s your job. Figure it out.” He paused. “Or I’ll find someone else who can.” Geordie’s mouth fell open, but no words came out, the gaping jaw just allowing his frame to deflate. Once more I could hear the wind whistling round the hillside and the scraping of spades through piles of coalless dirt. Ethan took a step forward and placed a hand on Geordie’s shoulder, bending his head to get back in his eyeline. His voice reduced to a hush. “Geordie. I picked you to manage the farms because I know you can. You were there right beside me during the worst of everything, through the worst of the fighting. I believe in you. We got through all that together. We’ll get through this, yeah?” Geordie nodded. “Good. You’ll find a way. Get the fields repaired, and get the cows out of that field.” Another nod. “I’ll come find you in a few days. I look forward to good news, okay?” Ethan gave one more pat on his shoulder before he turned and headed towards me. Behind him, Geordie didn’t move. “Ferdinand, sorry about that.” A wide smile had returned to his face. “Joys of my life these days, always another problem.” He placed a hand on my back and spun me around with him, pointing us to the entrance. “I heard you wanted me to go down the mine with you?” “Yes.” He gestured something to a nearby helper who ran off towards one of the tents. “We’re trying to expand, but the rocks suddenly changed. Harder. Ten times harder than anything we’ve seen” I nodded. “I remember you telling me when we arrived.” He tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Good memory.” “Do you have any idea what it’s made of?” I said, inspecting the hills around me for clues. What clues, I wasn’t sure. He grinned and shook his head. “It’s all rocks to me. I can tell you when a sow’s in heat, or the best time to butcher a calf. But down there, it’s just rocks.” The worker who had been dispatched to the tents returned with two lanterns. “But you know this stuff. Maybe you’ve seen this rock type before, got some ideas for how we can get through it.” “I was more into management,” I said nervously. “I’m no engineer. And we mostly did pit mining, so-” “Look. We’re farmers, and servants,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s probably something super simple. I’m not expecting you to be the best in The Archipelago, but you still know your shit. For us lot…” he pointed to himself and the staff around him. “If it ain’t got four legs and udders we don’t know what we’re looking at. You at least come have a look with me?” He nodded towards the crack in the hillside besides us. I gave a timid nod. “I can try.” “Excellent.” A worker rushed forward and began lighting the two lanterns. They were simple candles made of a string wick and tallow; oil lanterns or twisted cotton wicks were an industry still to reach the island. Lanterns lit, the weak flickering flame doing what it could, we entered into the mine. “We’re going to get in there, and you’re going to know this rock face and what to do with it immediately. I’m certain of it.” Ethan said, pointing down the slope ahead of us. The mine’s entrance was flush against an easterly facing cliff, and it only took a few paces for the candles to become our main source of light. The battling flames sucked out oxygen from the cramped air and I could smell the smoke. “Sorry we don’t have better lighting,” Ethan said, not letting the dimly lit path and smoke heed his pace. “We’re working on trying to get hold of lanterns, but the oil is expensive.” “It’s fine,” I said, stifling a cough as the fumes itched at the back of my throat. “Your miners can’t last long down here with this air though.” He shook his head. “There on short shifts. For every hour down here they get two outside to clear their lungs. I want to take care of them. But as I say, until we can afford the lanterns.” The path levelled out as we approached a sharp turn to the right. “Do you have bees here?” I asked. “As in beehives for honey?” Ethan squinted, his eyebrows meeting at the bridge. “Yes. Why?” “You can make candles from beeswax. They make much less smoke.” Ethan grinned wide, his teeth seemingly a source of light in themselves. “See! I knew you were an expert. Proven yourself already.” He patted my back hard, sending me and the candle stumbling forwards. I held out a hand against the wall to steady myself. It was cool, almost damp. “The miner’s will be singing songs about you at this rate. Now, let’s go see that rock.” We turned the corner to the sound of pickaxes in the mine below. As we reached the bottom, the path opened up to carved stacks like the aisles of a library. A cacophonic assortment of grated clinks and dull thuds rung out. The air was filled with dust, everything turned into a speckled haze. Looking down the shafts I could see where the coal had been mined out, the path ballooning out, leaving great gashes in the walls, ceiling and floors. “Th change in the rock is down this way,” Ethan shouted over the noise. A minute later the path reached an abrupt end. Where it should’ve continued was a solid wall of dark grey slate. The rock was lighter in colour, a soft ash color with pin pricks of white that almost seemed iridescent in the soft yellow light of the candles. The surface was peppered with small crags and cracks like soft, crinkled paper, and holding my hand up to the surface, I could feel the rough, grainy texture. Looking to my right, I could see where they had tried to dig around it. The tunnel stretched out, one side slowly closing in while the solid stone on the left refused to budge. The surface was bare, every grain of soil or dust, no doubt hammered off from the countless attempts to pick and chisel their way through. All the scratches, marks and grooves, showed progress had been hard and slow. “We’ve been trying to get through, but we’re making nothing better than tiny dents,” Ethan said, inspecting my face as I inspected the stone. “You seen this before?” I wanted to bring good news. I wanted to offer an easy solution. But, in reality, I was as lost as he was. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused for a second, then smiled. “Come on. I’m sure you’ve some idea.” I took a step back and tried to take in the whole thing. The change in perspective, perhaps inevitably, achieved nothing. “I really wish I did. Sorry.” “Damn it!” Ethan shouted, the cry echoing off every rock and wall around us. He turned away and stamped on a patch of dirt. “We need to get through this.” “I wish I could help,” I said, trying to catch his attention. “I… I can talk with some of the miners, talk about technique, or look at the picks, see if we can make some improvements.” “We need to get through this wall, Ferdinand.” Ethan pointed to the mass of dotted grey beside him. “I know. I’ve not seen stone like this. But…” I had no idea what help I could be. I knew no more about swinging and maintaining a pickax than a man who had spent months underground using one. I had no plan, and no miracle solution. Yet, I just felt a need to be the hero Ethan told me I was. I wanted to help the island, to help him. I wanted desperately to believe a solution could exist. So I did. “We’ll get through the rock. | 16,028 | 5 |
Collaboratively written by Samuel (incarcerated) and Magida. Fictional but inspired by true events — It had been a long week, and this was the perfect time to be sitting at the strip club discussing what had just happened. As the music plays and the girls are dancing, the guys are trying to shake off how close this weekend's loss could have been. “We should have been able to plan things a lot better than that. The information wasn't as viable as it should have been,” Pane says, looking over at Sure Shot. “We gotta get our girls to be a little more thorough about the type of details that they're getting, if we're gonna continue making real money.” Sure Shot’s pissed because of how sloppy K.O. and Sinner were the other night. Those guys, along with the information these girls gave them, really fucked them over. “30k ain't nothing when it's split between ten people. If we’re blowing money like this, and we're not putting it in the pot, how are we ever going to get our own business started? At the rate we’re going, we won’t be able to open up our own garage for years.” That’s when Raven; a dark, seductive, sassy, curly-haired, curvy dancer walks up to the guys with drinks in her hand and a smirk on her face, “What's got you guys so pissed off,” she says with sarcasm. Sure Shot snaps back, pointing a finger inches towards her face threateningly, “what do you mean? You know exactly what the fuck happened. You didn't tell us all the people that were going to be there. You left us hanging, and we almost got caught up. You and the girls don't deserve to get what you had coming.” With quickness, Raven throws tequila in Sure Shot’s face. The stinging in his eyes doesn’t stop him from his quick reaction as he snatches Raven by her hair. Pane jumps up, separating the two of them, before things get out of hand. “Cool it,” He whispers. Sure Shot has always been hot-headed, and it doesn’t take much to set him off. However, foolishness is his biggest pet peeve, and the way things went down the other night, Sure Shot knew he couldn’t let it go. At this point, people in the club start glancing over, looking curiously at what's going on. Pane pulls up a stool and directs Raven to sit down. “What the fuck happened? You said there were only gonna be three people. There was almost double that, and our guys could have seriously gotten hurt.” Raven mumbles under her breath, “I mean, we’ve been partying with the guys for weeks now, we gave you the info we had,” “Well, this is where the sloppiness of K.O. and Sinner also comes in. We can’t forget about those guys.” Sure Shot interrupts, “This was their responsibility, you guys all fell short. They were supposed to be scoping out the spot for at least a week. Come to find out, they only checked it out once or twice. We went in fucking blind.” While focusing on Raven’s demeanor, Pane adds, “That 30k that was supposed to be there, was only 10, and a couple pounds of work. So you three girls are gonna have to take a loss, same with K.O. and Sinner. You guys fucked up the information, so this 10k is going straight to the pot.” “Wait what? What do you mean? What the fuck. That’s not fair.” Raven hisses back at Pane, while avoiding eye contact with Sure Shot. “So hold up, let me finish.” Pane continues, “With the couple pounds of work we came up on, you mentioned you got another crew that might be balling. So, Raven, why don't you see what they got going, and see if you can hustle this work to them. And while you’re at it, find out what kind of come up we can make happen.” “Well, how does that solve our money shortage?” Raven asks, annoyed. Sure Shot interrupts her once again, ”Make a transaction with this, and we split that between us.” “Okay, let me make some contacts, and see what I can do. I'll talk to the other girls, and let's all get together in a couple days and discuss this next job.” Raven stares down at the floor, trying to make sense of what just happened. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing, you working or you socializing, get your ass on that stage.” The club owner shouts as he bursts through the back doors. Fat Man, he’s one greasy mother fucker. Always getting in the way. Sure Shot yells back at him, “We’re paying customers, don’t worry about what the fuck we’re doing with these bitches.” Fat Man scoffs, “Ya, you always pay, but I ain't never seen no money. Matter of fact, a payment on your credit is due.” As the night ends, Raven makes her way back home, staring out her window, waiting for Pane to come by. And as the sun comes up, the echoes of Pane’s bike finally rumble through the empty streets of Northeast Los Angeles, as he pulls into her driveway. Before getting off his bike, Pane fires off a page to the rest of the guys, “222” to let them know a meeting is scheduled at the club the following evening. Nearby on a dead end street, Sure Shot finds himself in bed with Sapphire and Jazmin from the club. And as he receives the page, he mentions to the girls “we all gotta meet up tonight.” —- Chapter 2 coming soon…. | 5,103 | 1 |
1/1/91 Status: Under Investigation Category: SN/ALF In June of 1812, French forces invaded Russia. Despite being led by the famed Napoleon Bonaparte, the Russians forced the French to exit as a defeated army. Napoleon left his men in the winter of 1812. Returning to France, the cold set in on his abandoned troops. 1,700 miles from Paris, Evidence(E) 37, "The Journal," was found in the wilderness of modern day Medynsky District, Russia. The local that found it, [REDACTED], initially turned E37 into local historians. Following the discovery of the site by historians, at the location given in "The Journal," local authorities were called. This is the best English transcription from the original French and Latin of E37: 12-19-1812 Me and 12 other men have lost our way. We know not where our peers have gone. The fog and the cold is brutal and obscuring. To stay outdoors searching for our army any longer would mean death. The Russians burned every village and stripped the country of anything it had. Command said we are 10 days from Paris but I feel this is an ignorant measure. We've found a village, mostly burnt, though enough remains to set camp this night. 12-20-1812 4 of our men are missing. We cannot abandon them, 2 of them are my sergeant's and corporal's brothers. We searched the surrounding woods to find nothing. With little food, many men are growing eager to leave the 4 behind. 12-21-1812 3 more men have now disappeared, the 6 of us remaining now question if desertion was the act. The theory would be disproved when we found 7 bodies strung up to high trees. They had been gutted like swine and stripped of all their clothing and equipment. We fear it may have been the Slavs and we are in danger, but our corporal ordered us to stay. He has been staring at the brutality of the scene for hours. He should be frozen, being so far from the fire, yet he glowed a healthy hue. 12-22-1812 I heard the Corporal mumbling through the night, I could clearly hear him chant, [REDACTED] 12-23-1812 I woke up and no one else remained. I am either abandoned or they met the fate of swine. I did not leave the side of the fire. 12-2- The fire is out. I stripped for I feel so warm. And lively, my home lies not far. I hear them scream. I am His son. 12-25 Rejoice [End of Text Document] E37 was found covered in unknown fluid inside of a fallen tree by a local resident, [REDACTED]. 13 men, sliced down their center abdomen. Naked. The carcasses, unaturally fresh for 180 years of decomposition, hanging from 2 different trees via a rusted chain. No sources point to any Russian presence being within 300 miles of this site in the month of December, 1812. After an autopsy report, the 13 victims' causes of deaths have been confirmed as: Aspiration Pneumonia caused by Alzheimer's Disease. Unknown bacteria lines the victims' digestive tracts. A weapon of war of this caliber at this time is unlikey. The locals claim it was satan. [REDACTED INFORMATION IS REMOVED FOR THE SAFETY OF THOSE INVOLVED IN ONGOING INVESTIGATIONS. | 3,109 | 1 |
This story is a culmination of all the things I have not been able to find in fiction. The things that grab onto my mind and refuse to let go. It is a an enigmatic world filled with strange happenings and little explanation as to why. The Traveler must seek understanding. 1 'Don't be long hun...' The Traveler awoke, grasping at the threads of a failing vision. Fleeting artifacts of a wavering emotion were replaced by emptiness. The dream was gone. For good. In a moment of calibration, he stared at the knot in a wooden board. The next moment, gripped by clear alarm. 'Where am I?' The surroundings alien. All he knew was that he was in a decrepit wooden shack, unable to remember anything about what had happened before that, although his faculties seemed in order. He had on a pair of heavily worn blue jeans, some plain square tip leather cowboy boots and an old duster jacket, dark gray. A black Panama hat laid on his chest. He knew the names of these items so apparently his knowledge of things remained, but he didn't recognize any of it as belonging to himself. He wasn't even sure of what type of clothes he would normally wear. He couldn't deny though, they had a certain familiarity. Snapping into full awareness, urgency took hold. He glanced around the room. There was a small wooden table to his right with a single drawer and the door to the outside was straight ahead. The wind whistled through the cracks in the boards. It was blowing like hell and there was no hint of sunshine peeking through, just a dim grayish glow. Walls baron. Just vertical wood slats all around. There was a thick layer of dust on everything, including the floor all the way to the door. That puzzled the Traveler, seeing as how he would've had to have walked in at some point. After laying there with his eyes wide and darting around the shack for a moment, he sat up and put the Panama on his head. A leather satchel laid in front of the door. The Traveler leaned over and picked up the bag. It was heavy. He pulled the flap back and looked inside. The first thing he noticed, a .45 revolver. Again, he knew what it was, but didn't know it to be his. Remaining contents of the bag were a wooden box of rounds, a large sheathed knife, flint, socks, 3 cans of beans, picture of him and a woman, and 20 silver dollars. He looked at the picture. The man had a thick mustache, which he could see on his own face. Must be me, handsome devil. The woman was an average blonde wearing a long dress and a bonnet. Not bad. He didn't recognize either of the two. Clearly that was him and his woman, but no bells were rung. He checked the silver dollars. They had a side profile of a woman, the year marked 1890. This knowledge changed nothing. Scanning the walls, he found a sentence carved into the aged lumber. "THIS IS THE REAL PLACE" Did I drink myself stupid? I feel fine, so not likely. He wasn't even sure if he was a drinker. The dust. The dust really threw him off. It didn't make no damn sense. Himself, and the blanket he was laying on, were totally free of it. Strange. Beyond strange. Standing up he tried to think. Nope. Couldn't recall a thing. He was just about to open the door to the great beyond when he noticed a rectangular outline on the table. It was a piece of paper. As he stepped towards the table the floor creaked loudly. KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! He froze in fear. Not sure why he was so afraid. But, he was. 'Who in the hell could that be?' There was no door handle, but there was a sliding latch that was in the locked position. The shadow of the visitor was visible, waning back and forth through the cracks. Something didn't look right with it. The silhouette was too skinny. Skinnier than a person, but just as tall as one. Reaching over, he picked up the note on the table. Dust particles exploded into the room. Immediately, a harsh sensation tickled his sinuses. A sneeze threatened, but he did not want to alert the visitor of his presence. Flexing every muscle in his head as tightly as humanly possible, his vision began to turn white as he flushed flushed with heat. The tickle would've won the battle had he not been petrified, but he held fast until he fought it off. 'Thank fuck' He wasn't prepared to find out who or what the shadow was until he got his bearings. Although, they probably heard the creaking floorboards. He couldn't take any chances. The shadow continued to sway in the breeze. Looking down at the piece of paper he quietly flipped it upside right, still making more of a racket than he would've liked. In perfect print the note said: "Your Time Is No More, No More Before, Look In The Drawer, Answer Death's Door" 'Oh Shit... Oh God.' He felt the cold and harsh grip of terror squeeze his heart like an icy vice. He didn't even want to fathom the meaning. But, he knew it wasn't good. "There better be something damn good in this drawer." He lamented under his breath, irritated KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! His body jolted like it had been electrocuted. His mind burst into utter chaos as he began shuttering. He had no memory, but he imagined that he had never been more disturbed in his life. His hand quivering, he reached out for the drawer handle. The drawer slid open with a dull scrape. Inside was a small wooden box about the size of an envelope. Shakily, he reached in and picked it up with both hands, then gingerly set it upon the table. He held it down with his left hand and grasped the top of it with his right. He opened the box. Inside the box was a large black key. It looked Victorian, or at least very old. He knew that much. Underneath it was a note. The note read: "There'll Be No Safe Passage, No Joy Ahead, Find The Black Obelisk, and Don't Lose Your Head." "Ob-el-isk?" He mouthed with deep despair. Feeling nothing but fear, melancholy, and apprehension, he placed the key in the chest pocket of his duster. Chagrined, chagrined to say the least. There was no other choice but to open the door. He'd have rather done anything in the world, but he had no plans to wither up and die in the shack, although that was on the table for a split second. "Who is it?" He said with faux confidence KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Shockwaves of electricity stormed through his chest. He grasped the latch handle tentatively and brought his face up to the crack of the door jamb. Bad idea. A small black eyeball blinked, inches away from his. He flinched violently, nearly collapsing in shock. "Traveler!" said a high pitched gravelly voice. "I think you've been in there long enough!" 'Was that... joy?' Gathering up every ounce of courage that existed within his being, he slid the latch back and opened the door. As the heavy wooden door squealed open, time seemed to crawl. The regret had sunken in before the motion was complete. His heart fell to the floor as the visitor came into view. "Oh yes, a fresh and untarnished Traveler!" howled the visitor, with a strange accent the Traveler didn't recognize. He was aghast as he laid eyes upon something that was not a man, nearly, but not quite a man. It had all of the features of man, compressed into an extraordinarily thin frame. Pointed shoulders no more than a foot across carried long skeletal arms. Naked head, pale and elongated. Pallid skin stretched taut over his sharp and jagged bones, showing the true structure of his skull. Eyes sunken, black beads. Greasy black holes shown on the sides of his head. Mouth frozen in a ghastly grin, full of sharp, cracked and broken teeth. A tattered loincloth, made from dirty rags, hung down to his haggard knees. "I have been waiting here for 3 darks, since the Sounding." The ghoul croaked, with a decidedly cheerful tone. His eyes glistened in the midnight glow. "I... uhh..." the Traveler's palms dripped beads of sweat. The visitor was smiling deeply, but his eyes told a tale of deep sorrow. Noticing this dropped the Traveler's guard ever so slightly. "It's been ages since I've seen a traveler." "Th-the... Sounding?" He stuttered, still paralyzed in terror. "Yes, whenever a new traveler arrives a there is a great racket, it comes from Above. Hail Above." He grasped two lengths of black wire that hung from his neck and jostled the bottles hanging from the ends. They looked like beer bottles, but they had holes cut for the wire. They were tightly packed with tufts of a dark colorless grass. Glancing over the hunched fiend's shoulder the Traveler saw a vision of desolation. Blackened and jagged crags jutted out from a bleak and dimly lit landscape of shallow rolling hills. Shaded by a multitude of grays and a sparse tinge of sepia. Charcoal brambles peppered the land as far as could be seen. The sky was dark. Barely any light emitted from the solid sheet of clouds. A place of starvation and despair. "What... Who are you?" The Traveler muttered The creature's grin faded. "Why, I am Shumpert, the Skinmin. And, who might you be? You're a Who-Man, I can see that much." He tilted his head as he plucked the Traveler's jacket. "I don't really.. " "Ah, I'm just twisting your veins, Traveler. I know travelers have no names. Everyone knows that." His lips came together for the first time and he nodded slightly. The man had never been more bewildered in all of his days. Had he gone mad? It was all too much to process. A pitch black, ever-changing geometric shape floated into view over a nearby hill, glistening by the faded light. It disappeared over the crest of the hill just as quickly as it had come. "What was that?" he uttered. Shumpert twisted at the hips and looked out into the gloom. "I see nothing." "There was a... a shape. It kept changing. I aint never seen nothing like it." "Strange things abound." He cackled and slapped the Traveler on the shoulder with a sinewy black-nailed hand. "I think it's best we start out." "Why do you say that?" He said worriedly "The Depraved roam, and the shiny eyes. We must get to my home, quickly." said Shumpert, darkening his expression. His sudden change of demeanor was distressing, not that the Traveler wasn't already distressed by his vile appearance. "Now just wait one minute, what in the fuck is going on here?" His eyebrows made a V. "You will know what is in my head. Travelers say this word much, 'fuck'. What is 'fuck'?" He questioned, furrowing his brow and tilting his skinny head. The Traveler would've laughed had he not been so disturbed. "It means a lot of things. Nothing good, usually." A look of grim concern frozen on his face. "You won't find much good here." The creature gestured into the plane of darkness, bottles clunking mutedly. The Traveler looked out into the new nightmare he had found himself in. Questioning his sanity. Questioning reality. 'What version of Hell is this? If I have no memories then what experiences am I drawing from to make decisions? Can I even trust myself?' He had no choice and He knew it. Shumpert was his only option. That, or find out what 'the Depraved' are, and he wasn't about to go and do that. His visage was absolutely horrifying, his presence utterly disturbing, but the Traveler didn't think he was dangerous. Although, he could've been luring him into his den to dismember him and eat his heart while it still beats. The thought brought pangs of paranoia into his psyche. That was something he was going to have to risk. He felt as if he was a good judge of character, but he also knew that he didn't really know himself at all. I have to make the assumption that I'm of at least a moderately discerning intellect. Maybe he was just trying to convince himself. "Alright, but I have a lot more questions." He said begrudgingly, "Which way we goin'?" Shumpert pointed towards the direction from which the morphing shape had been seen. "Due East." He pivoted on his left foot and did a sort of dancing spin. "Off we go." He cackled like a madman. The traveler was disquieted. So they set off. Due East. Shumpert led as they moved across the land, hurriedly. Each bone in his back protruded, like a wet burlap sack full of cast iron pans. There was a severe sense of urgency in the creature, but he wasn't in low spirits. His gait was a sort of galloping skip, giving the impression that he was may trip and fall on his face at any given moment. It may have been amusing if the Traveler wasn't in a state of existential terror. The ghoul mumbled a cheery tune as he went, the tone intensifying every time his left foot came down. "Hmm HMM hmm HMM, heh HEH heh HEH, hmm HMM hmmmm, HEH heh HEH heh" There was a certain levity to this... being. After he repeated the melody around 3 times, the Traveler thought he recognized the song. Couldn't recall the name or the words, but he knew the tune. "What's that song you're humming?" He glanced back towards the Traveler. "I don't know what they call it." His head bobbing from side to side as he skipped. "Well, where did you hear it?" "From a traveler, many Darks ago. He had a head cover like yours" He said with fondness. "Traveler?" "I have led many travelers across the Black Plains, that is what they call this place mostly, others call it Scrubland, or some call it nowhere." He grunted. His choice of words was intriguing to say the least. "Others?" "Oh yes, many before." They came over a crest and a far reaching expanse of decayed land was displayed. It was an immense swath. Massive organic appendanges reached through the cloud sheet and attached to the ground like tethers, maroon veins outstretched and rooting in the Earth. He could see 6 of them in a semicircle, about 100 ft. apart. The horizon was filled with an ominous range of dark mountains. Peaks pointed and steep. A fair distance ahead, a small grouping of strange building lined a shattered road. It was nothing like his idea of architecture. The structures where near-black and squared off, with no variation. Perfectly smooth squares, evenly spaced in a grid pattern. Windowless. Shumpert shimmied to a stop, apparently surveying the area. "Are the others like me? They can't remember anything?" "The transition takes your Mindsight." Shumpert answered. "Mindsight?" The Traveler said under his breath. Shumpert glanced back. "Your remembering, you'll get it back, or go mad." He answered. "Mad?" Dread washed over the Traveler. Turning away from the expanse, the ghoul faced the Traveler. A look of grave sincerity washed over his face. "This plane brings madness to a tender mind. Many travelers who came before you have been taken by the land." "Taken?" He blinked "Their heads, they lost them. You can lose your head here." His expression went blank as the two locked eyes. The still picture of his demon-like image reminded of the precarious situation. The stare had gone on for a moment too long when he snorted loudly and quickly turned back to galloping through the knee high colorless grass. A cheerful grunt accompanied his footfalls. Puzzling, worrying behavior. "You sure you ain't lost your mind?" The Traveler questioned. He burst out laughing with an animalistic high pitched sequence of noises, hushing himself abruptly. "We will reach my home shortly" Shumpert said nearly tripping over a dark bush. Having heard enough for the time being, the Traveler turned to his thoughts as they continued on. There was a shadow of longing. A remnant of emotion. 'Don't be long, hun...' that must be... my? I have not the slightest recollection. It gnawed at the back of his mind like a mouse chewing it's way through a wall. Ever so slight, yet incessant. That phrase repeated, over and over as he gazed off into the black ruins. What kind of godless people would make buildings like that? No kind of people I want to meet. The wreckage of some bygone battle spread abroad the fields behind the stygian buildings. Steel wagons of no kind the traveler had ever seen. Auburn sheets of metal burned through by the march of time. Indecipherable shreads of Amber and mahogany. Rubber treads strewn throughout could've been displaced only the day before. Shattered glass much the same. A dim glint moved between two square buildings. The traveler thought it looked like a round mirror. Shumpert noticed it immediately. "Down!" He whispered harshly They both dropped to the ground landing on hands and knees. The view was blocked by the top of a small hill. "What is it?" The Traveler whispered. Shumpert swung his head around swiftly, checking in all directions. "Shiny Eye." "What in the hell's that mean, man?" "The ancient ones made many machines. Some don't die. There's people in them. Worse than the Depraved." He crawled quickly to peek over the crest. Silence for a few seconds. "It's moving away. Hail Above. My home is close. We must be quiet and quick." He hopped up and landed in a crouch, greatly impressing the Traveler. They moved to the north, perpendicular to the crop of buildings. Staying low and nearly silent. They shortly came upon a makeshift door. A deep rock overhang bulged out of a cliffside. Large metal signs patched together with pipes and black cables formed a wall, creating an enclosure under the rock. Copper shown through the wire intermittently. God knows how many years of degradation had left only a few letters to be read on one of the signs: "...ERAL ANOMALY RES.....". The others bore symbols unlike anything the Traveler had ever laid eyes upon. Half-moons, triangles, faces, and intricate runes. The sign wall was slightly ajar, creating a thin doorway. "Inside." Shumpert commanded The Traveler balked. "I don't like the way this is going, demon." The Traveler had his hand on the .45 inside of the satchel. Shumpert scoffed. "I rescue you from a death trap in the midst of the hunting grounds, out of my own service to Aortus and this is the thanking I receive?" "You aim to kill me in that hole." He said sorta questioning, sorta telling. "Skinmin only kill what they eat, and I eat Sootgrass and Sisquermps. Are you a Sisquermp? You look far more like a Who-Man." He said emphatically. The Traveler locked eyes with the fiend. He read no dishonesty. Agitation, but no dishonesty. He also thought that if the gangly creature tried anything drastic he could easily break it's will. Letting his guard down, he gestured Shumpert to go inside. Shumpert scurried into the hole and the man followed. Pitch black other than the faded light emitting from the sky. Shumpert ran to the back of the cavern and grabbed something. A shuffling and and the sound of something being stretched tight as the door clambered tightly against the stone. Dead silence. Needles adorned the travelers body as the tension rose swiftly. More shuffling... And a click, as a powerful light flared vibrantly, filling the room and blinding the traveler. He raised the arm that wasn't in the satchel to shadow his eyes. Under his sleeve he saw Shumpert holding something. What kind of lamp is this? 2 The Traveler slowly let his arm down as his eyes adjusted. Shumpert's devilish grin floated bodiless above the light, giving the Traveler the intense notion to escape the room at once. Escape at all costs. Yet, the enigmatic landscape outside evoked an even deeper sense of foreboding, advising him to remain still. The ghoul stared into his eyes, smiling like a madman. The air was thick, smelling dank and earthy. Large purple and white mushrooms grew out of the cracks in every reach of the cave. His finger faintly touched the trigger as he pointed it through the bag. Silence. "Welcome to my abode Traveler, make yourself at home." Shumpert said cheerily. The Traveler swallowed and exhaled the breath he had been holding since the door shut. Taking a few seconds to breathe and regain his composure, he examined the cave. Rock walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of signage. Strange fonts and the application too precise. One read: 'HANDICAP PARKING ONLY' A pile of dirty blankets imprinted with the silhouette of a body in the fetal position lay by his feet. Like a dog's bed. The strange bottles from Shumpert's neck were stacked in a three-dimensional Pyramid at the back of the cavern, some full of the black grass, sootgrass. That took some skill. A pile of small bones lay next to it, picked clean. Sisquermps. There was an old beat up wooden table pushed up against the wall to the Traveler's left. Shumpert sat his light on the table facing towards the ceiling, giving the entire space dim visibility. "What kind of lamp is that?" The Traveler questioned. "It is like your blood tube but it holds fire within. Many treasures, many treasures." He turned the light toward a rock shelf holding many different devices that the traveler did not understand nor recognize. Green lights poked through the darkness from a few of them. Mostly metallic, some black, some gray. Cylinders. Spheres. Wheels. Cubes. And shapes unknown. "I find treasure in the ruins. The Eldens left us many things. Here, Look at this one." He reached up into the shelf and brought down a metallic cube. It fit into the palm of his pale hand. No margins, no markings. Pressing his thumb into one side, there was a loud beep. A frantic voice spoke from the cube. "Why do you keep calling us? We've been trapped down here for years and you torment us night after night. What kind of monster are you?..." Shumpert arched his eyebrows and let out a hearty chuckle. "...the children are so thin. The mushrooms aren't growing back fast enough..." The cube pleaded. He sat the cube back up on the shelf. "It says something different every night." The Traveler furrowed his brow. "Man, are you sure those aren't real people on the other side of that thing? Sounded pretty real to me." Shumpert grinned, waved his hand, and reached for another curiosity. He brought down a flat black rectangle and handed it to the Traveler. It had no discernable markings or function. There were three buttons on the side and an open entry on the bottom. The man lifted it in the air and turned it back and forth, scrutinizing it. "Shumpert. Am I dead?" He said flatly. The being raised his palms upwards in a gesture of ambivalence. "Press upon your blood pump." Placing his palm on his own chest. The Traveler did so, and felt a pulse. Not sure if he should be relieved or terrified. "The Spirit Above still speaks through your flesh. Aortus awaits you." "Spirit Above? You mean God?" The Traveler questioned. Shumpert abruptly sat on the floor with his legs crossed. He stretched his arm, flattened his palm, and pointed it directly upwards. "The Sky Heart is a vessel of the Spirit Above, sent here to cleanse the wicked Elden Ones. The Elden Ones tried to change the Creation and corrupted it instead." He broke off into a melodic chant "Between the scrapers there stands alike, A kindred sight to steal the light, The ancient one's demise was wrought, By the gift the sky heart brought..." The Traveler gazed with wide eyes. "The Obelisk?" "I do not know this word." "Shit, where is the Sky Heart?" Shumpert pursed his lips. "With the Scrapers." He said blankly, "The Sky Heart calls you to this world. You must seek it." I hit my damn head. This is one of them deliriums. I'm in a coma, clinging to life and this is the nightmare my brain has come up with. "Why can't I remember anything?" "Travelers must bear through the maddening to find their mind sight. Most lose their grip. Sky heart purges the feeble. Only ones with much vigor escape the mind filter. Hail Above." Shumpert pointed both palms directly upwards and began to rock back and forth. "Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum..." "Shumpert." "Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum..." The chanting became louder. "Shumpert." The Traveler pleaded "Cor Maum Caelum, Cor Maum Caelum..." the chant had become a roar. The man was becoming very uncomfortable, bridging on terror. Shumpert was rocking so hard that his face was almost touching the ground in his forward motion. In deep trance. The man looked at the device used to secure the door in hopes of escaping this display of zealotry. Wires of all sizes were attached to the different bars and beams of the door, braided together forming a giant rope. The rope wrapped around a vertical outcropping of stone. There was a thick branch through the end of the rope that had been twisted around the outcropping and lodged between it and the wall. He grabbed the branch and tried to pull it back to get enough slack to release the door. "COR MAUM CAELUM, COR MAUM CAELUM!" The creature was shrieking the words raucously. The branch would not budge. Dread hit the Traveler as he realized that this frenetic monster must be leagues stronger than himself to have activated this device. God please save me from this demon. I will devote myself to you for the rest of my life if you please just save me. Oh God please, I need... The chanting stopped abruptly. Shumpert slowly lowered his arms into his lap and went still for a moment. The Traveler also went still. With bated breath, he waited. Not darimg to break the silence. The ghoul began standing without using his upper body. His legs unscissored autonomously as he stood upright. Facing away towards the door... he began snickering. At first it was nothing more than a chuckle, but it quickly became a deep and uproarious laughter. His shoulders bounced up and down as he gasped for breath in between silent convulsions of jubilee. He slowly rotated back to face the Traveler. The look on the man's face was one of sheer bafflement. "What have you just done, demon?" He said quizzically, totally confused and a little scared. "Just twisting your veins." He said with a smirk. The Traveler squinted incredulously, tilted his head, and stared at Shumpert. "Man, you have a real unique sense of humor don't ya?" Shumpert shrugged and picked up a bottle of murky liquid. "Drink?" The man studied the bottle. It was disgusting. Cloudy and gray. But, he was quite parched. "Where did you find that?" "Creek nearby. Why I live in this cave. There's findogs in it too." Making a swimming motion with his hand. He looked at it one more time and took the bottle. "What kinda glass is this?" "It's a kolla bottle." "You mean cola?" Shumpert shrugged and pointed to the raised letters on the bottle. It read: 'Coca-Cola' The Traveler felt his tongue sticking to the back of his throat. He hadn't drank anything for a very long time as far as he could tell. The gray liquid was a sketchy proposition, but he knew he needed water. Taking a deep breath and glancing up at the rock ceiling, he said a silent prayer to himself, tipped his head back, and poured the water into his mouth. The taste was salty, yet also... refreshing. Far better than he had expected, but the cloudiness still threatened to activate his gag reflex. He forced himself to finish the bottle. Tilting his head with surprised gratefulness, he handed the bottle back to Shumpert. "I've had worse." "You won't find drink this clear for many fathoms all around." Shumpert explained, "all dried up, it is." "Where are we, Shumpert?" The Traveler asked flatly. Shumpert sat the bottle on the table and raised his palms. "The Creation, of course. Where else would we be?" The man scoffed. "Why are you helping me?" "The sky heart seeks a redeemer, one to breathe life back into the creation, one to rectify the corruption. One will come from the Aether, as did the sky heart, and banish the Decayers." The Traveler took his hat off his head and ran his fingers through his hair. A ping of homesickness shot through his body. "That is..." He raised a hand in bewilderment. "I don't know about all that man, I'm just trying to find out where my home is and how to get there. This is unbelievable. I know I'm supposed to be somewhere else. Somebody is out there waiting for me. I just don't know who." He put his Panama hat back on. The ghoul raised his eyebrows in understanding. Slightly nodding his head. "So it is told, the reluctant liberator will cleanse our corrupted plane." The Traveler felt a powerful, nameless emotion. The absolute need to take action. What that action was, was another story. "What now, then?" "We stay here until Light. Then we move." "Move where?" "I can take you to the Valley, the Pub, or Haven." Shumpert explained. The Traveler felt a glimmer of hope realizing that there was at least a path to get started on. "What is the Pub?" "It is a place where Who-Man drink and laugh. Those inside never leave once they go in. I do not know why." "And Haven?" "It is a remnant of the past. They don't let me in. They don't like me. They call me 'Freaker'." Shumpert said dejectedly The Traveler wanted to find another person like himself. Somebody who knew what was going on. Somebody who could help him figure something out, anything. "Are there others like me?" Shumpert nodded his head slowly. "I guided the last Traveler, before you, to the Pub. He was not the Redeemer. Oh no, not at all. He said 'fuck' many times. He was mighty mean. He did not want to listen to Shumpert. Oh, no. He is there, and others." "I must speak with this man." Blurted the Traveler. "If so you wish. We will go when the Dark is gone." Shumpert meandered past the man to the pile of bones in the corner. He crouched down and studied the heap. They were all very similar in size. Obviously from many of the same creature. He picked up a particularly white specimen and examined it meticulously. "Sisquermps?" Asked the man. Shumpert quickly turned his head locking eyes with the man. A wild look of inquisition on his face. Fear jolted through the Traveler's chest, still unable to get a good read on the situation. "How do you know this?" He said sharply, holding his gaze. "You... you said earlier. You only eat Sootgrass and Sisquermps." Dread coated his voice. Shumpert swiftly raised his eyebrows and showed his gnarled teeth in a ghastly grin. "So I did. So I did." He brought the bone into his mouth and snapped it off with a bright crunch. He then proceeded to chew it into bits with great grinding chomps. "Aaaaagghhh!" Shumpert quickly brought his hand to his pallid cheek. "Why must it hurt so much? It didn't used to hurt before! I can't have the slightest comforts in this unholy place!" What are you? The Traveler thought. No man of my world. No man of God. Shumpert aggressively threw the rest of the bone back into the pile and walked towards the door. "You can set your blanket by the bone treats. I have extra cloth if you would like." The man glanced at the putrid pile of cloths in different stages of decay. He felt his stomach about to revolt. "Oh no, I'm quite alright thank you Shumpert." He said assuredly . Picking his blanket up off the ground he walked the ten steps to the bone pile. With a slight kicking motion, he cleared the loose bones from the area that would be his bed. The ground a fairly smooth sheet of solid rock. Only a few dips and bumps. Should be a lovely sleep. Flipping his blanket up into the air, it came down perfectly, creating a boneside resting place. How quaint. He sat down and opened his satchel. Beans, beans, the magical fruit. Hopefully ghouls aren't easily offended. Pulled the tab, peeled back the lid, and folded the lid to create a makeshift spoon. The beans were bland and absolutely delicious. It didn't take long to make them disappear. One can down, two to go. He could've eaten them all, but figured that there would be a rationing issue in the near future, unless he was ready to eat Sootgrass and Sisquermps. That would have to wait until ravenous hunger had taken a firm hold. Shumpert picked the curious lamp up off of the table and sat down on his cloth pile. With legs crossed he recited the same words he had so maddeningly chanted earlier. "Cor Maum Caellum." But only once. There was a click. And total darkness. Then sounds of rustling fabric as the two found their comfortable sleeping positions in opposite ends of the hollow. There were rocks jabbing and poking the Traveler as he attempted to put the paranoid thoughts to rest. This demon will kill me in my sleep. This is insane. I'm in hell. How could a man possibly sleep under these conditions. He thought he could smell the bone pile eking into his nostrils. His mind began to go blank as he saw faded visions of snow. And a... horse? And trees. The traveler slept.. 3 The head of a reddish brown horse bobbed up and down. It's black mane gently rustled with the beat of its steps. Great plumes of steam rushed out from its nostrils as it trudged forth. Snow piled up to its belly and it was still coming down in thick flakes, coating the pine trees that surrounded them on all sides. The Traveler realized that he knew the horse. It was his trustworthy Rojo. An old, yet stout, Blood Bay. Rojo had been with him for near a decade. Doing what, though? Obviously doing what a horse does. Riding. Working? What work would he have done with a horse? Nothing was coming to him, but he was nearly overjoyed with the welcome memory of his trusty companion. The good feeling didn't last long as he realized the severity of the situation. Rojo was struggling to push through the snow. Breaths rushed out with a crackle and back in with a wheezing gasp. The horse's muscles trembled violently as he fought to stay upright. The Traveler took his attention away from the horse to get a look at his surroundings. Nothing but pine trees and snow. They were on a slight incline, apparently heading up to a plateau noticeable by the horizon cutting off the view a short distance away. A chill shot through the man's chest as a brisk updraft cut through his coat. The air had a sharp bite. He guessed it was below zero. Far too cold for a ride in the woods. 'How the hell did we get out here in this shit?' The man licked at his mustache. His tounge nearly stuck to the solid ice it found hanging from his lip. Rojo was really struggling now. He had his nose as deep in the grindstone as it could possibly get, but he was losing the battle. His back heaved as his lungs vigorously worked to support failing muscles. The flat on the hill was only about ten steps up for the horse. Come on buddy. We just need to get a few more feet and we can take a break. The man feared his horse wouldn't be able to get back on his feet if he laid down on the hillside. He'd be lucky to get back up at all. They may just freeze to death if they stopped. But where were they going? Where were they at all? The Traveler found nothing in his mind. As if this was the only thing he had ever done. Rojo took a labored step and paused. His legs quivered. Fighting with every ounce of strength to stay standing. He was such a tough boy. He was doing so good. They just needed a few more steps and the man would clear out a spot for them to take a break on the flat ground and regain some energy. Rojo waned back and forth as his entire body quaked. His head hung down dipping into the deep snow, muffling his breath as he fought for more air. The horse lifted his right front leg to take another step and tripped forward as he lost power, collapsing to the ground and sending the Traveler face first into the fresh powder. Icy pain slapped his face and neck as he punched through the white barrier, his arms extended, bracing for a harsh impact. The snow didn't break his fall nearly as much as he thought it would. In fact, it barely lessened the jolt at all. He smashed into the ground with bright white sparks blinding his vision. He took an involuntary breath and inhaled snow, causing him to go into a coughing fit. Desperately trying to get his bearings, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. As the stars left his vision, all he could see was the pale blue light penetrating through to his resting place under the surface. This must be what drowning is like, he thought to himself in a moment of clarity. With what he thought was his everything, he burst through to the sharp, cutting Winter air, taking a breath that seemed to slice its way down into his lungs. He turned to look for his horse. There was an oblong hole in the snow where the animal had fallen. A patch of brown red hair could be seen underneath the white. The man stumbled towards the impression, nearly losing his footing and plummeting right into it. Rojo was down and he wasn't breathing. The traveler cried out in anguish as he realized his good old buddy had taken his last ride. He didn't want to do it, but he reached down and dislodged the riding blanket from underneath his horse. He would need it if he was to have any chance at survival. Throwing the snow-covered blanket over his shoulders, he angled for the plateau just a few feet ahead. His leather satchel bumped against his hip as he took his first arduous step. The heavy steel of his revolver offered no great comfort as the feeling would usually bring. Having been so intently focused on his horse, he hadn't noticed that he too was completely drained of energy. How long had they been out here? Why had they been out here? Hunting. They had been hunting deer. It was no ordinary hunting excursion, he knew that much. This was an extremely important hunt. For what reason it was so important, he did not know. And, he did not care, for he was at Death's Door and he was about to knock. The snow was at his hips. Each step forced snow under his coat and through the buttons of his shirt underneath. Not much was felt in the way of pain, because his skin had become completely numb. His mind was in chaos. Fear gripped him like the cold had seeped into his veins. Not much chance of making it out of this one. So what if he reached the plateau? He was simply going to collapse and die from exposure. He knew he was at the end of his rope. Yet, that ever incessant human will to live powered him forward. It must've been sheer will, for there was nothing else left. Legs somehow powered on stubborn perseverance, he reached the crest. An inkling of hope brushed against his despair as the horizon gave way to... more trees. And more snow. His heart dropped for what he thought might be the last time. That supernatural will to survive seemed to erode. Leaning against the tough bark of a skeletal tree, he dropped his head to mine the depths of his mind for something, anything. There was nothing. This was it. Pines sheathed in fresh powder were the only thing visible as far as could be seen. Layer upon layer of hopelessness. At least it was beautiful, he thought to himself. The cold had moved past pain to total numbness and he felt something else. He thought he was beginning to feel warmth trickling down his chest. What a blessing. Whoever it was watching over him had sent warmth, just when he needed it most. Maybe it wasn't so bad. He had the trees to look at, after all. He had always loved pine trees. Something about them had always struck deep comfort into his heart. Not sure why, but they just seemed to exude peace. Everlasting peace. | 40,000 | 0 |
The Baked Chicken Steve opened the door for his wife, then lingered a moment to shake off the umbrella. Inside, they slowly unwrapped themselves from their funeral clothes. Dark heavy coats hung. Wet black scarves balled on the floor. Dripping shoes kicked off and scooted out of the doorway by damp feet. “Sarah, do you need anything?” he asked. “No.” she said. Sarah retreated to the bedroom without turning on any lights. Steve wandered into the kitchen and began rummaging around in a cabinet for coffee filters. He dumped the old coffee out, almost a full pot, then filled it again with water. Locating the small crumpled bag of coffee among all the dishes and other detritus covering the countertop, he opened it and shook some grounds into the filter. He set the filter in its place, poured the water in the back of the coffee maker, and hit start. The coffee timer startled him eight minutes later. He hadn’t moved from his spot in front of the counter, but he’d been somewhere else. He took two mugs down from the cabinet, and filled one almost to the brim. Leaving his mug on the counter, he left the kitchen and quietly crossed the house in his damp socks. He approached his bedroom door like a thief, and slowly opened it. The sound of two electric fans was all he heard from the darkness. He timidly stuck his head in. “I made coffee.” “No thanks.” He shut the door again, as gently as he’d opened it. She didn’t come out of the bedroom for the rest of the day. That night, when he’d decided to go to bed, he lay down next to her, and stared at the ceiling for a long time. He rolled over and wrapped his arms around her, but she made no movement in response. It felt like he was hugging a cement statue. He rolled away again. He couldn’t get comfortable. Every toss and turn felt magnified–he may as well have been jumping on the bed. Afraid, for some reason, to disturb her any further, he returned to the couch in the living room and finally fell asleep. He woke up sore and stiff early the next morning with the cat on his chest. He lay there a moment, debating whether he should lift the cat off of him, or just roll her off in a single, efficient motion. The dog resolved his dilemma by barking its deep, thunderous bark at the back door, waking and terrifying the cat at once. The cat sunk its claws into his chest before leaping to the floor. He regretted taking his shirt off in the middle of the night. Wincing, he wiped at a few pinpricks of blood, then remembered his wife was probably still asleep in their bed. If she’d slept at all. He entered the bedroom gently again. “You awake?” he softly asked the darkness. “Yes,” it responded. “Did you sleep at all?” “Not much.” “You gonna try to work today?” “No.” He pulled the door closed behind him and crossed the room with his hands out, feeling for the closet door. When he found it, he opened it, swung himself inside, and closed it softly all in a single movement. Only then did he turn on the light. He wiped at his chest one more time, dressed noiselessly, then snapped the light back off. He was out of the closet in another movement. “I have some things to take care of at work. Just a few. Then I’ll be back. Text me if you need anything ok?” “Ok.” He was back by lunch time with some sandwiches and soup from the deli down the street. He set the paper bags and his keys down on the kitchen table and kicked off his shoes. Then he hunched over the table, palms flat and arms straight, and stared at the food he’d brought in. Plates, he eventually decided, after the bags had begun to blur together and he finally blinked. He needed plates. Easy to turn down the offer of food. Harder to reject a plate that’s already in your lap. He pulled two plates from the cabinet, and laid her sandwich out, next to the paper cup of potato soup and the plastic spoon from the deli. He did the same with his own. Balancing her plate in one hand, he entered the dark bedroom again. “I’m gonna turn on the lights,” he said. “No, don't!” she said. He flipped the lights on. She pulled the heavy blankets over her face. “I brought you food from Jaque’s. You haven’t eaten since at least Monday. You need to eat. The nurse told you three times before we left. Soft bland foods.” “I’m not hungry.” “I don’t believe that.” He sat down on the side of the bed and rested the plate in his lap. “I’m not,” she insisted. “Turn off the light on your way out.” Steve sat there on the bed for a moment, looking at the body-shaped mound of blankets where Sarah once again lay motionless under the covers. There were a lot of things he thought he should say, but he didn’t say any of them. He lifted the plate from his lap and set it on the nightstand. “Your food’s here if you get hungry. Let me know if you need me to heat it up.” He turned off the light. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, he heard Sarah say something. “What was that?” he said, sticking his head back into the darkness. “I said, if you’re so hungry, why don’t you have some baked chicken?” Her words hung in the darkness for a second, and then the silence returned and sat on her chest. It sat for what felt like an hour. Sarah shifted her body on its side, then peered out from under the blankets. She couldn’t see anything. “Are you still in here, Steve?” she whispered. No sound came in response. Instead the bedroom door swung open, releasing a torrent of light into the room. Sarah reflexively raised her hand to shield her eyes, and in that moment Steve flipped the lights on. “Ah, what are you doing?” she groaned in protest.. She covered her face with the blankets again. She heard the mattress creak and felt her body shit as Steve sat down next to her again. “Let’s talk.” he said. He reached over and gently but firmly pulled the blankets down, revealing Sarah’s torso in an old college sweatshirt. She rolled away from him, toward the wall. “I don’t want to talk.” she said. “I think you do.” “I don’t.” “You’re upset about something.” “I killed my mom. Of course I’m upset.” “I don’t think this is only about that.” he said. Then he added “And you didn’t kill your mom. It was an accident. Everybody got sick.” “Everybody but you!” Sarah shouted. She whipped her body around suddenly to face Steve. Her tone and her eyes were accusatory. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “Everybody who ate my chicken got super sick. Hospital sick. My parents, my brother and his fiance. Me. The minister. Even the fucking dog. But not you.” “Did you want me to get sick too?” he asked calmly. “What I want is for you not to lie to my face.” she said. Her words were coming fast and unrestrained. “You said my chicken was amazing. You said I’d outdone myself. That it was better than your mom’s. Right in front of my whole family. And it’s pretty obvious by now that you didn’t even taste it. And I was so proud of myself for a moment.” She rolled away from him again, but didn’t cover her face this time. The silence was back. But this time it sat between them like a stone statue. | 7,088 | 2 |
We’re corralled into the grotto, herded through a transparent glass tube which lends a view of the ocean surrounding us. Chrysalis lackeys lead us down a walkway, until our bare feet meet the rocky floors of an underwater cavern. At the maw of this cave, we’re provided pickaxes, lights, and buckets for collecting minerals. After we’re equipped, the overseers send us off to work for the day. We call it the Pit. Trying to put into words the oppressive despair of this place weighs heavy on me. For sixteen hours a day, the human race lives and dies in these tunnels. Workers ride rickety elevators to dark depths, spelunking in servitude of our slavers. Many meet their end losing their footing, or being crushed under falling stalactites. Down here, we bust our bones on elemental geodes and quartz clusters. Grime stained hands sift through gravel granules, while hearts break into unsalvageable stone shards. With each passing day, our humanity escapes us, lost somewhere in the crystallized fractals of broken gemstones. There’s a silver lining. Sexes aren’t separated in the mines, so Marjorie and I use this opportunity to communicate. We join each other on the lift, where I ask her how she’s feeling today. “Fantastic”, she quips, pelting me with a smug smirk. This is obviously sarcasm, but I don’t blame her for being short with me. The Chrysalis forbid conversation beyond strategizing labor, so exchanges are brief. She sneakily taps a pattern on my arm. It’s Morse code for “paper”. “As expected”, I playfully retorted. Talking to her raises my spirits, even in this hell hole. I’m hoping for an uneventful time today. With us on this descent is Fish, a lanky guy with an engineering degree, and Zara, a newly bereaved mother. Zara lost her son in a painfully traumatizing experience. The Chrysalis forced him to explore a tiny cave segment which required much squeezing to access. After some time, he became stuck upside down, unable to move. Our captors deemed him a lost cause, and abandoned the operation. His screams echoed through the cavernous dark for days, with Zara’s cries joining in, a dissonant chorus. Eventually, they died down, as his inverted corpse quietly settled into its limestone coffin. She hasn’t been very talkative since. After sixteen grueling hours, our day is finished. This go around in the Pit is uneventful, a relief considering the usual strife we endure. We’re led back to the platform to take us back to the facility. As the elevator ascends, Marjorie slyly grabs my hand. In her calloused palm, I feel a tightly folded piece of paper. She transfers it to me, and I tap her a playful message. Ty loser. Her response is a swift punch to my arm. Ouch. Message received, don’t need a secret language for that. I squeeze her hand, and she smiles at me as we’re led out of the Pit for the day. Dinner is quickly served in a monochrome cafeteria, and we’re sent back to our sleeping quarters. I spend some time shuffling atop my vinyl mat, until the coast is clear. Opening the paper from Marjorie reveals schematics for a makeshift breathing device. These blueprints are part of a series of steps in a grand scheme. In collaboration with our most cunning and skilled comrades, we’re arranging plans to escape. It won’t be easy; coordinating communication for such an effort has proven vastly difficult. Still, the passion Marjorie and I feel for each other, and our dreams of freedom, drive us on and inspire others to the cause. I believe love is the most powerful force in the world, and through it, we will be liberated. Our spirits will soar; up through murky waters and shifting tides, until skin touches sand, lungs breathe crisp air, and humans roam the Earth once again. | 3,735 | 2 |
The buzz and rattle of the ship’s hull against his head woke Cooper as the vibration began to slow. He sat up in his booster seat and tried his best to stretch his legs while still strapped in. They must have been nearing their target, looking out of the cockpit window this proved to be the case. The familiar scattered arcs of shimmering rainbow colors signifying near light speed travel were beginning to warble and distort. Cooper rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and scratched his unshaven chin. He looked over his shoulder to his partner for this mission, an older woman, maybe in her fifties, old enough to be his mother. Her short blonde hair, clearly cut to be out of the way, peeked out from under her helmet. She was somewhat short and plump, giving off a friendly sort of aura. She seemed homely, even in her standard issue jumpsuit; she certainly didn’t seem to be the type of person you normally met in the Elustrian Orbital Fleet. Most of his previous retrieval mission partners were typical military grunts, always complaining about being forced into the backline and cleaning up the real soldiers’ messes. Cooper was one of a few members of the fleet who regularly volunteered for retrieval missions. Never keeping the same partner for long, as a revolving door of excitable soldiers took their first opportunity to get onto the front line to play with the toys of the Empire. Squinting his eyes, he could see her ID tag. It read, “Daphne Athena”. Reaching over to jostle her shoulder, Cooper softly woke her. “We’re here.” The slowly turning field of debris hanging in space before them was a typical sight to Cooper. The shattered frames of what were once Elustrian and Agathian Empire war machines were now a mass of twisted metal, fluid, and flesh sprawling further than the eye could see. The result of a small clash over trading routes. Looking out over the scattered remains on the battlefield, he found it hard to believe that there had been a victor, never mind it being his side. He looked at his itinerary screen and looked over the objectives. “Our retrieval sector is 3882-K, so make sure to check your positioning when we’re out there—” He looked over to Athena and saw that she was still staring out the cockpit window seemingly absentmindedly. Upon snapping his fingers, she jolted back to the present and met his gaze. “Athena, please focus. Take a look at our goals and help me plan our route.” “Sorry, this is my first time on a mission like this. I’m normally riding a desk back in the Capital. I just didn’t expect it to be this— bad.” “It’s your first retrieval mission? Figures, most people do this job no more than they have to.” “I suppose that makes sense; I can see why people would want to avoid all this bloodshed.” She looked him up and down for a moment, his large frame seeming to almost drown out minimize her smaller figure. “Do you do this job often?” Cooper paused at this, and the conversation sat in silence for a moment too long. He cleared his throat. “I— volunteer for it somewhat frequently, yeah.” “Do you like it?” “Beats dying, I guess. But if you’re going to stop and stare at every piece of wreckage, you should probably just go back to your desk once you meet your required missions.” “I volunteered. They don’t force gals my age to do much physical work, I had to fight my superiors to get out here.” “You volunteered?! — Why?” “I don’t believe I have to tell you that, we’re partners for today, I’m not your soldier.” Cooper scoffed, who did she think she was to ask whatever she wanted but not answer his own questions. Trying to clear the air he changed the subject. “Anyway… we have three ships that last reported their location in our sector before they stopped transmitting their positioning signals. Two fighters, one cargo vessel. On those ships are five crew members, all presumed dead. And if you’re not going to listen to me, at least follow my lead rookie. I’ve done more of these missions than just about anyone else and I don’t want you to slow me down.” The two began dressing themselves in their Omnidirectional Mobility Suits. The airlock tensely silent. Locking in the last pieces of gear, they stood shoulder to shoulder in the airlock as the oxygen hissed away. An automated agendered voice spoke over the loudspeaker. “Airlock systems green, dismount at will.” Cooper fiddled with his astro-cartography wrist system as he walked towards the door release lever on the far side of the room. “I’m sending the route to you now. The first stop is at coordinates nine-one-six-eight-zero. Our scanners spotted the remains of one of our fighters, one probable casualty. It’ll be about a twenty-two second jump from here with half power on our OM suits.” “Ready when you are.” Cooper pulled the lever with both hands and the door began to open. As he leapt from the deck, Athena paused a moment and took a breath before following. The two of them drifted towards their first target as their OM suits occasionally pumped out jet streams to keep them on course and to avoid previously undetected pieces of debris as the scanners updated with new information. The two of them slowed as they neared their target, eventually halting a few feet from the still intact hatch. The rest of the ship wasn’t as lucky. Both thrusters and one of its wings were missing, nowhere to be seen. A gaping hole of jagged metal shot directly through what used to be the cockpit. Athena gulped. “Since this is the first one, I’ll show you the process.” Cooper’s suit directed him towards the side of the ship. He placed the retrieval key into the hatch, and it popped open. “Alright I’ll head inside to get the black box, you just wait out here.” “Uh-huh.” Athena said absentmindedly, still staring at the destroyed cockpit. Cooper slipped into the ship and made his way to the black box in the rear of the fighter, making sure to avoid floating shrapnel where he could. He reached the back of the ship, decoded the encryption safe and grabbed the black box. Upon reaching the hatch again he noticed that Athena was still looking at the wreckage of the cockpit, a concerned somberness in her eyes. “All finished up in here, let’s start moving to our next objective.” “But what about the pilot? We’re supposed to collect their remains for the family.” Cooper scoffed, “Can’t you see that gaping hole where a plasma blaster hit? You know, the one that goes all the way through the ship, and is filled with razor sharp metal? There’s clearly nothing to bring back, so unless you’re really into blood, gore, and getting yourself killed, we should get a move on.” “I thought you were supposed to be the best at these missions, yet you can’t even do the bare minimum! If we’re supposed to try to bring back a body, God damn it I’m going to try my best to bring back a body!” Attempting to put a hand on his face, but stopped by his helmet with a thunk, Cooper sighed. “If you really wanna check it out that bad… knock yourself out.” Face locked in a frown, Athena turned from him and moved towards the cockpit, careful to stay some distance from the side of the ship. Too close and there was real danger of damaging her suit. Coming alongside the open cockpit, she trepidatiously inched her way closer. Her eyes widened in horror. The cockpit was barely recognizable. Only some of the seat remained, a dark maroon covering the usual black upholstery. All the of the controls were missing except for a nearly destroyed panel blinking weakly on the port side. About to return to Cooper defeated, Athena noticed something floating near the back. Seeing Athena return without a body, Cooper couldn’t stop himself from smirking. “Like I said right? Complete waste of time.” Without saying a word Athena reached into one of her breast pockets and produced a finger. “What?” “You were wrong.” Flabbergasted, Cooper sputtered for the right words to say. “A- a finger! You mean to say you went through all that effort to bring back a finger? Who would even care about getting a finger back?” Athena tucked the finger back into her pocket and looked down at the map on her wrist. “Let’s start moving towards the next ship.” Cooper tried to push his negative thoughts away as they moved alongside one another in silence towards the next fighter. As they moved closer and it came into view, it became clear that this ship was in much better shape than the last. Cooper inserted his diagnostics plug into the service hatch. The display came to life as the holoscreen read out the issues with the spacecraft. “Huh, direct hit to life support. Nothing else seems to be damaged, we might be able to get a service crew out here to pick this one up and repair it. She might just fly again!” “Direct hit to life support… What happened to the pilot?” “Suffocated, probably. That’s what happens when you don’t get air.” “A person is dead right over there, please stop making light of this and focusing on the combat readiness of the ship! How would you feel if it was you who died?” “Pretty stupid, considering the death rate for people who willingly choose to fight for the fleet. Way I see it, these people are just signing their lives away.” “Will you just shut up!” “Jeez, if you care about dead people so much then you can take care of the body while I get the black box.” Cooper slipped into the hatch and moved towards the black box. He grabbed it, stashed it in his removable back holster, and took a moment to himself to try and calm down. Why was this woman grating on him more than any of his other partners? Why did she have to try and change things on her first mission? She needed to learn some respect. After a slow count to twenty, Cooper took a deep breath and reemerged from the hatch. As his eyes adjusted to the light, through squinted eyes he saw Athena cradling the dead pilot outside of the cockpit. He was bigger than her, but it couldn’t have been too hard to handle in zero gravity. He moved up to her and tried to break the ice. “Okay strap a tracker onto the dead guy so the return drones come back for ‘em then let’s get a move on; you’ve been slowing me down enough already.” “His name is Marcus” “What?” “It says his name is Marcus Wylt on his identification tag right in front of you, yet you insist on calling him ‘the dead guy’. He’s a person you know.” “Not anymore, he’s not. We are in the land of the living, Athena, and I will not waste my life fretting over people who aren’t around to care!” “You’re sick!” “Yeah? Well, you’re clearly not cut out for this job. Let’s just get ‘Marcus’ over here picked up, then we can do the final ship and never have to see each other again. You can go back to your desk, and I can go back to partners that know what their job is.” “Fine!” The return drone arrived shortly to pick up the body. Cooper and Athena once again travelled those short minutes in silence, for any conversation felt that it would explode into argument. “Two-hundred meters out. Can you see it yet?” Cooper had his eyes peeled in the direction on his map but couldn’t identify anything except for fragments of black metal and a couple discernable Agathian fighters. Nothing that he had to deal with. “There.” Athena blurted out. “It’s broken in two pieces, the back of the ship is about seven hundred meters from the front, behind the Agathian ship on the left, see?” Cooper squinted in the direction that Athena was pointing, and she was right. The front half of the vessel was in rather decent shape considering the circumstances while the generally more identifiable back of the ship looked like strewn Sheet metal falling through space from this distance. “How do you want to go about this one?” Sarcasm dripping from her voice, Athena said “You did say to follow your lead. I’ll let you take charge. What do you think we should do, Cooper?” He glanced at her, blinked twice and continued. “In that case, I’ve been getting the black boxes and you seem to like dead people a lot, so why don’t I try to figure out what’s going on in the back while you deal with the pilots?” “Sure. Sounds great to me.” Cooper changed his course and the two of them separated from each other until the other was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Cooper was about halfway to his target when Athena’s voice crackled into his ear. “I’m at the cockpit, entering now.” “Okay, good luck.” The rear end of the ship was in better shape than it seemed at a distance, it was mostly in one piece despite the flurry of flak that surrounded it. Upon entering the cargo hold, he saw one body freely floating through the wreckage and loose containers. A female crew member about his age. Her eyes sat softly closed and her long blonde hair swirled gently around her face. It was a miracle that an unsecured body stayed with the ship in the two days since the battle. Cooper thought she might even look peaceful. He would grab the black box first, then deal with the body. Approaching the encryption safe, his ear lit up with activity again. “First pilot cleared, retrieval drone ETA two minutes. I’m going back in for the other one.” “Copy that, grabbing the black box now” Cooper shook his head, she seemed to work faster when he wasn’t around. Maybe she was trying to slow him down? No, Athena might be stubborn, but she’s given him no reason to believe that she would intentionally sabotage him, she wasn’t a spy. Trying to clear his head, he focused his thoughts on the rest he would get once they completed clearing this ship. “All finished up over here, moving to your position.” Cooper reached for his wrist to respond. “Copy, I just found one body on my end, a female crewmember. Once I grab the black box, I’ll grab her and get out of here.” Cooper popped open the safe, grabbed the box and moved back into the cargo hold. Once he reached the floating crewmember, he gathered her into his arms and pulled her towards the opening where the ship broke in half. Looking towards the entrance, he once again heard Athena. “I’m outside. Do you need me to come in?” “No, that’s okay, coming out now with—" Glancing down at the floating body he noticed her name tag. Cooper’s heart froze. “Madison Athena.” The words poured out of him with little of a choice. “What!? I’m coming in.” Athena floated into the open wrecked ship and moved directly towards Madison; arms outstretched. She grabbed the body deep into her arms and gently caressed her face, brushing the blonde hair out of the girl’s eyes. “You never would cut it shorter.” Athena whispered to herself. “Daughter.” Was all Cooper could bring himself to say. It wasn’t even a question. “I’m so sorry, did you know— what happened to her?” “I said I volunteered for this mission, didn’t I?” She blurted out, choking back tears. All three of them sat still for a moment in the dark, silent sky. The only perceivable movement from the debris shifting around them. A tear rolled down Cooper’s cheek. Athena sobbed. | 15,426 | 1 |
Beneath a firmament of bleeding stardust, a pact of celestine prophecy unfolded. A crucible, forged prior to all known creation, awaited its baptism - a rite for dreams both perfect and grotesque. No coin nor mortal blood commanded the fate of this realm, but the unmet sacrifices of three ethereal Sisters: one of starlit heavens, one of earthen foundations, and one of unseen currents that bound the very aether. They spoke in riddles, their voices echoing through the void, demanding offerings for the crucible's awakening. Through tied tongues and primordial devotion this esoteric triad felt for the first time their thrones quake. All at once the Sisters set for their tokens, one of each an offer for the eternal crucible to remake existence anew. Of the triad, spoken quickest was Lenora, commandant to heralds and all tendrilous forms. Lenora spun earthly currents of wind and streams throughout this realm. Arterial pathways spread the secrets, dreams, and desires amongst all beings. Lenora’s will pulled the strings of man’s fate. Innumerable wars, plagues, miracles, and coups flowed from Lenora’s spindling web. Lenora resided in the primordial heart of the web, so ancient now her form and creation began to bleed into the other, now resembling a grotesque amalgamation of deity and transfusive discharge. Unable to move, Lenora’s spiderlings set out for a token, and in their return offered a conch. The opalized shell was set within the center of the crucible. But her offering stirred disquiet within the crucible, a tremor in the unseen currents. A premonition of sacrifice, a taste of the bitter end. The token entombed the once malignant dominion of Lenora, the divine seamstress, whose collapse facilitated an unraveling dependency and from it all kingdoms fell silent amidst the dilapidating realms. Lenora’s cavity no longer conjoined worldly elements, unraveling all of Lenora’s ancient knots. Amid the stars and all heavenly bodies reigned Liana, the celestial sage. Adorning nebular ornaments and woven supernova gowns, Liana conjured brilliance eternally. Her revelry spanned galaxies, decorating the universe with an unimaginable grandeur. Stars flecked from her gown. The heavenly bodies dearest to Liana were marked with the rings that bound her knuckles tight, contorting and bending her limbs in radiantly macabre positions. Chaos ensued following the absence of Lenora’s nomadic bindings. The unseen columns, godly and grandiose by design, began to erode beneath celestial infinity. The divine structures fell to the terrestrial plane and crushed the fetid world beneath. A ring constructed of the eldest firmament material would be the token of the sage Liana. As she placed her cherished ring aside her sister’s conch her domain began to suffocate. Celestial bodies began to throb in and out of existence as a pendulum would hasten its unwilling cycles. Furthest from the crucible were the first to extinguish, and Liana’s realm awaited a darkness encroaching without end. A voided shroud engulfed the sky and extinguished all godly rays that once pervaded below. The foundation shuddered, the very fabric of reality straining under the weight of their offerings. Then came Liora, the ostracized hermit, her form wreathed in shadows and whispers of plague. In the most devoid humors was She, even so the kindest, far more than that of her Sisters. Forced beneath the skin of the earth by the motives of her elder sisters, Liora’s chthonic cell was steeped in amniotic sentience. Souls of the born and unmade found their meandering way to Liora’s respite. Grotesque molds and fungi stained her face as a living mosaic grew upon her very skin. Vermin writhed and bore beneath her nails, and from each socket pooled a thick viscous ichor. All unwelcome in the terrestrial world found solace under the pestilent dominion of Liora. The kingdoms of man witnessed her influence uneasily, in rites and customs whose inevitability man so often ignored. Sheepishly to her sisters’ light, gravediggers and morticians devoted lifetimes in Liora’s name. Under bustling streets and markets, her prophets paid tribute to their godly idol. These prophets who wept Her name in shadows, hands bound by sweat stained cloth and gagged with wilted lily petals, fell to their knees and gave themselves to Her. The triad had fallen to one, the youngest sister Liora, of pestilence and rot who comforted all unbound souls. At least from cavernous cells the weight of her sisters’ spite withered and Liora rose to the crucible. For eons past Liora knew few treasures. She was clothed in rot and dressed in shadow. All that could be offered for the crucible was herself. The crucible filled with Liora’s pungent ichor, which bled now through rotting teeth and deflated eyes. Her obsidian offering dissolved the tokens from the other sisters. They bubbled and steamed as they drowned, releasing an odor of petrichor and decay. The ichor settled, consummating the acceptance of each Sister’s offering. The crucible burned with an unholy light, consuming the tokens before it and plunging the world into an abyss of silence. The markets smothered and beneath them the fallen prophets fell silent to a familiar eternity. Stars bled into the void, mountains crumbled, and only the chalice remained, cradling a single, enigmatic seed within its depths. A seed formed of dreams, born from sacrifice and destruction, waiting to germinate in the fertile darkness. In the emptiness there was silence, a bustling nothingness that seemed to swell and retreat as if a reflection of the oceanic waves it overtook. The nothing worked to permeate the chalice. To eagerly indoctrinate the seed into a cultic existence where nothing remained. Silence, vast and echoing, engulfed the world. All that remained was the seed, which dreamt of a reality beyond the vast nothingness, a world woven from forgotten memories and the whispers of lost gods. It dreamt of an infinite dance of chaos and order, a tapestry woven with the threads of all that was, is, and ever will be. A world as infinite until all that can be dreamt of has, and all that can be said will be, and every last perfect thing is broken and all broken things are fixed. Then this sprouted seed will bleed golden existence. | 6,340 | 1 |
​ Sinda didn't want to go home after today's blunder with her uncle - she wasn't really in the mood to talk about it. She landed atop one of the many caves around Hornslouse, looking back at the coliseum with a mix of thoughts. Of course, it was wrong for Khedeus to yell at his student in such a way, but the student was in the wrong, too - he went against what his teacher told him. If Sinda broke one of Mrs. Winnow's rules for acting, she'd probably have a similar reaction. But why did Khedeus threaten the boy's life because of an insult? Cumelo said it himself - demons solely communicate through them. Perhaps it was something more personal. Something… *Splat! - goes the furry imps!* *Splat! - goes the Creat!* Sinda cracked a smile upon hearing the familiar echoing singing. She nearly forgot about him. She slid onto the ground and found she was sitting right atop a butcher. She could see her breath as she walked inside - there must have been a dozen sapphires hanging from the ceiling. Pink, squishy slabs of meat lay on stone shelves across the store, with a familiar ghoul slicing them up on the front desk, his giant, glowing knife slicing in rhythm with the song. *Doesn't matter what they are,* *They sound the same as meat!* "Hello? Jeremiah?" Sinda waved her hand to get his attention. Jeremiah broke out of his song, smiling upon seeing her, still cutting. "Why, hello there, Sin-" His knife sliced down right onto his wrist as he spoke, completely cutting it in two. Sinda's jaw dropped. The two, reasonably, screamed as the hand leaked out ectoplasm from the cut. However, Jeremiah's scream quickly became a chuckle. Sinda looked at the ghost. Then, at his hand. She facepalmed. "Just messin' with ya!" Jeremiah giggled as he picked up his hand. "I lost all feelin' in this thing a long time ago." Sinda let out a hesitant giggle with him as Jeremiah screwed his hand back onto his wrist. "Anyways, welcome to the Ecto-Eatery!" Jeremiah phased through his counter. "The only butcher in Hornslouse that brings the afterlife to your plate!" Sinda forced a smile. Ironically, Jeremiah could see right through her. "Why the long face?" he asked, returning to cutting the meat behind the counter. "Luce told me you were gonna meet Mr. K this morning." *She did?* "It didn't go well." Sinda eventually responded, tucking her arms into the spare cloth on her toga. "He just left me behind to yell at one of his students." "So, in other words, it's Tuesday." Jeremiah giggled. He seemed to notice Sinda's lack of amusement, clearing his throat. "Listen here, little lady - Mr. K isn't much for the whole "emotion" thing. It's like talking to a brick wall. With a beard." Jeremiah explained, putting down his knife. "He's a good guy; he just doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve." That made her feel a little better. "Tell ya what, though - there IS something that makes him smile - hunting!" Sinda's eyes widened. "He likes the rush of it, and he's always got a grin on when he drops off his hunt here." Jeremiah continued. "Maybe you could join him next time he goes on one." Of course. The singular crime you could commit in Nimqual was her uncle's favorite hobby. Sinda wanted to be close with whatever blood family she had left, but was it worth bonding over murdering innocent creatures? She didn't know, yet a question escaped her lips. "When does he usually go on these hunts?" Jeremiah shrugged. "I dunno. Your mom would probably know, so - hey! Speak of the Deviless!" Sinda turned around and saw Lucy walk inside the butcher. She smiled. "There you are, Sinda!" Lucy grinned. She was holding a few slabs of meat, plopping them down on the counter. "Forgot to put these out for you last night." Lucy turned back to Sinda. "So? How'd it go?" Her face looked eager to hear her answer. She had two options. She could tell the truth - say to her mother's face that she thought her brother was a short-tempered sexist. Bad blood would probably arise between the three of them, and Khedeus would think his niece was nothing but some shy little girl who didn't even appreciate the culture of her own home. And who could blame him for thinking that? She fell for Marla's scam. She didn't know she could swim in lava. She didn't even remember if it was called a trident or a pitchfork. She knew nothing about her home. No wonder Edam died - he was trying to get away from her- "Sinda?" "Went great! Really, really great!" Sinda blurted out. "A-actually, he invited me to go hunting with him!" Lucy and Jeremiah's eyes widened as Sinda breathed heavily. *Please don't fall for it. Please don't fall for it. Please don't-* "That's…amazing, Sinda!" Lucy chuckled, rubbing Sinda's hair. "My brother's the best hunter in town! You're in for a real show." Sinda forced her best smile as she and Lucy walked out of the butcher. She looked behind her back to see Jeremiah sliding two pinched fingers across his lips like a zipper, smiling. Sinda let out a chuckle, almost laughing at herself. | 5,326 | 3 |
The steam rolled up from the sink and felt like little needles across her face. She was careful to keep the boiling water from splashing on the soft, almost clear, skin of the little child making cooing noises on her hip. In the other room she heard a familiar cry, “I want Mama. I want Mama! I want Maaaaaamaaaaaa!” She still needed to add the sauce to the pan and let the noodles cool in the colander. Where was Dad? The cooing turned into crowing and then soon a squawk. “I want Mama” was getting louder as the sound of the little barefoot heels striking the floorboards turned from a low rumble into an impending thunder that always precipitated tear drops. “Honey?” she shouted into the open house. “Daddy!” There was no response, but she wouldn’t have heard it if there was because now the crying and squawking were both in unison, directly beside her, one in a swaddle and wrapped around her waist and shoulder, the other standing at her feet pulling on her apron. The grease in the skillet was splattering on the backsplash now, and the little boy tugging her apron was getting close to having it splash on the back of his neck. “Honey, stay back from the oven.” “I am staying back from the oven!” “I meant the stove top. Stay back from the stove!” “You said oven!” She shuffled over to the propane burners and stirred the ground beef in the skillet, then placed a lid on it, trapping the heat and the grease and the steam. “Mommy, can you pick me up?” “Not now dear. Go find Daddy, please.” “I don’t want to go—" he screamed and stomped. The man with the flannel shirt walked in and said with a laugh, “what is going on in here?” He took the boy clinging to the apron and carried him to the dining room. He set out napkins and plates and forks, and smelled the garlic and the butter. “Smells like it’s burning,” he said. She rushed over to the oven, opened the door and turned on the exhaust fan. “Well, dinner’s burnt!” she said with the energy of someone who had just dropped a casserole dish on the floor. The ladle fell on the floor and struck the little boy’s pinky toe. “It hurt!” he shouted. The noodles and meat and sauce and garlic bread all came together at the table and they stood behind their wooden chairs, the mother still holding the baby and the man in the flannel shirt holding the older child. The squawker continued to squawk as the man clasped his hands together and offered thanks for his family and his dinner and the roof over his head and the burnt garlic bread. Once everyone was seated, the woman put little pieces of ground beef into the baby’s mouth, the flannel-shirted father spun noodles on his fork, and tranquility itself entered into the room. The house, for the first time in several hours, was quiet. The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly released it. The little boy who had been clinging to her apron just a few minutes before hovered his nose inches away from his little blue bowl that was perched on his little white tray in his little blue booster seat. He stared at the noodles and held his fork like a dagger. He took an aggressive bite and chewed. “It’s good,” he said, not looking up and nodding his head. He shoved another fork-load into his mouth, “It’s good. | 3,252 | 5 |
After a few years away from it, I recently returned to finish this story, originally titled 'The Trees Reach For Me.' It's only short. Just over 3,000 words. I'd be grateful for any impressions and feedback, and even more grateful to anyone that simply reads it. It's a love story set in Japan. **Excerpt to gauge your interest:** The painful sonata of cicadas in summer. Carnelian told me, one time or twice, that it reminded him of a taxi driver who'd ferried him home from a weekend's highest low. The small girl wore a hood that kept her face from the domino glow of late night streetlights and, later, the sweep of a city tunnel’s starlet eyes. He had never seen what she looked like, only heard her voice, and it was the sound, he thought, that a broken doll would make if it tried to sing. *Why did you love him like you did?* The sun tells my face not to worry and I listen. One time, he smacked his nephew for stamping on ants. One time, he took in a greyhound past its prime and got himself evicted to save it from being shot otherwise. One time, he sat with a baby bird that fell out of its nest. He read to it. Suzume’s elbows hold her sides and her camera hides between them. *Read? To it? A story.* The sun loses its way wondering if the shadows are all right. There are words for warmth that withers, here in Japan and few places else. *Taiyō ga deteirukedo samui,* Suzume says, peering under my creepers of hair, looking for me in the bright dark. *There is sun, but it is cold.* He wondered about the bird’s mother coming back with food and not finding it there. Her. A her, he imagined it was. He read to her until she couldn’t hear him. A story, you’re right. I called him Carnelian because of the colour and the shape of him and how he felt about things. Like the stone, Carnelian. A fire to burn down the world, a fire to warm it back to together again. All its little pieces were important to him, so he liked these. I hug the broken urn made more than it was by virtue of its fall. What did you call it again? *Kintsugi. Kintsukuroi, which is to heal something hurt with gold, silver.* Yes, that. *Why here? Japan. To be put here forever. Neither of you are, were Japanese.* I tapped at the kintsugi, empty with the fullness of its echo. Hard light from tōrō lanterns showing the way though it was the softest part of day. Because of things like your kintsugi, because. A small headstone cradled by the fraying shade of a keyaki. Ishi not yet a year old underneath a tree one hundred years or more: カーネリアン Suzume reads it in the reflection of my eyes, a single word dissolving in the stillness of a place where stopped clocks hang: *Kānerian,* but I am already speaking over her. | 3,019 | 2 |
Kairo's day began with the sun's soft caress on his face as he prepared breakfast for Alyse, crafting a culinary masterpiece of fruit and coffee. Dressed in a button-up shirt and linen pants with his blonde hair, blue eyes and light European skin, he exuded an air of elegance as he embarked on his daily bike ride. The routine was seemingly ordinary, yet it held the promise of spontaneity and adventure. In the heart of a picturesque Greek town, the morning sun cast a golden glow as Kairo pedaled through narrow cobblestone streets on his bike. The air buzzed with the lively energy of college kids, their laughter and shouts adding a vibrant touch to the scene. Kairo, a model whose routine usually unfolded in the tranquility of his Greek abode, shared his mornings with Alyse, a dancer preparing to leave for training during the time he would be out for the day. His journey meandered through familiar streets until it led him to a serene dock overlooking the azure waters of the Aegean Sea. The ferry to an enchanting Greek island stood as a beacon of adventure. Little did Kairo know that this ordinary morning would evolve into an extraordinary tale set against the backdrop of ancient ruins and crystal-clear seas. Entering the dock, he stumbled upon a karaoke session unfolding in front of an enthralled audience. A group of carefree guys, Jordan and Winny, caught his eye as they belted out tunes above the shimmering water. Intrigued by their infectious energy, Kairo, a stranger in the night, found himself invited to join their performance. Nervously stepping onto the makeshift stage, Kairo began to sing, the lyrics initially eluding him. The locals gathered around, creating an audience that transformed the dock into a sold-out hall overlooking the Aegean. The camaraderie of the crowd and the thrill of the moment fueled his determination. When he finally caught sight of the lyrics, he embraced the challenge, delivering a performance that resonated with the spirited night. As the night unfolded, Kairo found himself surrounded by newfound friends, the connection with Jordan and Winny deepening. Amidst the revelry, Kairo lost his sweater in the crowd. A lady offered to hold his bag while he searched for it, a seemingly helpful gesture that soon took an unexpected turn. Jordan and Winny, with a keen sense of caution, warned Kairo of the lady's intentions. Skeptical but heeding their advice, Kairo took back his bag, silently acknowledging the unspoken bond forming between the three of them. The night took an exhilarating turn when the trio, standing in a doorway overlooking the moonlit seascape, decided to catch the ferry to an enchanting Greek island. Rushing to the dock, the tide was out, presenting an unexpected challenge. The trio—Kairo, Jordan, and Winny—embarked on a race against time. As they sprinted towards the dock, the distant ferry became a goal that seemed both attainable and elusive, the moon casting a silver sheen on the journey. Arriving at the water's edge, the tide rushed in with unexpected force. In a burst of adrenaline, Kairo, Winny, and Jordan navigated the tumultuous waves, their laughter blending with the rhythmic splash of water. The moonlight shimmered on the surface as they struggled against the current, forging a bond that surpassed the ordinary friendships of everyday life. The breathless journey culminated in a daring leap onto the ferry, the trio grasping at ropes and defying gravity. The island lights, now closer, painted the scene with a warm glow. Kairo, Winny, and Jordan found themselves perched on the side of the boat, an exhilarating feat against the backdrop of the rising moon. As they settled into their perch, the strangers turned friends, the camaraderie became palpable. Laughter echoed across the boat as they realized the magnitude of the adventure they had stumbled upon. The ferry, sailing towards the Greek island, carried not just the trio but the echoes of an extraordinary night that would resonate in their memories amidst the timeless beauty of the Aegean. However, the joyous atmosphere took an unexpected turn when Jordan, amidst the friends' revelry, revealed the gravity of his new found illness. The news cast a shadow over the newfound camaraderie, forcing the trio to confront the fragility of life. | 4,331 | 1 |
This is a continuation to , both of which are self-contained and can be read in isolation. Enjoy. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ -Do you know who I am? -You’re the witch who eats naughty children. -Oh no, little one. That’s not what I do. -So you’re not eating me? -Maybe I will, it’s up to you. -Please! I’m not naughty, I’m a good girl! -I know you are, little one. Whoever told you about me got it backwards. Here, sit down, have some milk and a cookie. Let me tell you a story. There once was this Frogboy. Like all frogs, he never knew his mommy, born from an egg in a puddle not knowing who he was or what to do. The puddle grew and grew until it became a river and on the river grew kelp and moss, and came fish and birds, and the poor Frogboy, little as he was, had to hide under the rocks and among the kelp not to get eaten. Among the kelp and under the rocks, the Frogboy grew and grew, until he was big enough to eat the fish and scare the birds, but still, he was alone. One day, a little girl got in his river and the Frogboy watched, with his eyes above the water. She didn’t fly like the birds, or swan like the fish, instead she jumped, she played, she laughed. But the girl didn’t know of the storm upstream, and as the water flowed, it washed away the little girl. Now with his eyes under the water, the Frogboy swan and swan, until he reached the little girl, whom he pulled to the bank. As she came to herself, her eyes widened and widened, but when the Frogboy didn’t move, she just stood and walked home. On the next day, the little girl came by and sat beside the river. The Frogboy watched from the water, until he came out to meet her. There was a cloth in the girl’s hand, from which she revealed a piece of pie. Day after day, the girl brought another piece, and from her the Frogboy learned how to talk, from him the girl learned how to swim, and together they jumped, they played, they laughed. But her mom did see the always missing piece of pie, and when she told the daddy of the girl, he followed her up the river. Upon seeing the Frogboy, his big mouth and slimy skin, the man hushed to his girl, and beat until Frogboy was no more. -Why did her daddy do that? -People fear what they don’t understand, little one, and they protect what they know. When the daddy saw his girl in danger, he didn’t think and didn’t ponder, nor did he listen to her pleas. But the Frogboy didn’t die. As he was tossed on the river, the Frogboy took his final form. He was the spirit of the river, the one who sprouted in the puddle. Delighted with the kindness of children, he would let them swim and fish and play; but enraged by the cruelty of man, he would deny them all of his gifts. And as the grown ups parched and wither, they left orphans their little children, they wouldn’t swim, nor fish, nor play, but only cry beside the river. And as their tears salted the waters, so died the river spirit. -That’s such a sad story. -It can remain just a story, if you let me eat you and never meet the Frogboy. -So I am the girl from the story? Can’t I save the Frogboy? Can’t you? Why do I have to be eaten, if you know I did no wrong? -I’m sorry, little one, I really am, but it is not how this works. I am a mere girl who thought she could outsmart a demon, long, long ago. I can not change the nature of man, nor can I protect nature’s spirits, I can only ask you, if you’re willing, to save the people of your village. She took the last bite of the cookie. -So, little one, will you leave to meet your new friend or will you step into my cauldron? \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Tks for reading. If you liked and want to check what else wrote is a list of my stories with synopsis. | 4,248 | 2 |
I'm writing this in the hopes it can somehow get back to my family, but my hopes for that aren't too high. My name is Zack Bagens and If my family is seeing this, I love you and I'm sorry, especially to you Laura last we spoke we argued over something petty. I think deep down I knew I was wrong to accuse you like I did, but I was too childish to admit it, and that's why I stormed out. I think everyone probably wondered where I went after that. The truth is I still don't know. I was planning on walking to Laitens Lake and sitting at our favorite bench for a while before coming back, but I ended up getting chased by something when I escaped I found myself in an unfamiliar land, a city to be exact. But something is off with this place, Every building is a basic-looking skyscraper that goes up to an infinite height, each one identical to each other and perfectly spaced out in a grid-like system with a football-sized road separating them. But no cars to occupy them, no street lamps to light them up. Just a road and skyscraper you can walk the streets in one direction forever and never see the end, or you can climb the skyscrapers forever and never find the roof. To add to the eeriness of this place it was filled with a thick fog, not thick enough to hide the scale of this place but you couldn't see the sky or the horizon, and it wasn't night no it was day one of those foggy days where everything is gray. The first thing I tried was to go back the way I came, but I turned around and saw the infinite city spanning in that direction too. I immediately knew I was either dreaming, dead, or stepped into some twilight zone bullshit. I always carry a red lighter so left it on the floor so I know where I started. I began walking in one direction, I think I counted 54 blocks when had to stop because I got tired. Everything looked the same after. I got some energy back I did another 12 blacks then decided to go into one of the buildings. The interior is bland just empty rooms, no furniture, no decorations on the walls, not even a fire alarm just empty rooms with carpeted floors. I found the stairs at the back of the entrance, I went up 12 floors hoping to get a ley of the land. I looked out the window and the fog obstructed everything, I could barely see the streets and the closet building to me. I am pretty sure I had a panic attack after that and then passed out from both physical and mental exhaustion. when I awoke disappointed that this wasn't a dream, I decided to make my way down the building and into what should be the reception ready to get back out onto the streets. As I do I notice what looks like people walking in a straight line. some passed by my building and some across the street going in the opposite direction. I rush out and excitedly shout "Hello?" They all stop and slowly turn towards me struggling to do so. This is when I realize that they all look Identical they're all wearing black and scruffy suits, they have no hair, and their face, their wrinkled skin, sunken eyes, and a painfully wide smile from ear to ear. It looked like someone forced their mouths into that shape making their lips stretch as far as they could go. I quickly backed up into the building as they all stared at me. They don't move just stare which is arguably creepier. I run up a few floors, look out a window, and down at the street. I see that they just went back to their mindless stroll. I notice that each building has a group walking around it, never going anywhere just going around and around like ants following a path, like they're trying to give off the illusion of a busy city but it's a bad illusion. After that, I decided to keep traversing up the building I wasn't going back on the streets after that. I've been going up for I think 4 days now, I have no idea what floor I'm on I lost count around 300 something, but today I stopped. Every day I conquered fewer and fewer floors and today I could barely get up 6 before needing to stop, who new stairs would be the death of me. I walked into this room and found a notebook on the window with a pen how convenient. It's almost like this place nos that I'm done I have no steam left in me. The first 3 pages had stuff written in it but It's in a language I don't understand. I'm gonna guess it was someone writing the same thing I'm doing now my goodbyes. So here I am at the end, I think I will drop this at the bottom of the stairs when I'm done so if someone else gets trapped here they can find it sooner than I did, Maybe they can use what I learned in some way. Laura, I'm so sorry I love you, I love you, Dad, I love you, Mom, I love you, Emily, please know I love you all. There's something else out there it's happy it's chanting. My cheeks are starting to hurt. I can't see. I'm writing this in the hopes it can somehow get back to my family or the next person. My name is Kaile White... | 4,962 | 2 |
After sitting down in the President’s office, John Roland looked at the man for the first time. He had seen him from across the lawn before but had never got this close to him. The President asked him what his parents would say and John Roland really had no idea what his father would say, but he knew the look his mother would give him. He knew they certainly would feel a sting of disappointment and humiliation. The President informed him that although he did not know his father personally, he was very certain that he had and was making a great many sacrifices for him to attend school, that everybody enrolled was there due to the charity, generosity, and sacrifice of innumerable people who had donated their money to paying tuition, salaries, and expenses. John Roland vowed that he would not do it again. He vowed he would attend his classes and do his work and study hard. The President was not sure if this was true or not, but he expected his boys to be men, to behave as men, so he treated them as such. He nodded in ascent, then gripped the edge of the paper by his two forefingers and thumbs, and tore down the middle. He handed the two pieces to John Roland who now had tears in his eyes. He tried to stand up, but his legs were not prepared. Nevertheless, Mr. Roland insisted that they stand on their own—"like men,” as he would say many years later, and used his arm to brace himself on the President’s desk, forcing his two shaky legs to bear their weight. In doing so, the top of the President’s desk broke loose and his ink bottle fell over, running ink all over the remaining documents. This was the last time John Roland would see the President of the University. In six months he would be standing in the chapel, looking at the flag-draped box containing the man who had given him a second chance, letting the tears fall and land on his lapel. He never forgot what he had done for him, and he made it a point to let everybody who visited him know also. There was almost no way to not know, for hanging on the wall behind John Roland’s desk for the next sixty years, in a wooden frame, was the letter torn in half addressed to John Roland, Sr. informing him of his son’s proclivity for billiards and nightlife, and with a chart at the bottom showing the current grades in every class he had registered that semester. You could not see Doctor John Roland, Jr. without seeing the letter that the President had cleaved in two and not sent to his parents. That letter, in his opinion, had saved his life, steered him on to a better course out of the taverns and into the classroom, and been the foundation that his current success was built on. When John Roland, III asked him about it one day, he simply told him that the President was the greatest man he had ever known, so great that he could overpower the most entrenched enemy with little more than his two pointer fingers and thumbs. \*\*\* ​ Check out QuillandTrowel on Medium for more (links in bio). | 3,018 | 1 |
What if there was a tunnel with a light at the end of it, and it never ended? You knew that. Everyone in the world is on the same path. So they all have the potential of meeting. How far would you go? I started out and went along. I saw a lot of people stopping shortly after the start and most were really happy with the ones they loved, but many people were wondering what if I kept going alone? They were starting to go slower through the tunnel. I kept going, and I saw people stopping and settling down because they were exhausted. There’s less of them around and they are slowing down now too. Is this the best they can do at this point but if you keep going will you find something better in the tunnel? The light is still there. I push past because that light is in my sight. I wander for a long time running into a soul here and a soul there, but it’s getting hard to see if there’s anyone or anything but the light. That’s when I realized what I am chasing? A light? A potential? The perfect thing? The perfect one? I stopped and sat down for a bit. I thought about everything. What have I seen? What have I done? How many of “my” people are still on the path? I thought about stopping for the first time ever. I remember back to the beginning when I saw those people who were stopped along the path. The ones at the start didn’t go very far, but they were the happiest group I’d seen so far and in the vastest number. What if I stayed there? Would I be happy? Are they happy? Or would I be wondering where I’d be now? Are they still going at that slower pace? I thought about the group in the middle. Some were happy because they did the things they loved, and they lived, but now they were exhausted and tired from the journey and slowed down too. What if I stayed there? Would I be less tired now? Would I have lived enough to stop chasing? Then I thought “But wait, what about the ones who made it to the end?” That’s when I jumped up and took off ahead to find out if there was anything at the end, because there has to be something, always. As I carried on for what seemed like an eternity, I came across two souls. I asked them: Is this the end? They said: There is no end. Remember? I said: Oh, yeah. Why are you two stopped here then? They responded: We are just taking a break. This tunnel doesn’t end, so take breaks, meet people, be happy, and most of all, keep pushing to the light because if you stop you’ll always wonder what could have been. I asked: How did you two get so lucky to be able to wander this far together though? I’m alone and it’s getting hard. They replied: We are both alone too. I will always keep chasing that light. I may slow down a time or a ton. Everyone is exhausted now, but there’s no stopping. Moral of the story. You can’t always put yourself in the place of others. It’s your path. It’s your light. Chase. Stop. Love. Fear. Be free. Go at your own pace. Do everything you can to keep pushing to the light because all of us are and it never ends. Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you have to be alone. | 3,128 | 3 |
The man was fat and tall, standing up into the ceilings and usually banging his head on them. The fatness was distributed well, but when his clothes were removed you saw it everywhere. He walked alone most days and people would talk to him, but he wouldn’t talk to them. He would look at them dumbly and people would assume he was mute or deaf. Truthfully, he behaved in this way to garner sympathy and to beguile. The people would fall into his stupid charm and become well acquainted with this man. They would lie together many times and it did not matter if they were man, woman, or anything in between. The night was when they came in the hours of one or three in the morning and you saw the awkward shuffling of the women who wore things like pedicure sandals or pink slippers that were covered in a rose fur. Their manicured nails were white, turquoise, or canary yellow and the man saw them from his window. The men were more or less like the women and his penchant came for those androgynous sort of men that piqued in the interest of all with their dualistic sexuality. A particular favorite of the man was a Micronesian man by the name of Willy who possessed lively skin that sprouted many flowers that curved and wrapped into his bantu knots of hair. The man felt nothing with these many people and the personalities of vivacious color did not touch him. He did not care for them in this way. The resentments would come as they always do for these sorts of men and the consequences would be dire for the men and women who gave this man the time of day. Their heats would become jumbled up with thorns and would lead unhealthy lives by asking their future loves to do the things that this man did. But, no man could do these things because they were paragons of a great lust, a disgusting lust. It was not love and whatever love was had had become foreign and lost to the man. There was a woman who saw through this and when she spoke to the man there on the corner of a Turkish coffee shop in New York’s Manhattan, she slapped the man very hard in the face and he spoke suddenly, perfectly and clearly. The woman was not a woman at all, but the man felt otherwise so he chased her. His eyes were lit up like a fiend and I can surmise what he would have done to the woman. They ran through New York City and the smoke of it’s sewers shot into the air as these two darted through the streets. An old wino with many years of adventuring underneath his belt said to himself, “Tha pervert bit off more that he can chew! He dead forever.” This was indeed the case and the woman, being more learned, sifted the man like wheat, swallowing him whole like a big lion. No one in the city of New York saw what transpired, but he was dead forever, just like the wino had said. | 2,782 | 1 |
Disclaimer; Not a true story. This happened so long ago. Over 40 years ago to be exact. It was the summer of 1980. I was deciding whether or not to go to college or become a model. I was at a local mall in Orlando when I was approached by a woman asking me if I would be interested in modeling. In high school I was a member of a modeling club. We did fashion shows and it was fun. I took her card and called her. Within a couple of days I was headed to New York. There was an event that was in Southern France that I was supposed to do a model shoot with several other models at a hotel. We went on a chartered flight. Except that this modeling shoot never took place. I was driven to an area where there were a lot of yachts. It was the night before the actual modeling shoot. We were going to a party. The minute I walked unto this fancy yachts, I felt extremely uncomfortable. Instead of partying with guy my age, the yacht was filled with older men. Much older men. I was wearing a one piece bathing suit as I really didn't feel comfortable in this setting wearing a thong bikini. I was told to change into a more sexy outfit and given a outfit that I never would wear in public. Prior to even getting to the restroom, I had unwelcome attention from these older man. They were angry when I said no and told them to leave me alone. I managed to escape to a bathroom and once I got into the bathroom I threw up as the yacht was going out of the harbor. I basically stayed in the bathroom hoping no one would notice but one of the older men who I had told to leave me alone was looking for me. After two hours I finally had to leave as I was starving. I didn't see the old men anywhere. I got something to eat and ran back into the bathroom. I stayed there all night. I was safe in there. The man who was looking for me never thought to look in the bathroom. The next day when I left the bathroom to leave the boat, the man was outside waiting for me. He started yelling and screaming at me in a language I didn't understand. I was then approached by another man who was from the modeling agency. "You were supposed to provide entertainment on the boat to this man which you didn't." the man said. "That's not what I was told. I was hear to do a modeling shoot at a hotel." "Well, you can forget about any modeling shoot. You are fired and you are the worst model that we've ever had. We had notified all the other modeling agencies not to hire you, so you're career as a model is done." I just looked at this guy and told him I didn't care. I wasn't paid a dime. Thankfully I had money and had to pay for a flight home the next day. When I came home, I had no money or home. My parents and older sister had died two weeks before my senior year started. I was put in a foster home with classmates who used to bully me. Their parents who were the foster parents also made fun of me and bullied me as well. I cried every day. Thankfully for me, one of the counselors at the school took notice. I had only lived with them for a couple of weeks when I moved in with Jim, my boyfriend's family who agreed to take me in. I fix well into their family. Homecoming, prom, grad night we enjoyed it all. Then two weeks after graduation Jim collapsed and later died at the hospital. So much for us going to college together. Shortly after that, his parents sold their home and moved away. Right before they moved, I met a woman at the mall who promised me the world. I thought that I was set and told Jim parents that I was okay and didn't need any financial assistance which they were willing to give me. I did have a college scholarship which paid for my college. I didn't cancel it out. I still though had another month before I had a place to live. I found a place to sleep during that month. Jim had worked summers helping out at the local Amtrak Station. I had the key and would sneak into the building at night and sleep there. A couple of times it was a little scary. About a week before I was to go to college, there was a really bad storm. I almost got caught out in it but got in at the nick of time. Sometimes hobos would hang out in the nearby woods. I saw two of them come up to the station during the storm. They tried to get in where I was but couldn't. They didn't know that I was there. They both were nearly hit by lighting and tried to get in but they couldn't. By morning they were gone. I finally went off to college. I was surprised that I hadn't heard from Jim's parents as they promised to either write to me or call me. As time went on, no calls, letters, etc. I began to wonder if they found out what had happened. Had those people from the modeling agency called them and told them lies about me. His parents acted like they liked me. I found out what happened when I went back for a visit to my hometown Thanksgiving. I went to visit Jim's grave and was shocked to see his parents grave. His father had a heart attack and then a couple of days later his mother died in her sleep. This happened within a month of Jim's passing and a couple of days after they had moved in their new home. So I went on with my life. Fast forward to 2024 I saw a story about a US woman who went to France to do modeling back in 1980 and had disappeared. She had also been on the same yacht that I had been on but I didn't remember her and the photo of her didn't ring any bells. I imagine she may have resisted someone's advances and paid with her life. Thank God I was considered to be a terrible or the worst model they ever had. | 5,624 | 3 |
“Particle Wave” (Story 6 in a series that began ) by P. Orin Zack (02/08/2011) “Hey,” the man peering over Kaylee’s shoulder breathed, hooking his thumb towards the door, “isn’t that the guy from that video? You know, that math geek who wiped the floor with DC’s finest?” She stopped exploring the custom-built database he was showing her on his tablet, grinned mischievously, and craned around to peer at his weather-beaten face. “If that’s a new superhero movie, Virgil, I’m there.” “Get real,” he said. “I’m serious. The thing went viral.” He pulled out his smartphone. “Here, I’ll show you.” Kaylee glanced towards the door, laughed delightedly, and waved her arm overhead. “Ben!” she called over the din in her newly opened combination coffee shop, lending library and business incubator. “Alluis! Over here!” Virgil groaned. “Not him. The other guy.” “That’s Alluis Benoit,” she said as the two men approached. “He and his mentor, an antiques buyer from Denver, kind-of midwived the idea behind this place.” The video had started streaming, so Virgil held his phone up for Kaylee to see. “What are you doing?” the uniformed officer in the video demanded. “Giving him a little respect.” “Jeez,” the math geek said at the sound of his recorded voice, “it’s everywhere.” Kaylee blocked the screen with her palm. “I’ll watch it later.” “Thank you. That video’s been making me a bit self-conscious.” “Glad to oblige.” She returned Virgil’s tablet and did a quick once-over of Ben’s associate, noting the scuffed shoes and natty jacket. “I’m Kaylee Strumble, and I seem to be at a bit of a disadvantage here, having not seen your video.” “From what I’ve seen,” he laughed, wiggling the fingers of his left hand, “that puts you into a demographic about the size of right-handed southpaws. I’m Franklin Goertz, and Ben here just skipped out on his part of our deal.” The chatter in the store suddenly abated and a few people glanced their way. “Deal?” she asked into the momentary silence. Ben sighed. “Yeah. I offered to make introductions in exchange for airfare to Topeka so I can get the cops and the court off my tail.” Curious, she cocked her head. He waved her off. “Long story. You two ought to talk.” “About what?” “Well,” Franklin said, his smile fading, “I’m a statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics, and—.” “And I’m messing up your model?” she asked hopefully. “Um, what? No. Robert told me how you’d freed a whole lot of people from the unemployment line like you were a one-woman business incubator.” “Hey,” she said defensively, “all I did was get a few people to talk to each other, like I do here.” “Don’t be coy,” Virgil said. “Look, what this woman did was something an army of job-counseling monkeys, HR flacks and job-shop head-hunters couldn’t do in a million years. She got people to see their hobbies, their obsessions, and their secret ambitions as a valuable part of who they are. Hell, she got me to admit that I wasn’t a half-bad database jockey, and now we’re about to put my latest one to use here.” Ben glanced around the store, at the barista prepping drinks, and at the counter help turning out meals while chatting up the customers about everything but the Chicago weather. He scanned the shelves of books, and counted the people talking to one another about them. And he craned to see the tables, where food and drink took a back seat to the real reason Kaylee’s patrons were here, to supercharge their lives with one another’s talents, ideas and resources. “After that incident in the police station,” Franklin said, cracking his neck, “I thought I could crawl back into my cube and wrap myself in numbers again, but something happened. Something changed. And the thing of it was, I didn’t know it at the time. I figured that boring into Dvorkin’s true self like that was just a fluke, an adrenaline-fueled response to a caustic situation. But after that video went viral and a big-name blogger asked me how I squared reaching into someone’s soul like that with the dispassionate view of people I needed to have to do my job, I just broke down. I couldn’t. And that’s important. But I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t…” He trailed off, and Kaylee had the good sense to give him some space. While he was idling, she waved at Marilyn, the performance artist behind the counter who was busy fixing a chicken salad on rye, and mimed an order of relaxing tea for Franklin. Marilyn had just started to nod, when her attention was snatched by a commotion at the doorway. Kaylee followed her sightline, and found Virgil approaching the source of the disruption. “Jenkins,” she breathed in annoyance, and started towards the door. By this time, Virgil had stopped just in front of him and mirrored the smaller man’s cross-armed stance. “Is there some problem I can help you with?” Kaylee nudged him gently and he stepped aside. “I thought this place was your doing,” Jenkins said darkly, peering around. “After you hustled me out for the third time just for doing some research, I decided to try a different approach.” “So I see.” Ben, who had drifted closer, recognized him as well. “Hey,” he said indignantly, “aren’t you the jerk who tossed Kaylee out of the Unemployment office?” Jenkins sneered. “So.” Kaylee said smiling back at him. “Can I help you find a new career, Mr. Jenkins?” His eyes widened. “A new career? Do you have any idea the damage that you are doing to the people you’ve lured here?” The chatter abruptly stopped. Marilyn followed the others towards the entrance, serrated bread knife still in hand. All eyes were on Kaylee. “Damage?” she repeated with a humorless laugh. “Do you honestly believe that honoring what people accomplish on their own time, and helping them put it to use is hurting them?” “If they foolishly abandon their job search, and disqualify themselves from getting the UI payments they deserve, then yes, it hurts them.” He looked at the crowd now arrayed behind Kaylee, Virgil and Ben. “I’ve seen a lot of you come in for counseling, to take our classes and speak with the hiring managers we bring in.” A woman standing a few feet behind Ben harrumphed. “Yeah. And a fat lot of good it does.” “You just have to keep at it, that’s all.” “Where do you live, under a rock?” The gravelly challenge came from a portly man still seated at one of the tables. “Haven’t you heard that companies actively discriminate against unemployed workers? After all we’re not a protected class, so it’s fair game to crap all over us.” As a wave of encouragement swept the room, Jenkins raised his hands defensively. “Hey, we’re just trying to help you people! That’s why we encourage you to stay focused, to keep your skills fresh. After all, you’ve got a lot invested in the career paths you’re already on. That’s too valuable a resource to—.” “Oh, blow it out your ear!” another patron shouted in disgust. Franklin came up behind Ben and asked what was going on. “Guy named Jenkins from Unemployment.” “Yeah, yeah, but what’s his beef with Ms. Strumble?” “Hell if I know. He hasn’t really said.” “Jeez,” Franklin muttered irritably. “This is getting to be a habit.” Then he stepped around Ben and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins.” “Yes?” “I’m a bit lost here. What exactly is your problem? What are you so upset about? From what I’ve seen so far, this place looks like a pretty good idea.” He stood mutely for a few seconds before replying. “Looks like? Looks like?? If all that’s important is what it looks like, then we might as well be standing in a Hollywood set. Jobs are real. They’re important. Suckering people into some scheme just because it looks good is fraud!” Kaylee reddened. “Now just hold on right there. That’s a very serious accusation, and I’ve got a roomful of witnesses here.” “Ha!” someone called out. “Better than that, it’s on video. And if you don’t back down, it’s gonna be on the Internet in a minute.” Franklin grimaced, and held both hands up for pause. “Wait, wait wait. Before you do that, let me ask him something.” “Okay.” “So, Mr. Jenkins,” he said calmly, “exactly how stable is your own job situation? What would your managers and the bureaucrats they report to think about seeing your face plastered all over the Internet like mine was recently? I mean, think about it: a prized employee of the Department of Employment Security publicly accusing a local business owner of fraud by helping people get off the unemployment rolls. I’m sure the press would just love to sink their teeth into that story.” He glared nervously at the bevy of smartphones pointed at him. “Um,” he said hesitantly, “well…” “We’re waiting, Jenkins.” It was the kid who’d first threatened to upload the video. He shook his head. “But…” “But what, Jenkins?” This time is was Kaylee. He slumped. “Look. The whole idea behind unemployment insurance is giving people a little breathing room, giving them enough money to get by while they’re trying to get another job. We can’t have people going off and getting involved in harebrained schemes to turn their hobbies into paying jobs.” “Why the hell not?” Marilyn asked, unconsciously raising her knife hand in punctuation. “It works. Just look around. This was an abandoned storefront two weeks ago. It was costing the landlord plenty to let it sit vacant, so he agreed to let us set up shop here cheap. Just about everything in here was donated by people who’d collected it for some hobby or other, and wanted to be part of making Kaylee’s idea — which she first demonstrated outside your own office, by the way — of making that idea real.” When she realized she was brandishing a bread knife, she waggled it briefly. “You see this? I’m here making sandwiches because I amuse myself making experimental food. Kaylee thought people would enjoy having something different to chew on while they’re batting ideas around. And she was right. In fact, it turned out that not making it the same way each time actually helps people think about their own problems differently. So I call bullshit.” Jenkins gritted his teeth. “All right, all right. So maybe some good could come of it. But I still say it’s a bad idea for the vast majority of people.” “You do, huh,” Franklin said, warming to the subject. “And what experience do you have as a statistician? Is that part of your job description? Or maybe you dabble in stats on the side?” Ben leaned in conspiratorially. “Got you on that one, does he?” “Well, maybe I don’t have a degree in statistics, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use other people’s figures to—.” Franklin crossed his arms. “Whose figures, Mr. Jenkins? State your references. And they’d better be good, because I am a statistician. And I happen to work for the Bureau of Labor Statistics. So go on. Please. I’m waiting.” “No,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, “I was way off base with that. But I still don’t see how diverting people away from the work they do, the work they’ve got experience doing, is going to help.” “It’s simple,” Marilyn said, “but you’ll never find out unless you actually listen to them. People are happiest doing what they like doing. And even if you have a job doing what you hate, like I did, you’ll still find a way to do what you like, even if it’s in private, like a hobby, or if it’s a secret, and you only do it in your head.” Jenkins nodded at Franklin. “How do you square it, then? I mean, how do you spend your days thinking about people as if they were nothing more than numbers, and still be able to touch them where they live, to see all of those secret dreams you think are so important?” He chuckled. “Funny thing. I was asked the same question by a blogger who’d seen the video of me that went viral. It was a standoff in a DC police station, if you’re one of the lucky few that still haven’t seen it. The guy was desperately trying to get people to shake off their roles and see each other as real human beings. Well, when I realized that the police were just reinforcing the pattern that he was trying to break, I struck up a conversation with him. I asked him who he was.” Kaylee had turned and was gazing into Franklin’s eyes. “When that blogger asked me how I did it, I really didn’t know. But it started me thinking. And now, thanks to you, I do. To use a metaphor, it’s a bit like light, which, although it can express itself as either a wave or as a particle, is neither. Its reality transcends our experience of it. Those are simply two ways that whatever light really is can interact with the world. It’s the same thing with people. From a distance, or in large numbers, the data we track people with make pretty pointillist patterns that statisticians like me interpret and weave narratives about. Those narratives are the basis for the laws and policies that your world of unemployment insurance is based on. But the people themselves are more like waves. We’re each a bundle of possibilities that can interact with the world in lots of different ways. That, Mr. Jenkins, is what this place is all about. That’s the important truth that Ms. Strumble has plugged into.” He extended his arm towards Jenkins. “And I’d like to thank you for showing it to me.” Jenkins stared dumbly at the extended hand, unsure how to react. “Well?” Franklin said amiably. “Either you can accept a new way of looking at the world, or you can’t. Which is it to be?” Breathing shallowly, Jenkins slowly straightened. His head jerked slightly, as if he were culminating an internal struggle. Then he exhaled and, very calmly, yet very forcefully, said, “No. I… I can’t. It’s not something I can do.” Franklin lowered his arm. “That’s okay,” Kaylee said gently. “I understand. But know this: if you ever are ready to take that step, we’ll be here waiting for you. To paraphrase Franklin, we each light the world in our own unique way. There’s probably something you still need to see, and it may only be visible with your special light. When you’ve found it, and you’re ready to share it, come on back, and we can discuss it over some tea.” Jenkins looked dubious. But just to be on the safe side, he nodded, and said, “We’ll see.” “Tea!” Marilyn said suddenly, turning back towards the counter. “I was about to make tea for Franklin.” “For me?” he asked in confusion. “Well, yeah, and it’s on the house. So what’s your pleasure?” “I’m a mathematician. Surprise me. Close your eyes and pick one at random.” THE END Copyright 2011 by P. | 14,653 | 2 |
The warmth of Billie’s chest on Madeline’s cheek and the rise and fall of their chest rocking her gently soon had her floating on the edge of sleep. But her half-slumbering was rudely interrupted by the creak of the door to the dormitory swinging open. “Hello, new recruits!” The voice was full of the same cheeriness as the previous guard. Madeline pushed herself up, followed by Billie. Blinking her bleary eyes, she looked over to see a young man in the doorway, dressed in the same mish-mash of clothes as the rest of them but with a strip of red fabric tied around his arm. He held himself similar to the guard that had brought them here, only he wasn’t carrying a gun across his chest. Instead, he was holding a large wooden box. “As I’m sure you’re aware,” he continued, half-talking half-shouting so his voice carried across the room, “I’m here to take you to the dining hall. But first…” He lifted the box in his hands slightly. “First, I’m here to collect any contraband you wish to surrender. Please note, this is the only amnesty you will be offered. I suggest you take it.” “Come on then,” Billie muttered to Madeline. “Let’s go surrender our contraband and ask our questions.” Together, they pushed themselves up off the lower bunk and made their way over to a growing queue in front of the young guard. Madeline watched as the people in front of them dropped all manner of makeshift weapons into the box — knives, small clubs, a gardening trowel, scissors split in half — they all jangled together in the ever-growing collection. She was relieved to see a fair few others asking questions about what was and wasn’t allowed, as well as a couple of other people seeming to slip away in an attempt to hide things they didn’t want to give up. When Madeline finally reached the front, she dropped her Swiss army knife into the box before looking up at the guard. His brown eyes set in an open face framed by brown hair put her in mind of Billie slightly, something that certainly made it easier to trust him enough to ask her questions. But she had to be careful. These guards were probably chosen to handle new recruits because they were likeable. “Is it okay if I ask you something?” Her voice came out shakier than she expected, and higher pitched — almost squeaky. “Of course,” he replied with a smile. “I have this old tin…” She paused to pull it out of her bag. “I used it like a step to reach higher shelves. And maybe to swing at people who bothered me.” She let her eyes drop, feigning guilt or embarrassment. “Should I give that to you or just throw it in the bin?” “Well, I suppose I’m here now so I might as well take it for you.” “Thanks!” She forced a smile as she dropped it into the box before hurrying out of the way. As much as she wanted to linger close enough to hear Billie’s conversation with the guard, she didn’t want to attract any undue attention, so retreated to her bunk to wait. It wasn’t long before Billie joined her there. “Well?” she asked in hushed tones. “The Walkman is fine to keep. He said that those who get their work done in a timely fashion will have free time in the evenings so I might find it useful.” “That’s reassuring,” Madeline said slowly. “Though… Are you finding it unnerving how reasonable they’re being? And how relaxed.” Billie nodded. “I think we’d do well to keep alert. So far we’ve only really seen the good side of this place. But at some point, I’m sure we’ll see what happens when they aren’t happy with you.” Silence stretched between them as they both considered what that might look for. It was Billie who finally broke it, clapping an arm around Madeline’s shoulders. “Shall we go and get dinner then? It looks like everyone is about ready.” “Dinner sounds good,” Madeline replied as they started walking. “Given the accommodations and the general friendliness, I’m quite hopeful of it being the best meal I’ve had in a long while.” “You and me both,” Billie said with a smile. *** The journey to the dining hall was shorter than the walk they’d taken to get to the dormitory. They started by going back out the way they’d come, then there was a short walk along a dirt path and they were at a medium-sized building which was essentially a concrete cuboid. The dining hall took up the whole building inside, with long tables stretching from one end to the other under a high ceiling. People were being served at counters at the far end. The sight stirred Madeline’s memories of school dinners, and her hopes of a good meal fell slightly. Still, it had been an age since she’d eaten anything fresh, and the fact that they seemed to have their own farmland here was a promising sign. Then again, who knew whether they would get to see the fruits of their labour? Perhaps the fresh food was reserved for the Poiloogs — if they even ate vegetables. “Alright you lot!” their guide shouted. “Join the queue and eat your food, then meet me back by this door when you’re ready to return to the dormitory. You have one hour.” The group drifted in pairs and trios over to the main queue. Madeline and Billie followed the general flow, staying roughly in the middle of the crowd. As they shuffled forward, familiar but long-forgotten smells started tickling Madeline’s nose. A rich, creamy, salty scent — buttery — made her stomach rumble. The sweet tang of something caramelised made her mouth water. Soon, she was craning her neck, trying to get a glimpse of what they were being served. There was a big dish of something that looked like mashed potatoes. Another of roast vegetables, bright red and yellow peppers, green courgettes, and dark, shiny purple aubergine. The third tray was filled with something brown-ish, but she couldn’t quite make it out. Billie leaned in a little closer to her. “At least it looks like we’re going to be well-fed while we’re here.” “Yeah,” Madeline said. “If only it weren’t for the vague threats and complete lack of freedom, this place might actually be half decent to live in.” “If only,” Billie muttered in agreement. When they reached the front, they were served a large spoonful from each tray. It turned out that the mystery brown-ish contents of the third one was a lentil dish of some kind. “Thanks,” Madeline said with her best smile as a middle-aged man behind the counter handed her a glass of water. It was hard to tell whether the people working here were guards or prisoners like them. They certainly didn’t have guns. And she couldn’t see any coloured arm bands. But she still didn’t really know what they meant. Anyway, who was she to say that the guards weren’t every bit as much of a prisoner as everyone else? There wasn’t much sense in trying to make these kinds of distinctions until she knew more. She hadn’t even been here one day yet, and there was much to learn. She shouldn’t let herself jump to conclusions. When she and Billie had their food, they followed the rest of the group to one of the long tables. Those who’d been earlier in the queue had already started eating. Apart from the clatter of cutlery, the squish and squelch of enthusiastic chewing, and the occasional moan of satisfaction, there was relative quiet among her immediate neighbours, though there was certainly plenty of chatter coming from other groups in the hall. After a quick glance at the people around her — Billie on her left, a young blonde woman on her right, and two people who she vaguely remembered being called Sarah and Ben opposite her — she turned her attention to her plate. It certainly wasn’t full. It seemed the portion size was closely controlled. But it still looked to be the best meal she’d had in a long, long time. As she picked up her fork she was struck by indecision. What did she want to try first? A bit of each of them separately? All together? Should she try and savour it or enjoy really wolfing it down? The grumbling in her stomach overrode the questions in her mind. She scooped up a large forkful of mashed potato and shovelled it into her mouth. The heat scalded her tongue, and she quickly opened her mouth to try and breathe cool air over the molten mash. But the slight pain was worth it. Smooth, creamy, salty, fluffiness practically melted on her tongue. And when she swallowed, the heat travelled down her throat, before settling in her stomach with a heavy, reassuring warmth. After that, there was no use debating what to eat next, whether to take her time or eat as quickly as possible. She couldn’t have controlled herself even if she wanted to. Her plate was empty within a couple of minutes. She leaned back in her chair, breathing heavily, before glancing over at Billie. They were just finishing off their last mouthful, wiping their finger across the plate to scrape up every last morsel of food. “And I thought I was the one with the poor table manners,” she said, elbowing the gently in the ribs under the table. “Hey,” they slurred around the food still in their mouth, “I’m not the one who practically inhaled the whole meal.” They swallowed quickly before miming a slurping motion with their mouth. “Alright, alright,” Madeline said, grinning. “I might have been a little eager.” “A little?” “But I wasn’t the only one!” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at Billie’s sparklingly clean plate. A snort from across the table made Madeline start. Her eyes darted over to see the young man she believed was called Ben watching her and Billie. Heat instantly crept up her face. She’d spent so long with just Billie — or just Billie and Lena — she’d gotten used to being completely herself, not worrying what anyone thought. It was odd having to switch back now, remembering that there were others around to hear their nonsense. “Please, don’t stop on my account,” he said, grinning. “It’s nice to hear other people bicker and banter for a change. Up until now, I’ve been stuck with just these two.” He gestured at Sarah who was sitting next to him, and the young blonde woman opposite who Madeline couldn’t remember getting the name of. “You mean we’ve been stuck with you!” Sarah huffed. “Honestly,” she leaned across the table, close to Madeline, “Imagine being stuck with your brother and sister as your only company in this world! Wouldn’t you just go mad? It’s just been me, Ben, and Joanna since… well, you know.” Madeline nodded, trying to return the woman’s grin. But as much as she knew that Sarah was only joking, the words snagged at her heart. While it wasn’t like she’d been particularly close with her family, she’d give anything to see them now, just as she’d give anything to see Liam. Though she tried to carry on listening to the chatter around her, trying to get a sense of the people she’d be sharing a dorm and a job and a life with over who knows how long, she couldn’t quite bring her focus out of her head, thoughts straying back to the reason she was here. She’d give anything… She’d already given her freedom. | 11,143 | 3 |
After weeks of experimentation and research. Spider finally found a way to kill a god. At least he thinks it can kill a god. He reverse engineered his Nano-bot technology. The same technology that can heal him from any injury. With his new invention, the Onan-bots, they will continuously deconstruct the target’s biomatter. Now the Multiverse most-wanted has entered the domain of the gods to do battle and hopefully level the playing field between man and gods, without the use of godly weapons. Spider, wearing his jacket vest with a spider decal on the back, along with a pair of nice blue jeans and motorcycle boots; he marches up a golden staircase that ascends into a dimension filled with clouds. With each step he gets closer and closer to Synenthia, a goddess of weather and fire. With each step his self doubt grows evermore. Thoughts begin to fill his mind. Will I really be able to kill a god? I mean I’ve fought some pretty strong guys and even killed a planet, but a god…. A GOD! That seems a little too much for me. After a few more minutes of walking up the golden stairs he arrives on a platform. The platform was like a mirror, reflecting the surrounding clouds’ image. Spider stands at the center looking around at the beautiful scenery. The fluffy white clouds and the blue skies that encompass the world around him. Then as if she knew exactly when his breath was taken away, she appeared. In that instant the clouds turned black and the sky orange, the once clear and quiet sky became raining and thunderous. Her appearance was split down the middle. One side gorgeous and basking in bright sunlight. The other, hideous and illuminated by the soft moonlight, that was only around her face. She was huge and floated above the platform. Spider wiped the sweat off his forehead and said. “Hey, you’re Synenthia right?” She responds, her voice echoing sounding both beautiful and horrendous. “Yes I am, mortal. I know of you, Spider I know of your intentions to take my life. What a foolish endeavor.” Spider begins to walk tauntingly from side to side. “Yeah, guess I am just the epitome of bad decisions right? I heard you ain’t the best yourself. I mean destroying a universe just because they wouldn't submit to your rule? That's rough.” The thundering among the clouds progressively gets worse with each sentence. Spider takes notice. He smirks as he glances at a cloud and continues. “Y’know ever since I was young, I never really liked bullies. Even if the odds were stacked against me. Even if I knew deep down I had no chance at winning.” Spider activates his holo-generators and holo-structs his pistols Scrambled Eggs and Sirloin Steak, and says “I couldn’t live with myself If I let the scum of the cosmos win.” The thunder and lightning intensifies as the clouds go pitch black and the sky a sickly orange. Synenthia grows bigger as balls of lightning start to orbit around her. She levitates towards Spider and says. “I WILL NOT BE INSULTED BY ANY MORTAL ESPECIALLY NOT A HALF-MAN!” A lightning ball is hurled at Spider. He narrowly dodges the projectile, he smiles and opens fire on the goddess. The holo-rounds bounce off her skin. He then realizes there is a layer of armor coating her skin. Before he can use one of his gadgets, a Tornado with Lightning balls orbiting it pursues Spider. He dodges them, but after a few minutes of dodging lightning and 100 mph winds, he realizes. Even with all of his cybernetic augments. He still gets tired. In a last ditch effort to stop the flurry of projectiles he chucks a starlight-flash grenade. After her eyesight comes back she continues her onslaught of attacks. An onslaught so destructive that if done on any other realm. The fabric of space would tear. After several minutes of pelting down on Spider she stops. Her anger intensifies even more than ever before. The clouds' thunderous claps become deafening as she realizes she's been fooled. Spider wasn’t there. Holo-spider has taken his place. He then says. “Lucky lucky me. If I were flesh and blood, I’d be done for man.” While the battle raged, the real Spider used his neuro-link and re-calibrated half of the Nano-bots in his blood. Instead of being designed to heal him, they were now providing him with energy to keep going. Spider uncloaks as he walks in front of Synenthia and says. “You play rough lady. Now I understand why an entire universe stood no chance against you.” Synenthia interjects. “Loathsome mortal, How dare you play me for a fool!?” Spider snickers. “Maybe if you weren’t a fool, I wouldn’t be able to play you.” “I will enjoy making you beg for mercy.” “You had a difficult time trying to kill me. What makes you think you can handle both of us?” As more lightning projectiles begin to rise and orbit around Synenthia, Holo-Spider walks over to Spider and pulls out copies of his guns and says. “Hey Spider guess what?” Spider, confused, responds. “What now?” “Time for trouble.” Spider smiles and they put their backs on each other, and say. “And make it double.” Spider and Holo-Spider unleash a barrage of shots as they dodge the projectiles. Spider, in an attempt to dodge a lightning strike and a tornado at the same time, ends up getting struck by the lightning. Spider buckles due to white-hot pain of the strike. Right as Synenthia hovers above Spider she summons numerous lightning orbs and tornados to surround him, making escape near-impossible. Spider looks around hopelessly and accepts defeat. Synenthia smiles and manifests a spear, she spins it around and plunges it deep into him, and says. “Another foolish mortal has met their end at my hands. Now I will use your body as a reminder to all that none can-” Slow clapping is heard behind her. She turns around in shock to see Spider perfectly fine. She moves her spear to look in front of it and sees Holo-Spider dusting himself off. Spider pulls out a detonator and presses the button. A loud boom is heard and the divine armor starts to crack and fall off. Spider steps right in front of her and says. “Let me explain how you lost. While I was dodging your attacks you were able to tell the difference between me and my green counterpart. While you were directing your attacks on me I had my clone sneak behind you. Of course I had to make you stand still, so I had to get hit. Luckily the Nano-bots were able to make me right as rain. Once he placed the bomb and you were about to plunge your blade into my chest we switched places. Then you were about to go into a monologue so I stuck you with a second for good measure.” As her armor completely falls off she goes into a frenzy. “HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY DOMAIN UNPROVOKED AND ATTACK ME, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?” Spider flicks the ammo modulator on his gun to switch the ammo type from “High velocity” to “Onan”. He walks up as she continues breaking down and aims the gun at her forehead, and says. “You took the lives of innocent people for your own personal gain. You asked who I think I am? I’m Spider the man who battles against the odds.” With one shot, the bullet rips through her head. As her body falls to the floor Spider inspects the wound in her head. He notices that Onan bots are destroying the biomatter around the wound. Her body’s immortality is trying to combat the bots, but can’t. After about thirty seconds her body gave up. Spider smiles as the realization hits. He did it. He did what no one else could. He was able to kill a god. Not with special powers or stolen godly weapons. He killed one with his own gadgets and mindset. He drops to his knees and opens his arms to scream victoriously to the heavens. This celebration is short-lived as he gets a neurotransmission from his twin sister Sylas. Spider answers. “Hey Sylas, it's been a long time, how are you?” Sylas responds in a panic. “What the hell have you been doing Spider. The gods have been notifying us for the past few minutes that one of our operatives is killing one of them. The only operative I know to be that stupid is you Spider.” “Yea well to be fair I’m here on my own accord, I’m not representing the M.U.F. Also guess what. I did it. I killed a god, isn't that awesome.” “NO! NO IT’S NOT! AYY COÑO That is in direct violation of the Multiversal Unification Federation peace treaty with Lord Suuh and the godly alliance.” “Whatever just say it was me and if worse comes to worse. They’ll try to kill me other than that I’ll be fine.” “Dios mio. Fine goodbye Sylo.” “Buh bye Sylas.” Spider descends the steps proud of what he had done. Little does he know this moment will paint a target on his back for the most elite fighting force the gods have to offer. | 8,935 | 1 |
CW: Prisons, abortion \*This is more dystopian fiction, unsure the right tag. \_\_\_\_ *Eeny Meeny Miney Moe.* The guard let his fingers tap dance across his desk. *Catch a prisoner by their toe.* Who would it be this time? The draft dodger? The one who got an abortion? (thank goodness in 2040 we have realized that women are just too dumb to handle their own healthcare. Her provider would be here too-she had it done “professionally” no less- but only men can be doctors and this is a woman’s prison) The drug addict? Which woman would be next? *If they holler, don’t let them go.* What did he care? They were all useless derelicts of society. In a few weeks, he would be promoted anyway and out of this hell hole. The job was going to be automated-finally. Why it hadn’t already had confused him when he first applied, but hell, he needed the work. He spun around in his desk chair, opened the blinds, and allowed The Window to decide, as he always did. Took away some of the guilt. Random chance who next got the neural implant. Not that he really felt guilty about, he thought. This was only meant to help heal their disturbed minds. Just, well, I dunno, they are human…that fine line between helping and controlling…he looked up, not lingering on the idea. It was above his pay grade. *Eeny Meeny Miney- You.* He stared out to the north in the glass panes of his tower (known as “the Window” to the inmates) and looked across to his next patient. “Hey you, you over there!” 1000 heads poked through the bars of the cells in this circular prison. Nobody knew who he was talking to, nobody knew who was next. Nobody could even see him-just a looming tower in the middle of the room. Not that it was dark- no, in fact the whole room was lit up with that same sterile light that haunts the halls of hospitals. That was the brilliance of The Bentham Panopticon Facility (or the Benth, as it was fondly referred to by the public and the media). The prisoners were literally blinded by the light. They could not see through the one way glass of the Window. Just him. The light wasn’t the only thing reminiscent of hospitals. The same smell of Lysol mixed with anxiety hung in the air. Since the pandemic three years ago, the health code mandated that the halls be cleaned every few hours. “Yeah, I see you frowning. Who said you could frown?” He could see a few of the women tremble, wondering if they were the ones who broke one of the unknown and ever changing rules. The ever watching Window always had a reason to catch them.“Why don’t you put a smile on that pretty little face? He saw all of their petrified faces and grinned. “Prisoner 821160, you made a mess while eating your chow today. You will be forbidden anything to eat for 48 hours. Now all of you, back into your cells!” And with that, he restarted the endless loop of “Born in the USA”. | 2,918 | 2 |
Sometimes I think about you. When I put the water on to boil. When I take the rubbish out to throw. When I bring the dog for a walk. When I type away at the laptop and catch myself drifting. I think about you. I wonder if you ever think about me. Do you think about me? Do you think about me when you’re walking? Walking down the roads, and past the shops we walked by together. I still remember that pizza place we’d stood at, waiting for a fresh pizza. I had ordered, and turned around to see you watching me, with that expression on your face I can never decipher. So I stood next to you, waiting, just waiting. Together, in silence. Maybe you knew, but I hoped you didn’t. Because although the silence stretched between us, my heart had pounded and deafened me as it echoed through my body. What about when you walk down that path we walked, down that garden we walked through? Or the tennis courts with the pigeon nest boxes that you’d pointed out to me as we had walked past? Or maybe, the supermart we’d walked into because you said you were hungry? I still remember the crisps you’d picked out that day. Lay’s. Salt and Vinegar. They’d been on the bottom shelf, and you had knelt down to pick them out, your hand still clutching mine. I had watched as your tall frame, all 6 feet of you, folded down and below, far below where I usually had to look up to see your face. Your head was bent, and your hair, which I liked to run my fingers through, came so close they tickled my thighs. And I remember looking at the nape of your neck, memorising the curve of it, the mole that dotted your skin, like a dark and neat ink blot from a faulty pen. Your hand had tightened as you stood up, your body unfolding. And then I found myself staring back up at your face, up in it’s usual spot, and I was staring at the smile that you gave me as the foil of your crisps crinkled in your hands. Do you think about me? Sometimes, I think about you. Perhaps not sometimes, but rather quite a few times. I think about that slight bounce in your step, the way you walked on the balls of your feet, not your heels. I think about the smell of your warmth, like the morning mist rising off the ground and enshrouding my body, wrapping and curling into my head. I think about the rustle of your jacket as I had buried my face in your chest, tunnelling my hands through, and around your back. A back so wide and solid that I struggled to hold on. I think about your hands, and the rings you wore, the way they had looked on your fingers, and the slight swell of your finger joints. I think about how they had felt, and how the fingers that I had thought too large to comfortably grasp, nestled so naturally between mine. I think about your hair, and how it had looked so stiff, like spiky grass poking through ground, and yet felt so soft, like the cottony underbelly of a purring cat. I think about the way you had lowered your head, and let me touch you, all gentle and docile, as though you were a large animal who didn’t mind acceding to my silly request. I think about your arms, all warm flesh and solid muscle, wrapping around me and pulling me flush against your torso. And I think about your kisses. Your feather light soft kisses. I never knew kisses could be like that, all light and fluttery. But they were, they were like butterfly wings, kissing along my cheeks, next to my ears, down my neck, and along my collar bone. They were like whispers along my skin, trailing a blaze down my body. And the sound of your kisses, muted as they were, ringing in my ears, because I’d never been kissed like that before. Kissed like I was so precious, as though you had wanted to feel me through your lips. I think about them, and I wish I’d remembered them more vividly. But how could I? When I can still barely fit the rest of you inside me? Sometimes, but really, mostly, I think about you. Really, rather, quite a lot. I’m thinking about you. And wishing that I had kissed you back. Kissed you back like you had kissed me. Held you closer than I had held you back then. I think about the times we’d spent together, and I wish that we had spent more. I wish I’d held your face in my hands, and told you what I think of you. I wish I could tell you, tell you that I had been thinking of you, and that I could not stop thinking about you. Because I can’t. I can’t stop thinking of you. | 4,412 | 1 |
The sun burned white hot from its zenith in the sky, yet the cool wind brushing past Cleopatra provided refreshing opposition to its baking wrath, even if the wind did blow dust into her eyes. She flipped the reins that were tied around her waist to keep her two horses galloping at top speed even as they maneuvered between the boulders strewn over the barren plain. The strength of the animals pulling on the reins while she gripped them was all that kept her stable in her chariot despite its constant shaking and bouncing. Her friend Amanirenas was fast closing the distance between them from behind. The way the Kushite princess’s horses, both of which she had brought with her from her homeland far up the Nile, were gaining ground, it would only be moments before she wrested the lead from her Kemetian counterpart. Already she had drawn close enough that, even through the billowing clouds of dust, Cleopatra could make out the details of her gold, carnelian, and ivory jewelry, including the twin cobras that reared on her gold skullcap crown. It had to be conceded, what they said about the Kushites’ horses was true. They really were among the fastest in the world. Ahead of them, the land started to slope down, causing both chariots to pick up speed. The further they rode, the steeper the terrain fell, and the faster their horses ran. “You still sure it was a good idea not to do this in the hippodrome?” Amanirenas shouted over their horses’ hoofbeats. “You know, like most civilized people?” “Admit it, Amani, this is more fun!” Cleopatra called back. “Not to mention how the scenery changes more around you!” Her chariot jolted. The slope had grown precipitous enough that her horses dug their hoofs into the crumbly earth, only to slide down even further. Cleopatra had to pull her reins taut to get them to stop before falling to their doom. They had descended into a deep gulch that cut westward through the desert in a crooked line. Farther down the course of the ravine on its opposite side stood a tall wooden cross with something white dangling from its arms. The way it jangled in the wind, Cleopatra doubted it was a banner. “We should turn back, Cleo,” Amanirenas said. “We’ve gone out far enough.” "Hold on, I want to see what’s on that cross over there,” Cleopatra replied. “All right, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.” The two princesses unwound their reins and hopped out of their chariots. After tethering their horses to stakes they set in the ground, they walked down the floor of the gulch until they reached the cross. As Cleopatra had suspected, it was a bleached human skeleton that hung from it, the arms pinned to the limbs of the cross in the style of a Roman crucifixion. Some bones had fallen off, and many holes pocked the skull. Cleopatra’s palms and brow chilled beneath her perspiration despite the desert’s midday heat. “Who could that have been?” Amanirenas asked. “Did someone get put to death out here?” “I believe it’s a warning against trespassers,” Cleopatra answered. “There might be a tribe here marking their borders.” “In which case, we should leave.” “Honestly, Amani, I agree for once.” Cleopatra had not even turned around when a yipping cackle cracked through the desert’s silence. Behind them swaggered ten men in dusty linen loincloths and goatskin capes, with ostrich feathers waving atop their short, braided black hair. Their skin, tattooed with zig-zagging black lines and triangles, ranged in color from a shade paler than Cleopatra’s honey-brown complexion to almost ebony like Amanirenas. All of them gripped iron stabbing swords that glinted under the sunlight, as did the yellowed teeth between their curling lips. “You’re right about it marking our border, my lady,” the foremost and most broad-chested of the warriors growled in Kemetian with a guttural foreign accent. “Welcome to the land of the Libu. You two look to be of noble birth from Kemet or Kush.” "Which means the Roman buyers in Cyrene will bid even more for them,” the warrior to his left said. “They’re such blossoming young beauties, aren’t they?” Cleopatra grimaced at both his lechery and the prospect of being sold like chattel at a Roman slave auction in Cyrene to the far northwest. “For your information, Libyan, I am Cleopatra Philopator, daughter of Pharaoh Ptolemy the Twelfth of Kemet. And this is my friend Amanirenas. Her father is the Qore of Kush.” A third Libyan sneered with a nod. “Oh, I’ve heard of you, Princess Cleopatra. They say your father is an inbred Macedonian cur and your mother a native whore!” Cleopatra did not take kindly to insults against her father, and she took even less kindly to insults against her mother. She unsheathed her curved kopis sword and waved it at the advancing Libyans while baring her teeth like a cornered lioness. “Also for your information, my mother is no mere ‘whore’,” she said while brandishing her weapon. “Her father was High Priest of Amun over in Waset to the south, and so is her brother now^(1). Regardless of my lineage, you mess with royalty at your own peril!” “Royalty, you say? Forget about just selling them into slavery, then,” a fourth warrior said. “Imagine the ransom their families will pay for them!” Amanirenas placed both of her hands on Cleopatra’s shoulders. “Cleo, we should get back to the chariots. There’s ten of them and two of us.” “I’m afraid we’ve already claimed your chariots,” the foremost Libyan replied. “As you can see for yourselves.” He gestured toward the chariots far behind them, which already had men like him dragging them up from the ravine walls, with the horses neighing and stamping their hooves in resistance. The blood drained from Cleopatra’s face, leaving it cold. “Let us make a deal here, princesses of Kemet and Kush,” the lead warrior continued. “You two come with us, and we’ll send you back to your families unharmed…for a handsome price, of course. Otherwise, we’ll have two new skeletons to mount on our cross.” “No, wait, I see a better use for them if they refuse,” his partner to the left said as he licked his lips. “We’ll keep them alive, but they’ll be ours to do as we please. If you know what I mean…” All the Libyans snickered and then guffawed among themselves like ravenous hyenas. Cleopatra’s stomach twisted with nausea. She did not want these unwashed barbarians keeping her and her friend captive to extort their families, but she wanted the Libyans to take advantage of their bodies even less. She would sooner die. “If you want me and my best friend, you’ll have to fight for it,” Cleopatra snarled. “Come and get us!” She and Amanirenas stood put with both their swords drawn as the Libyans charged, roaring a battle cry in their native language. One lunged an arm to grab Cleopatra’s throat. She sidestepped and sank her sword to the hilt into his abdominals. A river of dark crimson spurted from the man’s mouth as he bent over and fell, with both his eyes glazed over as they stared back at her. Never had Cleopatra killed a man with her own blade before, and she could not deny the unease clenching her gut. A second Libyan wrung his muscular arm around her neck and yanked her off the ground. She squirmed and kicked her legs while he squeezed the breath out of her. Cleopatra banged her heel into the barbarian’s shin, and he dropped her, after which Amanirenas finished him off by stabbing his spine. Two more warriors grabbed the princess of Kush by her arms, with a third tearing the sword out of her hand. Cleopatra bolted toward her friend’s attackers until two of the remaining Libyans blocked her way and slashed at her. One of their blades sliced across her tunic, drawing blood from the skin underneath, and she collapsed on her knees from the sharp pain. One of the Libyans pulled on Cleopatra’s braided hair while the other grabbed her wrist and plucked her sword out from her grip, slipping it under his loincloth’s thong. She punched the second warrior’s face with her left fist, breaking his nose with a crack of bone. The Libyan reared up with an anguished, nasal holler while his companion tugged harder on her hair. After throwing a hand overhead to pinch her captor’s forearm between her sharp fingernails, Cleopatra pulled herself free of his grasp, snatched her kopis from the other Libyan’s loincloth, and cut through them both while twirling around on her leg. They fell like trees before a woodcutter. The six Libyans who were left had Amanirenas surrounded and buried beneath their burly bodies. Cleopatra could hear her voice cry out, “Go, Cleo! Don’t worry about me. Run back to your family—tell them to send soldiers after me!” There were more warriors rushing down the gully, all brandishing swords as they converged on the captured Amanirenas. Even at her most determined, Cleopatra had no hope of fighting all of them. “I can’t abandon you, Amani!” she screamed. “Go!” Amanirenas yelled. “Go, go, go!” And so Cleopatra went. She scrambled up from the gulch and sprinted across the desert, pausing only once to see the barbarians carry away her friend along with their chariots and horses. Tears flooded her eyes, turning the world around her into a watery blur, and streaked down her cheeks. Amanirenas may have told her to leave her behind, but doubtless the brutes would do unspeakable things to her friend while they held her, and then her family would have to pay out of their treasury to free her. It was all Cleopatra’s fault. They should have stuck to the hippodrome back in Alexandria instead of venturing out into the desert. Her parents would be furious with her, and so would Amanirenas’s. Even worse, Cleopatra had put her best friend, one of the people she cared about most, in harm’s way. All because she thought racing chariots in the desert would be “more fun”. No, Cleopatra could not let the Libyans ravish or abuse Amanirenas in any way. Not even while she awaited rescue. No, the princess of Kemet had to rescue her Kushite friend as soon as she could, even if she had to do so all alone. Then they could return home that night together, both safe and sound. \# As hot as the desert could get during midday, its heat had all but burned out come sundown, leaving chill breezes to sweep across it under a scarlet sky. Cleopatra had spent the whole time following the Libyans’ tracks down the gulch, which eventually opened into a broader fan of earth that sloped down into a lower, sandy plain. Although the evening winds did blow sand and dust over the footprints, none of them had been strong enough to erase them all from sight. Besides, she could make out a black line of silhouetted palm and acacia trees in front of the setting sun, marking an ideal place for even the hardiest desert tribesmen to shelter for the night. Sneaking toward the oasis, Cleopatra could make out islets of yellow light flickering in front of the palm trees, revealing the dome-like forms of hide tents huddled around them. She climbed a low dune near the encampment to get a better view, crouching behind its crest to stay out of sight of any sentries. Even from a distance, she could hear the rude banter of Libyan tribesmen around the campfires and smell the aroma of roasting goat meat. At the far end of the camp, two warriors with spears and cheetah-skin shields guarded a post that had bound to it a woman bedecked with glittering jewelry and a white linen gown. That had to be Amanirenas herself. Behind the cage slept tethered goats and donkeys as well as the stolen horses with their chariots still attached. Both the princesses still would have had their hunting bows slung on those chariots’ sides, so what Cleopatra needed to do was sneak hers out and shoot an arrow into the darkness to distract the Libyans. Even so, she had to make sure not to wake up and spook the animals. One goat’s startled bleat might blow away her cover. She glided down the dune, lowered herself to a half-crouch, and skirted the camp on tiptoes. Whenever one of the Libyans looked up from their campfires to gaze in her direction, Cleopatra would take cover behind a rock, bush, or one of the outlying trees until they turned their gaze away. Upon reaching the area where they kept their animals, she headed straight for her chariot from behind. Both her horses lay on their folded legs in deep sleep with the reins still on them. As Cleopatra unslung her bow and quiver from her chariot, she rocked it by accident, causing a faint creak. One of the horses raised its head with a low nicker, and a goat bleated. She hurried to the spooked horse and stroked its muzzle with her hands, whispering into its ear to calm it down even while her own heart palpitated. In her mind, the princess of Kemet begged Sekhmet, the lion-faced goddess of war, to bless her with success. Now that she had retrieved her bow, she tiptoed toward the post to which they had bound Amanirenas and drew an arrow along the bow until the string went taut, aiming for the emergent stars in the heavens. She shot, and sure enough, both the men guarding her friend abandoned their positions to get a closer look at where it had hit. Once both tribesmen had moved several paces away, Cleopatra sprang behind the post and sawed the rope off her friend’s hands with her sword. “I told you to go get help first!” Amanirenas whispered. “You’re going to get us both killed!” Cleopatra held her finger over her lips. “We can argue later. Follow me.” One of the two guards had turned his head to face both princesses and pointed his spear at them. “Hey, you! What are you doing without your bonds, princess of Kush?” Both women sped to their chariots while both Libyan guards pursued them. A sentry’s horn blared from the camp as Cleopatra mounted her chariot and flipped her reins while yelling to wake her horses up. One of the guards’ spears flew at her, and she had to tilt her body back to dodge it. The second thrust his weapon at Amanirenas, but the Kushite princess evaded with a sidestep, tore her bow off her chariot and smacked it into his brow, knocking the Libyan out. By the time both the princesses of Kemet and Kush were on their chariots and had awakened their horses, all the warriors in the camp surrounded them with murder ablaze in their eyes. Cleopatra tied her reins around her waist and nocked another arrow to her bow. “This will be like how they hunted antelope in the old days, except more intense.” Amanirenas followed Cleopatra’s example, grinning as she drew out an arrow of her own. “Now you’re talking, Cleo.” The two women shouted for their horses to gallop, and so they did, running through the massed Libyan warriors as if they were nothing more than dense papyrus reeds along the Nile. Men screamed as they fell under the animals’ hooves, their bones and weapons crunching beneath, while Cleopatra and Amanirenas both tortured their ranks with arrows. Having trampled a path of carnage through the tribal horde, they rode out into the desert toward the northeast, with the surviving Libyans charging after them. “I’m sorry I didn’t sound grateful when you cut my bonds,” Amanirenas said. “My family and I owe you everything.” “You’re too kind,” Cleopatra replied. “It goes to show you, Amani, sometimes risks are worth taking.” Something whooshed past her, and one of her horses tumbled off its footing with a shrill neigh, bringing the other one down with it and the chariot to a screeching halt. A Libyan javelin had hit the first horse in the shoulder, and the warriors were closing the distance between them and Cleopatra with tireless speed. She flipped her reins frantically to get her animals to move again, but they would not budge. The Libyans had her entrapped in another ring of men. Like cruel demons from the underworld, they taunted her with bloodthirsty roars while thrashing their swords and spears and stamping their feet on the sand. One of them, whom Cleopatra recognized as the leader of the gang who had attacked her and Amanirenas in the gulch, stepped forth from the horde to approach her with outspread arms. Even his yipping cackle was the same as the one she had heard earlier that day. “Give up, Princess Cleopatra,” the Libyan leader said. “Your horses have fallen, and we have you surrounded. Only if you surrender yourself will we spare you.” Cleopatra drew out her sword, used it to cut the reins off her waist, and pointed it at him. “I’d sooner sink to the darkest depths of the underworld!” “Very well, you’ve chosen to fight to your death. So, fight we shall!” Cleopatra and the Libyan sprang at one another, their swords shooting sparks as they clashed and scraped against each other. As the rest of the barbarians watched, they hooted out one word which Cleopatra took to be her opponent’s name. “Masgava! Masgava! Masgava!” Their blades clanged together many more times in a swirling dance of iron until Cleopatra was able to slash Masgava’s chest, with blood trickling from the cut. The Libyan barbarian growled an unintelligible curse as he swiped back at her. She ducked beneath the blade’s path, but the sword’s pommel came back to crash into her forehead. Specks of bright light flashed in her vision as she fell to the desert floor. Pinning Cleopatra with his foot, Masgava chopped down at her. She parried him, but he had struck with enough force that he brought their blades dangerously close to her face. And he was pushing down on them harder, while her muscles bunched up in resistance. An arrow pierced the Libyan’s eye, its tip poking out the back of his skull. He toppled over with a death rattle, and Cleopatra rose to her feet to see Amanirenas bursting through the horde on her chariot, mowing down men while shooting more arrows at the rest. Emboldened by her friend’s return, she hacked away at the remaining Libyans with her kopis, their blood spraying all over her. The princess of Kush extended a hand to her Kemetian friend. “Get on, and we’ll dash out of here.” Cleopatra jumped onto her friend’s chariot, and together they rode toward the rising moon, escaping a volley of barbarian javelins and leaving the horde far behind. To her surprise, the Libyans did not continue their pursuit, instead retreating in the direction of their camp until they vanished under the horizon. The tribesmen must have found themselves too worn out and battered to keep up the chase. Besides, what they said about Kushite horses was true. They really were among the fastest in the world. Certainly too fast for the Libyans to catch up. “Sorry I didn’t come back sooner,” Amanirenas said. “I’d forgotten to look back and see if you were following me.” “It doesn't matter,” Cleopatra said. “Like you said to me earlier, I owe you everything. But why come back to rescue me by yourself so soon? You could have gone back home to call for help.” “It’s like what you told me a short while ago, Cleo. Sometimes risks are worth taking.” “Well, that is the last time you and I will ever race into trouble like that, Amani.” The princesses of Kemet and Kush laughed together as they rode back to Alexandria. ^(1)**Author’s Note** Although Cleopatra VII Philopater’s dynasty, the Ptolemaic dynasty, undeniably descended from one of the Macedonian Alexander the Great’s generals, her mother’s identity remains unknown. My portrayal of her mother as being related to the Kemetian (Egyptian) priesthood of Amun is strictly authorial speculation. | 19,484 | 1 |
I felt uneasy as I walked around the shop with my hands in my pockets. I was wearing blue cords and a blue aran sweater over top of a button down shirt with a green and blue stripe tie. I thought it would look nice with my brown leather work belt and matching leather chukka boots. That was, of course, not the reason I had this unease hovering inside me. I looked at the menu and thought I’d like a scoop of chocolate chip fudge in my waffle cone. Standing in line the woman in front of me had a pair of Mickey Mouse pajama pants and some faux-wool insulated crocs. She seemed to be a nurse, or maybe in nursing school, by the fact that she was talking to her friend about how clinicals were going and some sort of exam. Her friend, in a pair of sweat pants with a hole in the knee and possibly a ketchup stain on the lap, seemed to be in agreement with everything. When they got to the counter they both ordered sweet and salty something or caramel sea salt something else, I’m not really sure. They moved to the side and I stepped to the cash register. The girl behind the register had a bright red visor that said “Ice Rock Creamery^(TM)” in white letters, and a hoodie with the local college’s mascot scrawled across the front. The Bumble Bees. It too had a stain on it. I placed my order and she asked how I’d like to pay. I told her I did not want to pay and she looked at me as if I had pointed a gun at her and said give me all the money in the till. To clear up this confusion I told her that I was just here for the special, the same that the girls in front of me got. She informed me with a sense of obviousness that one might use to explain the color of the sky to a first-grader that the free scoop was only for people who showed up in their pajamas. She pointed to her hoodie and her Pokemon pajama pants as if to say don’t you see what is going on? I looked at her, then at the two women who had been in front of me, but were now standing to my left and looking back at me as if I were wearing white shoes after Labor Day. The whole place felt like a day care and I realized that I was the child in the playpen, the lunatic in the bin, being carefully observed by the attendants in their scrubs, for I had gotten dressed that morning. Figuring I had already breached the protocol of the occasion, I handled myself with fitting decorum. I looked at the Pokemon-adorned cashier and told her I was wearing my pajamas. She either ignored my statement or assumed I hadn’t heard her properly and repeated that the free ice cream special was only for people that were wearing their pajamas to Ice Rock^(TM). I either ignored her statement or let her assume that I hadn’t heard her properly, and stated again that I was in my pajamas. But this time I stated my order again, chocolate chip fudge. She turned away and called for the manager. A man about my age appeared from the back wearing a red visor that matched hers, and an orange and black felt onesie with a hood that had a tiger’s face and a tail that dragged on the floor behind him. The man asked if I had a problem. I explained myself and he rolled his eyes mumbled to the girl at the register and flicked his left paw. With his other one, he grabbed his tail, turned, and walked away. I sat at the table in the parking lot, looking at all the people in all their pajamas. I wondered how many got changed into their pajamas just for the free ice cream, how many had actively avoided getting dressed for the free ice cream, and how many didn’t even know there was a special happening today. A little drop of ice cream seeped out of the waffle cone. It formed a drop on the tip of the cone, broke loose, and landed on my blue corduroys. The unease finally lifted, and I cancelled my afternoon plans. I wasn’t about to go to Target looking like this. \*\*\* Follow QuillandTrowel on Medium for more. Link in profile. | 3,940 | 1 |
“Tyler!” Emma shouted. He turned the corner, a lost look upon his face. Emma was in Ms. Norris’ bedroom now, looking at the old dresser that sat against the wall. The couple moved in across the street some time ago, and Ms. Norris took an instant liking to them. She made them pies on Thanksgiving, cookies on Christmas, and she always made a special dinner for them on March 10th, Emma’s birthday. The couple was always grateful, but they wondered why Ms. Norris took such care in them. Today though, Ms. Norris’ son asked if they wanted anything out of his mother’s home before it was discarded. “Look!” she said, a flicker of excitement in her eyes. “I’ve been looking for this style! Wouldn’t it look great in the guest room?”, she asked him, already having her heart placed firmly in the drawer. Old lady Norris had fallen again. She was lying on the carpet when her son opened the door, and he called an ambulance out of fear. She should’ve been moved years prior, but she was stubborn. He allowed her to reside in the place she bought back in the ‘70’s, but negation was over – she couldn’t live on her own anymore. “Looks great.” Tyler said. “Is it in good shape?” Emma ran her hand along the surface, her palm collecting the dust. To her surprise, the thing was real, not that fake wood that she despised. The varnish had worn off, and it needed to be filled in some places, but she was excited for the process. Craigslist and Marketplace were dead ends and people wanted her soul for a piece of garbage, but she knew this was something good. This was Ms. Norris’ dresser. Her bed sat on the opposite wall; the mirror and dresser a unit, reflecting the image. The walls were papered with a hippie-like floral pattern, and the edges of it were peeling and curling in on itself at the corners. The house was clean, but it grew increasingly obvious that Ms. Norris needed assistance. The asking price for the dresser was fair, and Emma paid the old woman’s son. She told him that they’d be back tomorrow, as Tyler’s truck was due for an oil change and still sitting at the local shop. \*\*\* “Jesus Christ!” Tyler said. He’d forgotten that the thing was of Maple wood, the reason that Emma bought it, and decided they should remove the drawers before trying to move the unit. Emma pulled each drawer out, being careful around the splintered edges. The dresser wasn’t in bad shape, but it was certainly used for many years, and she didn’t want to make more work for herself. She would mark the dresser as “well-loved” if she were selling it, but it meant more to her sitting in the guest room. She imagined that someday, she would meet her biological family, and she would invite them to stay with her. This was the reason for the guest room. Since she was a girl, she imagined her mother and father, who they were, what they did for work. She knew she had a brother, but she didn’t know his name. She didn’t even know her biological mother’s last name. After 60 years of life, Emma’s search for her birth-givers had proved to be a dead end, and she knew time was running out. But the guest room allowed hope to remain a flame. Emma pulled the drawers from the bottom first, as she was already crouching due to helping Tyler lift the dresser. They came out fairly easy, and she knew it was a great sign: the track was still of good use. The last two drawers were the smaller of the lot, and the ones that were the roughest. The edges of the drawer were split, and the finish had worn off, seemingly where it saw the most contact with flesh. Removing the top drawers, a small envelope fell through the back, where the wood had shrunk from years of temperature fluctuation. She watched it float to the floor, and she winced as it sliced through the top layer of flesh on her middle toe. She turned it in her hands after she set the remaining drawers down and cursed herself for adding more scratches the top of the dresser. Time had turned the edges of the envelope a kind of yellow, and the paper felt rather thin in Emma’s hands. She thought she could see something written on the front of it, but years of age had stripped the ink from the fibers. There was a hint of something there, and she squinted her eyes to derive the lettering from the paper. No luck. “What’s that?”, Tyler asked her, returning from his truck. “I’m not sure.” she said. “It fell out of one of the top drawers.” She stuffed it in her back pocket and put the remaining drawers in the truck. The envelope was calling to her, begging her to tear it open, but the falling sun was casting a dark shadow through the house. She wasn’t scared of Ms. Norris’ place but being in someone else’s house at dark was an unwelcome feeling to her. The dresser slid into the bed of the truck, and Emma locked Ms. Norris’ house. \*\*\* The couple situated the dresser in the garage, as it wasn’t ready for the house yet. Emma’s excitement shone through her piercing blue eyes, and she planted a small kiss on her husband’s cheek with gratitude. As it was Sunday, and work came early, she readied herself for sleep. She slipped herself under the billowy comforter and found her book on the nightstand where she left it that morning. She would soak in the warmth just until Tyler was done with the shower, as he always replaced the comforter with something much lighter. She found her page mark, and flipped the book open just as she remembered the envelope that left a small cut on her toe. She threw her legs over the bed and found her jeans lying on the floor where she left them. She turned the envelope in her hands after she retrieved it from one of the pockets. To Emma, this felt like an intrusion of Ms. Norris’ space and privacy. Did Ms. Norris know that she son was renting a dumpster? Emma feared that she thought she would be returning home. Feeling guilty, Emma forced her index finger under the flap, and took the letter from its covering. \*\*\* 3/10/1950 Sweet Child, I sit here and write to you through tears. I was told that writing to you would be a final goodbye, but I was unaware that we would part ways. The other girls here told me that I might find peace in closure, but I do not know how you will ever forgive me. I will never forgive myself. When I found out I was pregnant with you, I told my mother, and I begged to make it work. I begged at my parent’s feet to keep you, to keep my baby girl. But I am still in high school, and I would need their help and support. I have a job, and I know I could partially support us, but I do not have anyone’s blessing. Instead, they sent me here. I am 17 years old, and my parents are important members of the church. The church advised them to send me here, to this facility, so I could give birth peacefully and remain healthy. The nurses have taken care of me for many months, and I am very grateful for their services. But, after I gave birth, they allowed me less than a glance before they took you away, though I still caught your face. I want you to know that I love you, my sweet girl. I do not know if you will ever find me, and I don’t know if you will care to. If you do, my name is Sandra Norris. You have my eyes, my sweet girl. So, if you are looking for me in a crowd, look for those ice blue eyes, okay? I am not sure what else to give you, but I will tell you that I love you, I am so sorry. I will always love you, Your mother \*\*\* Salt streams fell from Emma’s ice blue eyes, suddenly dampening the envelope. The ink shone through the fibers, and she realized she knew the family she was searching for. Her brother sold her the dresser. Her mother’s dresser would wait for her in the guest room. The name “Emma” was inscribed on the envelope. \*\*\* Hello! I crafted this piece in hopes of having it published in a local literary magazine. The only parameters I am writing to is a limit of 1,500 words, which can be tricky at times. Please feel free to leave feedback with the thought of having this published. I want to ensure that it is up to par, and it has adequate substance. It has room to grow, and edits to be made. If you don't mind, I wanted to ask a few questions. While answering the questions, please keep in mind that I am 19, and rather a juvenile writer. Thanks! 1. Is there enough of a character arc? Do you care about the character? 2. Is there evidence/breadcrumbs of Ms. Norris being Emma's mother? 3. Should I add more memories involved with Ms. Norris being across the street? 4. How does the title feel? 5. How are the tenses? (I usually struggle here...) 6. | 8,747 | 2 |
Olivia kicked down the door to Polly's room and grabbed her by the hair. Polly screamed and tried to resist, but Olivia pulled her downstairs to the living room. With a heave, Olivia tossed her to the couch. Polly decided to stay on the couch to not provoke further rage from Olivia. Reid was outside with a bow and arrow in his hands prepared to fire. Jim was standing close with an apple on his head. It was obvious to any neutral observer that Reid wasn't aiming for the apple. Olivia stepped on Reid's foot causing the arrow to go through the apple. Both men were disappointed by this and even more disappointed when she pinched their ears and dragged them to the living room. The last person to gather was Frida. Frida was in a tree hunting a squirrel. The branch she crawled on was thin, and Olivia tossed one of her sewing needles at it. The squirrel jumped to another branch while Frida hit the ground. Olivia lugged her in the house by her left leg. Frida was still unconscious. "Alright, which one of you sent me the letter?" Olivia held up a piece of paper. She shook it around rapidly before anyone could analyze it properly. "What does it even say?" Polly asked. Olivia narrowed her eyes. "You're playing dumb because you already know." "I have no clue what it says. Besides, don't you already think I'm dumb." "I find you more annoying than dumb, and a blackmail letter is annoying," Olivia said. "A blackmail letter." Reid laughed and shook his head. "Why do you think any of us would do that to you? I am way more direct with my mischief." Reid pointed at Frida and Jim. "The two of them can't read or write." "Hey, I can read," Jim said. Reid ignored him and pointed at Polly. "Also, Polly would never purposefully anger you." "Thank you." Polly nodded her head. "She's more likely to passively anger us all by being so annoying," Reid said. Polly's mouth dropped at the backhanded nature of the compliment. "Yeah, but listen to it." Olivia held it up her face. *You are a mean old woman. You will die alone unless you change your ways.* "Isn't that something you all would say?" Olivia asked. "Anyone who talks to you for more than two seconds would think that." Polly rolled her eyes. "Besides, I never thought you would die alone. I thought we would all die together due to Jim's stupidity," Reid said. "Aww thanks." Jim patted Reid on the back. "Well, you can't deny the next part was written by one of you." Olivia went back to the note. *If you don't become nicer, I will share with the world what you did on the thirtieth of May five years ago.* "You are the only people who know what happened on that day," Olivia said. The three people on the couch looked at each other nervously. A few times, one person raised a finger only to put it back down again. "Was that a Tuesday?" Polly asked. "I think it was a Thursday," Reid said. "The day of the week is not important. What's important is that the events of that day are being used against me," Olivia said. "Was that when Jim tried to make us all banana and jelly sandwiches, and it went horribly wrong?" Reid asked. "No, she wasn't there on that day. I think she's talking about when we found those raccoons." Polly shook her head. "I still can't believe how cruel they were." "It's neither of those events. She's clearly referring the time she put too much cinnamon in her coffee cake," Jim said. Olivia tensed at the mere mention of that event. "Wait, that's it. That's nothing," Reid said. "It was a family recipe. My grandma's spirit visited me that night. If my cousins discovered the truth." Olivia shook her head. "I don't know how I can live." "Wow, your family takes something stupid way too easily," Polly said. Olivia slapped her. "Do not insult the coffee cake. Now, which one of you shared my secret," Olivia said. Frida's head rotated a few times before she lifted it up slightly. "What happened?" she asked. "It was clearly Jim since he's the only one that remembers what happened?" Reid said. "I might remember it, but I can't write a note. Also, I would say it to her face. Polly is the one that hates you the most," Jim said. "Oh my god, why is everything being put on me?" Polly shouted. "Because you are the most annoying, quite frankly, all of you are guilty," Olivia said. "Why are you holding my blackmail note?" Frida asked. "Shut up you-" Olivia looked down at Frida. "Your blackmail note." "Yeah, I got a note threatening to tell everyone about the time I pretended to be a fish," Frida said. "Why is that blackmail worthy?" Olivia asked. "I swam the wrong way," Frida said. "Did you all get blackmail notes?" Olivia asked. The three people on the couch ran to their respective bedrooms and found notes on their pillows. Reid and Polly read there's simultaneously while Jim assumed his was bad. The three looked up with terror in their eyes. Everyone in the house was a victim of extortion. | 5,165 | 1 |
He was dead. Celius was really dead. I can feel the warmth of his body escape my arms as seconds turn to minutes, the shock of his death still reverberating in my mind. Celius was my mentor, my teacher, our leader and try as I might, I could do nothing to stem the blood flowing from his body. I look up as horses and men flee in all directions and all I can do is sit here with Celius in my lap as they spread chaos around me. Men trip over buckets of water while unsaddled horses gallop over canvas tents, igniting the tangled fabric on cooking fires. The battle is not yet over but the route has begun. We’ve almost all but lost as I watch men and beast alike break. “Romulus, get up! We need to run before the lines break!” It was Cato, a fellow squire. He’s holding my arm in a vice grip while violently shaking me, begging me to stand up and run with him. I look at him and notice that his once pristine blond and curly hair was now matted with blood and mud, matching the streak on the side of his face. He glances about as if his head were on a swivel before looking at me with eyes wild and full of fear. A horse on fire sprints across the camp, screaming as it makes for the tree line, but collapses before making it out of camp. “Come on, Romulus! Celius is dead, so is Palmer! We need to run before the Antonians break through,” Cato leans in close, keeping a firm grip on my arm and whispers into my ear, “You know what they do to captives right? You’ve heard the stories too; we need to run and try to make it home.” Home. Neither of us had seen home for some time now. Not since the Antonians invaded. It was all exciting at first, leaving home for battle just like the stories we were told as children. A squire’s first chance to get a taste of adventure, a chance to see the spectacle of battle, but that was months ago. We had long since lost a taste for the spectacle of battle and all the baggage that it brings. Now, as the final battle between our nations raged on only a few hundred yards from me, all I could think about was home. Home. If we fall here and now, there will be no one left to stop the Antonian army from marching on the capital. If the Geysian military was no match for the Antonian’s then the City Watch wouldn’t have a prayer. The Antonian’s would crush them, leaving our families to the mercy of these barbarians who are known for their cruelty. “Cato, I can’t. We can’t leave.” “What? Are you mad? We’re squires, we don’t fight. Leave it to them.” He points to the line in the distance, where we can hear the clang of metal on metal as swords clash. “We can’t leave Cato. Not now, we must fight. If we lose, what will happen to our families. My sisters, your mother, and your little brother, what about them?” “That’s why we leave now! If we can beat the Antonians to the capital we can escape the city before they get there, come with me.” Cato tugs on my arm but I’ve had enough. I can’t leave. I can’t run away and spend my life branded as a coward, family in tow. No, it ends today, for me or for them, but it ends. “Run Cato, run if you must, but I can’t chance it. If the Antonians crush us here, there will be no hope for anyone in all the known world. No where will be safe.” I get up, dropping Celius’ body to the ground before removing his armor. I start with the shins, unstrapping the plate steel from his body and then strapping it to mine. Celius wasn’t big for his age, but I am, meaning his armor should fit me without any discomfort. “You’re really going out there aren’t you, Romulus?” “Yes, Cato, someone has to.” “But you have no sword, Celius’ sword is lost out there. How will you fight with just a shield?” “I’ll just pick one up from the ground.” “You were always lucky like that.” “What do you mean? Luck’s never favored me.” “In little things, Romulus, but when it matters the gods seem to smile on you.” “If you say so, Cato. Help me with this armor, please.” Cato helps me into Celius’ armor and then we say our goodbyes. I make Cato promise to take my family with him, which he does and just like that he’s off. I watch him run away from our camp and the battle as I say a silent prayer to the gods before he disappears in the tree line. Turning my attention to the battle, I lift up Celius shield and adjust the leather strap, securing it to my arm with a few buckles. The shield is heavy and I’m not sure how long I can hold it, but I will try my best because I must. I must remain strong for those who need me back home. I must fight and kill for them and if the gods will it, maybe I’ll survive for them, but that’s extra at this point. My heartbeat quickens as I pick up speed into a trot and then a run towards the battle as the roar of men locked in mortal combat draws closer. The chaos of the line fills my view as my heart thumps in my chest, beating faster and faster as I near the rear of the line. I rush through and let forth a war cry before joining the chaos. Yelling as if possessed and acting on pure impulse at first. Bodies bump into me from all directions, shoving me left and right before I feel steel strike my shield. The blow is much more powerful than I expected but my buckles hold steady. They hold steady even as more blows follow. I am now part of the line and together we push back against the Antonian onslaught. Men scream and bodies fall around me, and I have yet to find a sword. I scan the ground as I move with the line, stepping over bodies as we push forward. Instead, I swing my shield with all my might, making contact with an unarmored Antonian berserker and knocking him to the ground. The bare-chested man squirms on the ground but before he can get up or swing one of his swords, I drive down the edge of my shield into his skull, separating his head and upper jaw from his torso and lower jaw. My shield sticks in the ground, protecting me from arrows, spears, and swords as I kneel and take one of the berserker’s short swords from him. I feel the steel out and adjust it in my grip just as someone strikes me from the side, but Celius’ armor deflects the blow. I turn and swipe with the berserker’s sword, killing the attacker. Blood lust fills my senses and I swing the berserker’s sword like a mad man between ducks behind Celius’ shield. Celius’ lessons did not fall on idle ears and all those hours we spent training together manage to keep me in the fight, but I can feel my discipline slip as I release all the rage and sadness inside me like dogs of war. Then, the crowd parts and I find that I’ve somehow managed to cut through the Antonian line. Now, I am all but surrounded by the Antonian army. The Antonian line withdraws from our front, moving back in a crescent. We watch as the center of the Antonian line opens, parting for one man, King Antonian. The beating of drums heralds the approach of King Antonian, and we watch on as he strides forward atop a large white horse, far larger than other horse I have ever seen in my life. However, now that we see the King, it’s obvious why his horse must be so large. It must be large enough to carry the weight of King Antonian, who in turn is the biggest man I have ever seen in my short life. Palmer, Cato’s knight, was a large man, but I believe even he would have been dwarfed by the Antonian King. “Is this the best the Nation of Geysia has to offer,” The king laughs as he steps off his horse and casually walks towards me. “A boy no bigger than a knight’s shield. Well, boy, here’s your chance.” King Antonian spreads his arms wide, exposing his armor-clad torso, daring me to strike. I grip the hilt of the berserker’s sword and charge towards King Antonian, taking him up on his offer. I can tell from the brief moment of shock that my speed surprises him, but the element of surprise isn’t enough as a steel clad boot kicks my shield, throwing me back and into the mud as the berserker sword is tossed from my grip. The King laughs. “I hope your women put up that much of a fight, boy. Tell me boy, before I end your life, are you all Geysia has to offer? If so, we may as well turn around and head back to Antonia, because what poor slaves you will make if this is all you have.” The king spins around and chuckles as his men laugh back. “But the women!” a voice cries out in jest from the Antonian line. Most of the men laugh, while a few catch their breath from the break in battle. “I am,” the words come out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. Fear has a funny way of manifesting sometimes but now I am committed. King Antonian stops. He turns his head and looks at me with a coy smile. “What was that boy?” “I am!” I yell back, “I am the best my nation has to offer, and there are more like me. We will fight you in the forests, we will fight you in the city, we will fight you to the last man.” “Ha, is that so. Well then, let’s end the war here today, shall we? What do you think men? Should I spare your lives today?” Some of the Antonian soldiers cheer while a few feign disappointment with fake “boos” as a way to signify that they want the battle to continue. “I tell you what boy, in our culture, we have a tradition. It goes something like this, ‘nothing is given, everything is earned. keep only what you kill.’ So, I propose this, you fight for Geysia, and I’ll fight for Antonia. Whoever wins, wins the war. How does that sound? Do you think you have it in you to kill a king?” “King or not, all men must die,” I reply. “Ha, true words, boy. True words. Someone, bring this boy a knight’s sword. We want to keep things fair, don’t we? We can’t have the Boy of Geysia, best of their nation, kill a king with a Berserker’s sword, can we?” A man in leather armor steps forward and throws a sword in the air. The sword sails across the open field like a javelin, stabbing into the ground before me. It’s a knight’s sword, I can tell from the ornate golden inlays and from the way the metal alloy shines with a mirror finish. It glistens in the daylight, just as it did the day it was created. A knight’s sword indeed. I walk up to the sword and pull it from the ground, looking at my reflection on its polished surface. It is familiar to me, I recognize the polish and the hilt, it is Celius’ sword. Light as a feather and stronger than berserker steel, it is familiar to me and more than enough to kill a king. “Well, boy, do you agree to our terms?” “I guess it doesn’t matter if I do, does it?” “Ha, no it doesn’t.” King Antonian runs at me with his sword and shield in hand. He moves fast for a man his size and I react just in time to lift my shield, only to hear the metal dent from his first strike. Then again and again. His blows are mighty and quick, but for now I’m fast enough to catch his swings. Each strike radiates out of my shield so violently that I can feel the vibrations of his strikes deep in my bones. He’s fast and fresh, making this pace impossible to keep but for now I hold. “Know this boy! Before the buzzards clean last bit of flesh from your bones, I will put your city to the flame and unleash my men on your women.” He swings again but I deflect again as all I can do is focus on defense, but I know it’s futile. King Antonian’s pace and strength are too much and unless I change the momentum of this fight, he will quickly overwhelm me. King Antonian swings with a downward strike again, but instead of deflecting with my shield, I sidestep to the left as fast as I can. King Antonian’s sword cuts through the air and strikes the ground, missing me by a mere inch. I spin around, looking for an opening, and find one behind his shin where the plate steel ends and the leather under armor begins. Celius’s sword slices through the thick leather with ease and draws the King’s blood while I keep moving forward, hooking around behind the King. There, I see another opening, between the steel of his helm and breast plate. I swipe for his neck but King Antonian blocks my blow with his shield before pushing me back. “You’re fast, Boy. I’ll give you that. In time, I may even remember this day, but you’re not the first to strike a king, and you won’t be the last.” King Antonian stands up from his kneeing position before shaking to readjust his armor, “Enough, time to end this.” He charges once more at me, this time striking hard enough to splinter the bone in my arm beneath my shield. I cry out in pain and fall back as King Antonian throws his shield away, focusing everything on his attack. He swings, this time with his sword in both hands, but I mange to block his blow again, and again, denying him a quick finish, even as my arm breaks from the onslaught. Collapsing to the ground, I hold myself up with the elbow of my left arm, my sword arm. Everything hurts, and my right arm screams at me with white hot pain as I try to lift my shield again, but I’m unable to find the strength to get it quite there. King Antonian has other ideas and grabs the top of my shield yanking it from my limp grip and tossing it away like a child’s toy. “Time to die, boy,” King Antonian says before lifting his sword over his head with both arms. He stands squarely in front of me, preparing to chop me in half with one swipe, something I have no doubt that he’s fully capable of doing. That’s when I notice a spot of tobacco brown leather, a gap in the steel of the king’s chest plate right beneath his heart, an opening. Where it came from, I have no idea, damaged from battle maybe? It’s hard to miss, considering the interlocking nature of the steel plates on his armor, but easily exposed as he rears back to deliver his final blow. An island of vulnerability in a sea of silver plate steel interlocked together by thick bands of steel rings. At the height of his extension, I spin, bringing up my sword and push off the ground with the palm of my hand at the end of my broken arm. Starbursts of white-hot pain flood my vision, but I feel my strike hit its mark as the sharp steel of a Knight’s Sword parts the leather and slides in as if it were piercing butter on a hot day; no resistance. “Time to die, King,” I respond as King Antonian’s face goes slack from disbelief. The heavy man falls to the ground on his side before rolling over onto his back as Celius’ sword sticks out of his chest, just as it had in the ground not 5 minutes earlier. A bird chirps from the trees but both armies remain silent. Picking myself up from the ground, I put one boot on King Antonian’s belly before drawing my blood covered sword from his body and turning to the Antonian army. “Your king is dead; the war is over. Go home,” I was never the poetic type, which is only made worse by my exhaustion. To my surprise the Antonian army drops their weapons before dropping down to one knee and bowing their heads in subjection. Savage as they may be, their traditions are strong, and the King’s words ring in my mind, “Nothing is given, everything is earned. Keep only what you kill,” and that is how I became the Boy Conqueror. | 15,136 | 1 |
To survive in certain neighborhoods of Mexico City you need to be tough and intelligent, and Hugo was both. His family owned a convenience store next to the house where I lived, and in the late evenings, if you paid attention, you could hear Hugo screaming profanities at everyone: delivery drivers bringing merchandise to his store; the workers who tended the businesses across the street; his customers; unsuspecting motorists making their way across the neighborhood or any one of his six siblings. He was a foul mouthed, fearless and confident individual. Hugo must have been around seventeen in the mid 1980s, and I should’ve been eight. He liked to torment me and my sister, making fun of us or slapping us on the back of the head when we were paying attention to something else. I remember him chasing us around with a fly in his hand because he was trying to make us eat it. From him I learned the word “prostitute”. He used it one afternoon as we were watching a huge contingent of students marching along the street to protest government corruption or something like that. There was a small child (no older than 5) next to him and Hugo told him all of a sudden “Look, I bet your mom is in that crowd because she’s such a damn prostitute. But Hugo also had a kind side. Sometimes, when he was by himself in the store, my sister and I would hang around and he would help us with our school homework and he would make himself breakfast and share it with us. Looking back, I never saw him getting in a fight with anybody and I also don’t remember anyone getting mad at him. He was charismatic as he was vulgar. My most vivid memory of him involves a broken toy car, the kind that has a winding mechanism inside that you wind by pulling the toy backwards and then releasing it. I asked Hugo if he could fix it and he said yes, softly and without hesitation. I saw him work for no longer than 5 minutes. His face, normally expressing sarcasm and mockery, was filled with focus and intelligence and kindness. He fixed my toy fast and without tools except for a rusty kitchen knife. He heated the knife in the stove until it was glowing red and then made two cuts in the plastic cover at the bottom of the car. He pull a broken plastic gear and welded it back with the hot knife. At this point the knife was getting cold so he had to heat it again and I watched open mouthed how he welded the toy cover back with the knife. I was full of awe and admiration for him and, if he had asked me then to eat a fly (luckily he didn’t) I probable would have done it. I decided right there and then that I wanted to be like him. So, from that moment on, and until a horrified lady explained to me the meaning of the word, I started calling everyone a “prostitute”. | 2,773 | 1 |
>Thirty-seven minutes, I can make it. A streak of white light tears through the Atlantic Ocean at inhuman speed. The streak dodges and leaps over waves to maintain top speed. Ahead of the streak, a large tanker ship is on fire, people screaming from the deck railing. Rescue boats can be seen sailing toward the disaster. >Thirty-two minutes left...eh, I got time The streak redirects, heading straight for the tanker. In the span of three minutes, the streak fills half a dozen lifeboats with every passenger on the tanker. After dropping the last man off, a glowing white humanoid figure stands before him. "One hundred and sixteen crew members," says the glowing figure, "also including six cats, a couple of fish, and a ferret. Am I forgetting anyone?" The man slowly shakes his head "no" as he stares at the glowing figure in awe. The figure looks down at their wrist. "Shit! Gotta go! Sail safe!" The glowing figure leaped back into the water, running off into the distance. \ A lightly bruised man slides onto the sandy beach as two thugs saunter over to him. "What's wrong, hotshot?" asks one of the thugs. "not so big now, huh?" Thug one kicks the man further into the beach, forcing him to cough up blood. "Oooh, that looked like it hurt," says Thug Two. Before the two could harm the man anymore, a cloud of dust swept across the beach, blinding the three men. When the cloud faded, the two thugs were tied to a light post next to a cop mid-donut. Meanwhile, a very confused nurse looks down to find a cheap emergency kit and the bruised man. >Seventeen minutes. Come on! Pick it up! The figure races through cities and across highways, leaving a burning trail behind them as they speed through the country. The figure slides into an exit rail, crashing several times until stopping in a mud-filled ditch. "Ok, a little too fast there," says the figure. They pick themselves up and dust themselves off as they run back onto the road, passing a sign that reads, # "Welcome to Mayday Bay!" The glowing figure darts through the small town, racing into an abandoned apartment complex for half a second before running back out. The figure then leaves the city and enters a residential area, keeping to the speed limit. As the figure slows down, their glow fades, revealing a light-skinned man in khakis, a red baseball T-shirt, and worn-down sneakers. As the man heads onto the sidewalk, he slows to an average human's jogging pace. The man runs up to the front door of a house with a mile-wide smile as he looks at his watch. "Aaaaaaaand with six minutes to spare!" says the man, "Booyah!" He goes to knock on the door but misses it as it opens. A taller woman wearing pajamas looks at the man unamused. "Mag, before you say anything, check it!" The man puts his watch in the woman's face. "Not late!" "You forgot to rest your watch again, Luke," says Mag without even looking down at the watch. "You're still on Bangui time. 7 a.m. there, midnight here." Luke looks at his watch and then at a nearby clock behind Mag. He deflates as the realization hits him. Luke quickly bear hugs Mag. "Mag, I'm so sorry," says Luke, "I promise..." "Save it," says Mag. Luke jerks back at her response. "I set the box to record the finale after you left, and before you ask, yes, I did watch it, and yes, I will tease you about it the entire time." Luke's eyes go wider than dinner plates. "I don't deserve you!" says Luke. "Aw babe," says Mag, "no one does. Now, get in here. Dinner/ breakfast is getting cold." Mag starts to walk inside but ends up being bridal-carried by Luke. "I think dinner/breakfast can wait a few more minutes," says Luke. A faint pink glow radiates from his body. Mag giggles as she wraps her arms around Luke's neck. "I guess I have some time to spare," says Mag. The two giggle together as Luke kicks the door behind him closed. `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.` `If you have any comments, critiques, or criticisms, don't be afraid to let me hear 'em (as long as they're constructive (or funny)). | 4,479 | 1 |
I saw Rocco’s picture while I was scrolling through the adoption website and I knew then that that was who I wanted to get. There were other dogs that looked cute, that fit my parameters—others that even had a similar brown and white coat—but Rocco stood out to me. He was the happiest looking of all the other dogs. A four-year Corgi the size of a shoebox I found out when I met him at the adoption center. When I saw him, he was in a pen with five other small dogs. They barked and whistled and yipped around each other, but Rocco sat off to the side. Whenever one of the tussles sent a dog rearing back toward Rocco, they appeared to take cautious notice of their proximity to him, and almost in fear, run back to the group for security. Rocco did not seem affected by this shunning. He sat almost in a meditative way, as if he were concentrating, as if we were causing the stirring of the other pups with that concentration. The employee named the pups for me with a point of the finger that swiveled around to follow the playing pups. She ended still on the solitary monk. “And that’s… Rocco,” she said with an undertone of caution. I could see the way her face twitched in repugnance and how her eyes didn’t want to look at him. She unlocked the little gate and we walked in to play with the pups, but I knew already that I wanted Rocco. He was calm and quiet, and while the employee might not have had a good relationship with him, Rocco sure took a liking to me. The lady showed the other pups and they came to her obediently, but when she called for Rocco, he ignored her and instead came over to me and brushed himself against my leg. He attached himself to me—to the lady’s annoyance as she tried to show off the other dogs—and I found that our match was made in heaven. His records said that he had been dropped off by someone who’d found him walking along the street without a collar and that he’d been in the shelter for nearly four months without any incidents except the one time he bit another dog. The papers wrote it off as a freak incident, so I ignored it and signed the papers. When I clipped my leash to his collar, he was prancing with jubilance and whining with a fervent excitement. He was tugging on the leash until I got the car door open and he jumped up into the passenger seat with delight. He rode beside me with indescribable pleasure. His tongue never saw the inside of his mouth as he sat with his silly, happy grin. His breathing was quick with eagerness and his head jutted around to see everything to be seen. When we arrived at my house, he was quick to claim the grass and the bushes and the ash tree and the flowers and the mailbox as his own with a spritz of his urine, and found the front doorstep by his own foresight. I let him inside and he was politely cautious of the new environment. He sniffed everything he could, and when he found the couch, he was reluctant to jump up and sit, so I went and sat down. “It’s okay buddy.” I patted the cushion beside me and he jumped up and nestled himself into me, licking my cheeks with gratitude. I held his face between my hands and gave him a kiss on the muzzle and I scratched behind his ears and along his neck and he rolled over on his back so I could scratch his belly and I let my jaw unzip and leaned forward to let the tentacles pull Rocco into the sanguine abyss. | 3,430 | 5 |
“Prices to Pay” (Conclusion of a series that began ) by P. Orin Zack (02/25/2011) “I told you,” Phaeron Huxley said angrily as he backed into his partner’s vacant desk, “I’m not going to go hang out in a goddamn forum just to clean up that bastard’s mess!” Majgda Brourske, the fractured partnership’s overworked office manager, took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, but failed miserably. “That ‘bastard’, as you call him,” she said, still shaking, “was responsible for making this business a success.” “A success? My god, woman, haven’t you been paying attention? Alluis Benoit single-handedly turned whatever success we had into a laughingstock!” He glanced away disgustedly, and then glared at her in contempt. “That moron crapped all over our customers! And you think I should defend him?” Both turned as one when the roar of a tractor-trailer rig flooded through the suddenly opened doorway. Ben stood there, backlit by the bright Kansas sky, with one hand on the handle and the other splayed at shoulder-height in greeting. He’d opened his mouth to say something, but never got the chance. “Ben,” Majgda said, relieved, “I’m glad you—.” Phaeron rose and shouldered her aside. “Shouldn’t you be talking to the cops just about now? After all, you did steal my ride, totaled it god-knows why, and then fled the state.” Ben grimaced. “I will. But I wanted to talk to you first.” “You want to talk? Why? So you can fast-talk your way out of the charges? I’ve seen you in action, buddy-boy, and there’s no way I’m going to get suckered in by another one of your been-there-done-that so-called memories of the future.” “But they’re real… well, at least they were!” Majgda shook her head in confusion. “What? What are you two talking about?” “My motorcycle,” Phaeron said, tapping the side of his head. “You know, the one I rode to work every d—.” “Not that, the memories.” “Oh, right,” Phaeron said lightly, “we hired you on afterwards. Dipwad here claimed that the reason he looked me up at the college was because of a memory he had of a business deal we were going to luck into to get our initial funding.” She swung around towards Ben. “Is that true?” “About the memories? Yeah, but like I said, that’s over with now. Besides, the last one that had anything to do with this business was about giving our customers upgrade credits for referrals, and that idea worked out just fine.” Phaeron nodded once, but caught himself. “Hold it right there, Sherlock. If awarding credits for referrals was your last memory of the future, then what about our in-game credit sales? You told me it was a sure thing!” Ben stepped inside and let the darkened-glass door swing shut behind him. “And it was. You can’t argue with that.” “I might not,” Majgda said, “but you’d probably get an argument from players who were so hot on upgrading their weapons and treasures that they didn’t notice the new in-game credit purchase icon. Customers don’t like being tricked into buying.” “Hey, come on,” Ben said defensively, “they did have to click through the change to their contract terms.” “Oh, give me a break,” Phaeron said, shaking his head in disgust. “I told you that changing the logic from no-sale for insufficient game points to an automatic credit card deduction was a bad idea.” “Maybe so,” Majgda said lightly. “But you thought it was a pretty sweet deal when I handed you that bonus check.” He frowned, crossed his arms, and plopped into one of the guest chairs. “In any case,” Ben said, “I wanted to explain what happened before turning myself in to the police.” She thought for a moment. “Why? What’s so important?” “Well, for one, I want you both to know that I feel bad about leaving you in the lurch like that.” He was quiet for a beat, and then added, “Especially when you hear why I did it.” “Let me guess,” Phaeron said, “another memory?” He nodded. “It was the hardest one I’d ever tried to live through, too: me crashing a motorcycle on the highway.” “Crashing…?” Majgda said, astonished. “Why would you want to do that?” “Did you think I wanted to risk my neck? I was never so scared in my life. But I had to. I had to. I remembered it happening that way, just as clearly as I remembered getting hurt on a swing when I was in grade school. Only that time, I hid.” “That’s crazy! If you were smart enough to avoid getting hurt when you were a kid, why did you rush right into it this time?” “Because of what came after. Look, that incident at school taught me to pay attention to my memories of the future. When the events in my life started to catch up with my memories of them, I began to realize that the important parts of those memories were what happened after the crisis. I found that if I could make it through the hard parts, I could get the prize. So I knew I had to crash a motorcycle, because I wanted that reward.” Phaeron huffed. “Well, that clears everything up then, doesn’t it? You had no choice but to steal my bike just so you could destroy it and get a power-up. Where do you think you live, Ben, inside a videogame? I’m sure the prosecutor’s going to really love that one.” “If it means anything to you, my memory didn’t play out this time. What was supposed to have happened was that a guy in a Passat stops to see if I’m okay, and then gives me a ride. Then, out on the highway, he gets a cell call that puts me onto my next business deal.” Majgda looked puzzled. “No cell call?” He shook his head. “Not even the guy in the VW.” “None of which solves the problems that you left us with,” Phaeron said caustically. “Did you have some delusion that we were going to be happy to see you?” “No, but maybe there’s still something I can do to help.” “Sure there is. Leave. Turn yourself in. Or better yet, get me a new motorcycle. They’re not cheap, you know.” Ben was still stewing when the phone rang. He glanced quickly at Phaeron and Majgda. “Should I… should I get that? After all, customer service was my responsibility.” “It was,” Majgda said uncomfortably. “But you did walk out on us.” She nodded to Phaeron. “Go ahead. You’ll be all right.” Ben relaxed a bit while the company’s software genius put the call on speaker and reeled off the standard greeting. He silently echoed their well-practiced boilerplate, and then shifted his gaze to the speakerphone when Phaeron asked how he could help. There was no voice, just the sound of ragged breathing. “Hello?” Phaeron said irritably. “Is anyone there?” After a sob, a very timid female voice said, “I… I don’t know what to do anymore.” “Ma’am, I’d like to help you, but unless you tell me what’s going on, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do. If you’re having some kind of emergency, maybe you’d better call 911.” “Well…” she said hazily, “the way things are going, it might just come to that.” Majgda silently encouraged him, and nodded her confidence that he’d be okay. “What happened?” “Ohh…” she moaned, “it’s everything. First the mortgage check bounced, and now my home improvement loan’s been kicked up to thirty-five percent. We were just squeaking by as it was, and now everything’s gone to hell.” “What’s that got to do with us? Are you sure you don’t need to talk to a credit counselor?” Just as Phaeron was saying ‘credit counselor’, Ben had a visionary flash like the one he’d had in Chicago the day after his crash. That time, he saw the tragic alternate futures of a woman approaching an abortion clinic, and chose to intervene. This time, he glimpsed the futures of their caller. In one of them, after speaking with Phaeron, she flew into a rage and nearly killed her son. In the other, she fell into depression and eventually took her own life. And just like in Chicago, neither of them led from an intervention on his part. But with choices that gruesome, he decided to act. “Huxley,” he stage-whispered, drawing his finger across his throat. “Let me take over.” Phaeron stabbed the mute button and glared at him. “Why? Isn’t she in enough trouble as it is?” Majgda stepped between them. “Stop it, both of you.” “I just saw where this is headed,” Ben said quickly, “and it ain’t pretty. Look, I know I’ve alienated customers in the past, but I’ve changed. Really. All I know for sure is that no matter what Huxley says, she’s screwed. I don’t know why, but I’ve got to handle this myself.” “You’re sure?” He nodded and unmuted the call. “Ma’am, ma’am,” he said excitedly, “I’m sorry we had to cut out like that. I think I understand what you’re up against. What I need to know is how it got that way. Now, you said this all started with our game. Is that correct?” Getting her to focus on the cause of the problem helped her to calm down a bit, so he decided to backtrack some. “I’m sorry ma’am, but in all the excitement, I forgot to get your name. And just to make sure we don’t really get cut off, could you give me a phone number I can call you back on if I have to.” “Sure. I’m Beth Coney. My son’s name is Arthur. Oh, and you can call me at…” He mimed to Majgda that she copy down the names and numbers, so he could focus on the call. “Now then, Beth,” he soothed, “how exactly did Arthur playing our game come between you and your mortgage payment?” Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, they figured out what had happened. During that time, Ben alternated between asking relevant questions and engaging Beth in small talk whenever a tinge of anxiety crept into her voice. Majgda watched with increasing interest as Ben continued to walk that fine line. At least twice, she smiled and nodded at a choice he’d made. Meanwhile, Phaeron busied himself tracking down offending bits of code to be changed, and researching other things that surfaced during the discussion. What they learned from talking to Beth was that the change of terms from game-point based upgrades to game-point-or-paid upgrades had run afoul of the way purchase restrictions were implemented on the phone and with the cell service she had. So when Arthur tried to upgrade something that took more game points than he had collected, instead of blocking the transaction, the app was able to put it through. Arthur thought he was okay, because his mother had set up a purchase block, and so he just kept going. The first she knew of the problem was when the credit card bill arrived, but by then it was already too late. To cover Arthur’s collected overlimit transaction, her credit union had made an electronic payment from Beth’s checking account, and that in turn dropped the balance below what she’d needed to cover the mortgage. Having the interest on her home improvement loan jacked up wasn’t the end of it, either. It was an event cascade of the worst sort. The problem was what to do about it, especially since it was a systemic issue that had undoubtedly tripped other people up as well. For the moment, though, helping Beth to resolve her problem was their primary objective, and they had begun to approach it as a team, something they hadn’t done for some time. “Okay,” Ben told her after a wordless exchange with Majgda, “since this was all really our fault, I’d like to try to reset the whole mess. The first thing we’re going to do is reverse the charges that Arthur incurred.” The speaker let out a small gasp, followed by a whimper. Majgda bent over the unit and gently said, “Are you all right, Beth?” Their customer struggled for breath at first, but managed to croak an affirmation. “You’re going to… oh, thank you, thank you. But what about my loans? Isn’t it too late to…?” A broad grin spread across Ben’s face as the incomplete vision he’d had earlier finally dropped the other shoe, just as it had in Chicago. In a much gentler flash, he saw that what he had just started would open out into a vastly improved life for both Beth and her family. While Phaeron shook his head and went back to picking through code, Majgda turned her palms up in a silent plea for explanation. Ben closed his eyes and nodded happily at her, then looked at the speakerphone. “Beth,” he said, “could you give me the details about your checking account and the two loans? I want to speak with your credit union and the lenders about putting you back on track.” The door opened again while Ben was copying down account numbers. This time it was the police. Majgda hurried to speak with them so they didn’t disturb Ben’s fragile relationship with Beth. “This is about Alluis Benoit, isn’t it,” she said, and glanced back towards him. “Yes ma’am. He seems to have caused quite a stir in a number of places. Greyhound alerted us early this morning that he’d boarded a bus to Topeka. He has a sister there, and she said he’d taken her car and headed west out I-70. We figured he’d end up back here at some point.” She turned and studied him for a moment. “He didn’t steal it, did he?” “Well, she claimed he didn’t, but she is his sister after all, and considering the fact that there was already a charge against him for stealing Mr. Huxley’s motorcycle, we thought we ought to follow up on the possibility. We’d like a word with him, if you don’t mind.” “He’s busy helping a customer at the moment, but I’ll see if I can take over for him.” “Thank you, ma’am.” Phaeron was smirking at Ben’s turned back when she headed back across the room. “Finally caught up to him, did they?” Majgda gave him a stern look and motioned for him to get back to whatever he’d been doing. Once he complied, she leaned over to whisper in Ben’s ear. He straightened, nodded, and swiveled his chair towards the door. “The rest of this is rote,” he said quietly. “I’ve got all the details, now. So if you can chat her up for a while to make sure she’s good, that’d be great. Once she’s calmed down and off the line, start plowing through the fallen dominos and see if you get them all stood back up again. You’re a great admin, by the way. This place would have been toast a long time ago without you.” She grabbed his wrist as he rose to go. “Listen,” she said, “I’m going to talk to Phaeron, try to get him to drop the charges. His insurance covered the loss, and truth be told, he’s been lusting after a newer one since Christmas. So, in a way, you did him a favor.” “That’s sweet of you, Majgda,” he said, smiling, “but I’m good either way. My life has changed a lot as a result of that mistake.” “You don’t have to tell me. What you just did for that woman was so unlike anything I’d have expected you to do before you left, it’s like you’re a totally different person.” He laughed. “I am. One who isn’t a slave to his past… I mean his future.” THE END Copyright 2011 by P. | 14,733 | 1 |
Lily stared out of the train window with a grumpy expression. Her hair and headphones were hidden under her hood. Ever since her only friend moved to a different city, she went to school alone. As always, she was listening to her favorite rock band, trying to shut out the voices of the chattering classmates nearby. Their meaningless conversations and laughter always annoyed her. She wasn’t interested in topics like Korean boy bands, the latest fashion, the lives of pop stars, or makeup. On the contrary, she was interested in horror, crime, comics, rock music, and art, but she felt that these interests didn’t connect her with anyone else. She could never engage in any conversation that was happening in her class. Because of this, even on the train, she would just hide in the corner and shut out the outside world. As she approached her stop, she sighed. She zipped her black hoodie, adjusted the studded bracelet on her wrist, put on her skull-patterned backpack adorned with badges, and prepared to get through the crowd. Others always blocked the door, making it difficult to get on and off. Then her gaze met that of one of her classmates. Emma was a popular girl. Her attractive figure, pretty face, and long, dyed blond hair immediately captivated everyone, not to mention her unique style. She was both trendy and unique, often wearing pink or white clothes and shiny accessories. Although Emma herself was quiet, others adored her. She usually sat in the center of attention, smiling and nodding. As always, this was the case, and Lily sighed. She found Emma just as boring and average as anyone else. She never spoke to her. One day, Lily cut across the schoolyard, looking for her favorite secluded spot, as she did every break. It was at the farthest edge of the yard, next to the lilac bushes. She loved sitting there, drawing, and listening to music. As she approached, she stopped. Emma was sitting in front of the bushes on the bench, wearing headphones, holding a sketchbook and a gel pen in her hand. Humming softly, she swayed while tapping her sparkling fake nails on the paper. Lily watched indifferently. She didn’t want to be near the other girl, but this was the least crowded place in the yard. She went to the bench, dropped her backpack on the ground, and sat on the other end of the bench. Emma looked at her and waved with a smile. In response, Lily turned away and took out her sketchbook. She wanted to keep working on her developing comic. Emma stayed silent for a moment, then took off her headphones and spoke. “Did I do something?” Lily looked up. “What?” “You always look at me as if I offended you. Why?” Lily shrugged and pulled out her watercolor paints from her bag. After a few moments of silence, Emma spoke again. “What are you painting?” “Nothing.” “Can I see?” “No.” Emma gave up. She turned back to her own drawing, then took her phone and turned up the music volume, so much that it was audible even through her headphones. Before she could put them back on, Lily recognized the tune and looked at Emma with a astonished face. It was the music of one of her favorite rock bands. “Since when do you listen to stuff like this?” Emma shrugged. “For a long time.” “I didn’t know you liked rock.” “You didn’t ask.” Emma put on her headphones again and continued drawing. Lily, however, leaned closer, sneakily peering at the drawing. She was shocked to see zombies in the illustration. Unable to contain her curiosity, she tapped the blonde girl’s shoulder. “What’s this?” Emma turned the drawing toward her. “Nicky is writing a zombie novel. She wants to put it on her blog and asked me to draw a cover for it.” Lily was amazed. “Nicky? The one who always travels with you? The one who never stops talking about Korean guys and fake eyelashes?” Emma nodded, then added gently. “Yes, her. In addition to all that, she writes horror novels and loves crime movies.” “But…” “And Clara collects skulls, has a stuffed crow in her room, plays the guitar, and yes, she also likes fake eyelashes and going to the mall.” Lily blinked in silence. She had never thought that the girl who always annoyed her on the train could be similar to her in any way. Emma smiled, seeing her surprise. As the bell signaled the end of the break, she put away her notebook and pen, adjusted her lip gloss, then stood up. She dusted off her pink, sparkling skirt and looked at Lily. “Maybe if you talked to others sometimes, you’d find out they have things in common with you.” “Okay, but when I look at you… These things don’t really suit you… It never occurred to me…” Emma grinned. “One person can be interested in many things, Lily.” The next afternoon, as the train headed home, Lily watched the group of girls. Emma was in the center, as always, and the others were chatting around her. Lily’s eyes lingered on Nicky. As she watched the short, slim girl with big blue eyes, braided light brown hair, and a white lace dress, she couldn’t imagine her writing a zombie novel. After hesitating for a while, Lily put away her headphones, stood up, and walked over to them. The girls looked at her with questioning faces. They were used to their classmate overlooking them, as if they didn’t exist. Lily cleared her throat. “So… I heard you’re writing something.” Nicky nodded and answered in a chirpy voice. “Yes. An apocalypse story.” “Can I read it?” Nicky blushed and nodded again. She had no idea if Lily was genuinely curious or just trying to make fun of her. “If you’re really interested…” “Yes.” “…then sure.” After a moment of silence, Emma spoke up. “We’re going for ice cream, then we’re watching a movie at my place. Are you coming? You can see my pet spider.” “What?” “It’s very cute,” Nicky gushed. Emma looked back at Lily and grinned. “So, are you coming?” Lily nodded hesitantly and got off the train with the girls. | 6,213 | 2 |
I never was a smoker; never really understood the need for such an unnecessary habit. Yet there I stood, hand rolled cigarette in between my shaking middle and forefinger, drawing in long, burning breaths. He stood next to me, a look of contempt heavy on his strong features. To me, he was a model with grade A genetics passed down from both sides of his lineage. His grandmother was stunning, smart, and funny which transcended easily to him and his siblings, along with both his mother and father. I often felt viciously inferior when in a room full of his family, to the point where I would have to remind myself that not everyone could be tall, blonde, smart, and funny. I remember sitting quietly at their dining room table as they all stood around the kitchen, laughing and joking with one another while I smiled to myself, wishing I could have the same dynamic; the same togetherness all the time. In the end, it was this quietness and longing that brought us to that wet porch where we stood passing a cigarette back and forth. He took a deep hit, holding the hot smoke in his lungs before blowing it out into the chilly air. Sometimes, it was hard to decipher the smoke from the hot fog of your breath and you could blow forever before the cloud finally stopped coming. I pictured this with each exhale, also thinking about what to say to fill the tense silence. Rain poured down around us as we stood underneath the small overhang of my tiny apartment, huddling as close as the tension between us would allow. “I told you this would happen,” he said, darkly, “I told you that you needed to put a little more effort in or they would give up.” I flinched at this, thinking about the times I had spent with his family and not recalling any hostility towards anyone. “I just didn’t feel like there was anything wrong. I was trying.” I said, grabbing the cigarette back from him and taking a deep inhale as he responded. “It’s because you don’t listen to me. I told you and you didn’t listen. And now… now we are here.” Here being a wet, smoky porch, but also my future banishment from his home as his family decided I wasn’t beneficial to have around. My awkward quietness that had haunted me from the day I was born had finally found a way to ruin my life. I could handle not having friends, I could handle the short, blunt conversations with passing strangers, but I couldn’t handle this. This was losing him in so many ways; a family oriented boy whose family hates his girlfriend. The future was dim and I knew that, though I pretended I didn’t. I pictured his family, laughing around their dinner table, his cats playing at their feet as they laughed happily together. Thanksgiving stung when I thought about that, remembering the plan that I had to celebrate the holiday with him and his family as I would be alone otherwise. It seemed as though the plan had fallen through and I considered spending my favorite holiday alone, in my dimly lit apartment above a garage. However, I had done this to myself, or that’s what he thought. In my opinion, I’m just quiet and always have been, but this quality being paired with a mean face and dark makeup comes off as rude, to my disadvantage as it isn’t something that can be easily remedied. In fact, I was completely unaware that his family felt this way about me until a few days before we shared that horrible cigarette. “Is there any point in me even trying anymore?” I asked this softly, handing him the cigarette back and trying to suppress the lump in my throat as it threatened to come up. He was silent for a few moments before responding. “Not really. The damage is done.” I tried my best to understand his family's point of view, racking my brain for days after finding out about their utter contempt towards me and still bringing up nothing. I had done nothing wrong other than be quiet. I spoke when they spoke to me, I watched and listened and laughed at jokes. Yet, none of this was enough. I was expected to hold entire conversations and joke back and forth with these people that I had only really hung out with a few times and because I was unable to do this, I was no longer allowed to be a part of their family. I really was banished. The lump grew bigger and I swallowed heavily before saying, “What does this mean for us?” “I can’t see a way where this will work if my family doesn’t want you around.” “I figured.” I grabbed the cigarette back. It was burning low, meaning that this conversation was almost up and he would leave to go home. A place filled with the people he loves and the people who love him. I hated knowing that I was putting a rift between that, though it wasn’t on purpose. I equally hated knowing that these people that I once dreamed of being a part of completely cut me out simply due to the fact that I was socially awkward. This was a new feeling to me; being hated for silence. Don’t get me wrong, I had been hated before, but it was by menial people that I could just mock and ignore. This was very different. This was immense. I carried this everywhere I went like a shoulder bag full of bricks, picturing each individual outcome of this situation; none of them being pleasant. Looking at the current circumstances and the small amount of the cigarette that was left revealed that this outcome was not the one I had hoped for, but nevertheless, the one I had seen coming. He turned to me with an almost pitying look on his face. “I’m sorry it worked out like this. I really, really wish it could have gone different…” he was silent, letting the words he said build up his next line. “Maybe I’ll run into you in Montana.” He smiled slightly, a tear forming in his beautiful, blue eye. I smiled back, nodding and thinking about how the next girl he’s with will probably be so great. She’ll be able to interact normally with his family and won’t be self conscious and she’ll be funny and smart. That’s all I thought of in that moment. The lump made my throat hurt but I continued to hold it back, swallowing hard again and looking up into his face. “It was fun.” I said as I put the cigarette out in the ashtray that he had gotten me. I wanted to portray a sense of calmness on the surface of the horrible chaos that was going on inside my mind, so all I said was that, not letting any of my internal dialogue spill out between us. I wanted to cry out and ask why? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was still the same person I was when we met. But I knew it was futile as I watched him walk down the stairs of my porch, not looking back once. For a while after, I stayed out on the porch, watching cars drive by and pondering the events that had just unfolded while fingering the green, plastic ashtray. I thought of what I could have done to cause this; what I said and did, or really, what I didn’t say or do. Regardless of how much I thought or which way I tossed it, none of it made sense. And really, it didn’t matter anymore; it was over. Months of my time had been thrown away over quietness and there was nothing left but time for me to go over and over every detail of those months in my head, trying fruitlessly to figure out this abrupt ending. | 7,166 | 2 |
Beatrice basked in the warm summer sun that hung in a cloudless sky. For just a moment she closed her eyes as a gentle wind rolled across the grass. Spring had officially come and gone, and thus meant heat and bugs would soon make their way to her radish garden. But for this one quiet moment, the mouse welcomed the warmth of a midday breeze as it flowed in from the sea so many miles away. Diligently, the little white mouse tended to her work. With two of her paws, Beatrice clutched three radish leaves as tightly as she could and pulled backwards. Her feet began to sink into the soil as she grunted and whined, pulling with all her might. With each lunge the radish gave way, accompanied by the sounds of roots tearing apart from each other, muffled by dirt. Beatrice pulled, strained, and continued to try until her face turned hot and her body was almost parallel with the ground. The tiniest sliver of a rip formed in one of the leaves, and quickly zipped its way across, tearing it from the stalk. Beatrice toppled over onto the dirt with a thud. She sighed dramatically to herself through shut eyes and clenched paws. Beatrice rose to two feet and brushed the dirt from her dress. She put a paw to her forehead and sighed, the other paw was placed firmly on her hip. She looked unenthusiastically at the radish for a good long while and brushed her ears back further than they should go. Her tongue was fixed to the roof of her mouth as she stared. She hated these things, these peppery, dense roots that tasted terrible and went with nothing. Each meal she made was bland, but it was all she had. Foraging for food in the woods was a wonderful way to get herself eaten by foxes, and there wasn’t another mouse home for miles. The radishes would simply have to do. “Mama look!” she heard from her left. Beatrice broke her gaze and turned to see a smaller white mouse happily skipping towards her. Her dress was dirty, and her white fur was stained with crud. “I’ve found something!” “And what would that be?” Beatrice asked, still peeking at the radish through the sides of her eyes. The little mouse held her paws out with a huge grin. Cupped in her paws was a mound of dirt with a wriggling earthworm and two beetles. “Critters!” she piped. Beatrice exhaled with a slight smile, then closed her eyes for a bit. “That’s very nice Ruth, but you need to be doing your work. You’re a big mouse now, you’ve got to help Mama in her garden.” “Yes I know all that,” said Ruth, carefully returning her critters to the soil. Beatrice knelt down by the radish and began to brush some dirt away from it with her paws. “Ruth, help me dig this out,” Beatrice said with her back to her daughter. Ruth looked up at the empty blue sky and admired it. She was not bothered by the heat nor her mother’s work. Her mind buzzed with fantasies of bugs and mud pies, or the thousands of other things she’d be able to find past the gates of her mother’s garden. “Ruth, help!” Beatrice commanded. Ruth moped over towards her mother and knelt down to help her dig. Beatrice was digging much faster than Ruth was. With two cupped paws she scooped dirt from and around the radish, tossing the mounds over her shoulder as she did so. Ruth moved behind Beatrice to get a better angle. “Oh!” Beatrice yelped. Ruth closed her eyes and looked away, coughing and spitting dirt out of her mouth. “Pff, bleh!” she yelped. “That tastes terrible!” Beatrice tried hard to stifle her laughter, but a couple of chuckles passed her throat. Ruth managed to spit most of it from her mouth and quickly wiped her face. “Oh, Ruth, you’ve missed some. Here, let me get it.” “No!” Ruth pleaded, but Beatrice had already grabbed ahold of her daughter and began wiping the dirt from her nose. “Agh, your whiskers are getting in my way. Ruth if you'd just stay still!” “Thtop it, Mama, no!” Ruth squealed as she clawed her mother’s grasp. Beatrice let go and allowed her daughter to throw herself face first onto the ground. Beatrice rolled her eyes and sighed to herself. She felt a hot surge of frustration bubbling up in her again. Her jaw tightened. Beatrice pointed her nose up to the sky and breathed deeply as she’d done so many times before. With closed eyes, she felt the rolling summer wind touching her fur, she listened to the shuffling of leaves from the tree line. The warm anger she was feeling had subsided after a minute or two. When Beatrice opened her eyes, Ruth was gone. “Ruth?” she called out. No answer. Beatrice tilted her head and looked at her home, there was a trail of tiny footprints that wrapped around the parameter. She lived in a cute little cottage by the forest’s edge, nearly a foot tall. The walls were made from stones by the riverbank and the roof was constructed with tree branches and dried straw. Beatrice dragged her paw against the course stone walls as she followed Ruth’s trail. Beatrice knew what she’d find in the backyard. Ruth sat on her bottom in the dirt, slumped over with her back facing her mother. She was in front of a cracked headstone with her head hung low. Her pink tail coiled and twitched behind her, her floppy ears drooped by her side. Beatrice made her way over towards Ruth, she didn’t look away from the grave. Beatrice placed a gentle paw on Ruth’s back. She knelt down and rubbed it as a shimmering tear made its way down Ruth’s nose. Carved into the grave was the name Charlie. The sight of it made Beatrice’s heart tighten. She began to feel tingles in her nose as she watched her daughter try not to cry. Beatrice took in a shaky breath. “What are you doing out here baby?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. Ruth sniffled. “Seeing Papa,” she said. Beatrice continued to rub her back. It hadn’t been long since Charlie’s passing. He died in the midst of a harsh winter that nearly took all three. He had fought valiantly to fight an illness, but it was too strong for him, leaving Beatrice to carry the weight of Ruth and the radish garden by herself. Beatrice and Ruth sat in silence for a long while. They heard the subtle cracking of tree branches in the distance, the rumble of a stream far away, the rolling ambiance of a summer breeze. Beatrice patted Ruth on her back twice. “Alright love, we’ve got to get work done before sundown,” Beatrice said. Ruth narrowed her eyes into slits and grunted. “Ruth,” she said as calmly as she could muster. “If you don’t help Mama in the garden you won’t get any supper.” “I don’t care!” Ruth spat. She turned to face her mother. “I don’t like radishes, I hate them! I hate the garden, I hate it!” she screamed with glossy eyes and a wet nose. Beatrice shut her mouth and looked away. “This garden’s all we’ve got!” Beatrice shouted. Ruth stood up. “Well I miss Papa, I miss when we had him!” she shouted. Beatrice would have rather been stabbed through the heart with one of her own dull knives. She looked away from Ruth and at the grave she’d built. She was reminded of Charlie’s warmth, his easy going nature, his charm. She missed his round glasses and his dark brown eyes, and how comfortable he was to lay with in the late hours of the night. She was reminded of the day Ruth was born, and how Charlie looked at his daughter for the first time and said, “She’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.” Now she was more grown up, talking and fussing and missing her father. Beatrice let out a sharp exhale through her nose and put her paws on Ruth’s shoulders. “Alright,” she began. “You win. We’re not going to eat radishes today.” “Then what are we gonna eat? Tree bark?” Ruth pouted. “We’re going to eat cheese.” “So what even is cheese?” Ruth asked as she happily skipped behind her mother. Beatrice and Ruth had left the garden and were making their way into the wilderness. They didn’t go into the forest, rather they walked the opposite direction into an open, grassy valley. Beatrice scoffed. “A little mouse that doesn’t know about cheese, what kind of mother am I?” she asked with a chuckle. Ruth smiled without realizing. “Where are we going?” asked Ruth. “We’re going to another house,” said Beatrice. “I’m going to go inside and take some cheese for us, you are going to stay outside. That clear?” “Yes Mama,” said Ruth, wondering who they’d be visiting. They made their way along, over hills and dips until they could see a home in the distance. It looked rather similar to Beatrice’s house, except much taller and wider. The roof was shingled instead of built from straw, but the walls were built from the same type of stone. Behind and around the large house was a massive farm that stretched further than the mice could see. Further from the house was a barn and a silo, it was almost impossible to make out the finer details from where they were standing. Fruits and vegetables sprouted from the earth, Beatrice recognized a small plot of radishes by the front door. The two of them snuck through the overgrown grass on all fours until they made it to the farmhouse. Beatrice looked around, she couldn’t see anybody. “Alright darling, you need to stay out here. Stay put, don’t move a muscle.” “But I want to go in!” whined Ruth. Beatrice shushed her. “No ma’am, you are to wait out here until I return,” said her mother. Ruth balled her fists and extended her arms behind her. She leaned in closer to Beatrice. “Please?” she asked, extending her plea for as long as her breath could handle. Beatrice nervously looked from her left to her right. It struck her that she hadn’t heard Ruth say “please” in months, not since Charlie’s passing. Beatrice looked at her daughter’s dirty face, her dark beady eyes, her bright pink nose. She didn’t have the spine to say no. They dug together as they had before. Quickly they scooped dirt and tossed it behind them until they made a tunnel underneath the home. Beatrice led, Ruth followed. They found themselves in a dreary space underneath the home. The ground was chalky, gray dirt with pebbles. The ceiling was very low, Beatrice and Ruth were both able to touch it. It was a roof made from wooden support beams and floorboards. A beam of light came from the tunnel they had dug, illuminating thousands of specks of dust in the light. Neither of them could see much else. “Follow me,” Beatrice whispered as quietly as she could. Ruth obeyed. Beatrice felt her heart racing in her chest. Ruth covered her nose with both paws because of the wet, moldy smell. “Who lives here?” Ruth asked, still covering her nose. “Here, nobody,” said Beatrice. “But up there’s a different story.” Ruth didn’t know what she meant. Beatrice put her arms up and applied pressure to a loose floorboard. Light immediately began to shine in through the cracks, revealing another beam of dust in the air. “Who’s up there?” Ruth asked. Beatrice shot a look at her and put a finger to her mouth, which meant Ruth had to stop talking. She obeyed. Beatrice felt a heavy heat in her lower legs. Her arms shook as she held the floorboard up. “Ruth, you go first, but stay out of sight. I’ll follow right after you,” said Beatrice. Ruth scurried over towards her mother and climbed up her back. She poked her head in through the crack and looked. The farmhouse was strikingly similar to Ruth’s own home. There was a wooly carpet on the floor, a wooden dinner table with three pegs, and red curtains draped over open windows. The only difference was that everything was much, much bigger. “Go on in,” said Beatrice. Ruth did as she was told. She squeezed her plump little body through the crack in the floor, and waited for her mother to come out. Something smelled delectable in there, it had a rich, creamy scent, but sharp and stingy at the same time. “Mama, what’s that smell?” Ruth asked. Beatrice shushed her again as she entered the home and put the floorboard back in its place. It was the smell of cheese, but Beatrice couldn't tell her that now. Beatrice took Ruth’s paw and they scurried alongside the baseboards of the farmhouse. She knew exactly where to go. Beatrice ran over towards a door and squeezed underneath it, followed by Ruth. They entered a cramped pantry filled with several goodies, but there was only one thing they were after. Ruth’s heart was beating as fast as Beatrice’s now, she had finally realized they were stealing this cheese. Beatrice told Ruth to wait, and quickly climbed up the shelves until she found the right one. Ruth watched her tail from below as it twitched and turned, it was all she could see of her. Eventually Beatrice came back down. In her paw was a thick clump of yellow cheese. “Here darling, take a bite,” said Beatrice. Ruth took the little bit Beatrice had taken and took a bite. It was the most delicious thing Ruth had ever tasted in her entire life. A huge grin cut across her face as she chewed, it was a smile she couldn’t resist making. Beatrice scratched the fur on Ruth’s head as she ate. She felt warm again, but it wasn’t the heat of frustration. It was the warmth of a mother’s love. The pantry door opened quickly. Beatrice and Ruth’s hearts dropped at the same time. Before the two of them could process what happened they had already bolted. They heard a low grunt of some kind from the creature that had opened it. Beatrice and Ruth ran through the legs of an enormous human man with sturdy leather boots. He turned his fat head around to watch them run. “Damn mice!” bellowed the farmer. “Little thieves!” Beatrice and Ruth ran back to the loose floorboard. “Ruth, IN!” She screamed. Ruth didn’t need the command. Beatrice held the floorboard open and Ruth dived in, followed by Beatrice. The floorboard fit perfectly back into place as the mice fell onto their stomachs in the ashy dirt. Ruth and Beatrice breathed deeply and quickly for a long time down there. The farmer didn’t chase them, but they heard his heavy footsteps from above. They kept their eyes on the roof until they were sure they couldn’t hear him anymore. Beatrice shuddered. “I dropped the cheese,” Ruth mumbled under her breath. “I’m sorry Mama,” she said with her head drooped in shame. Beatrice shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. Beatrice stood up and took her daughter’s paw. “Let’s just get home.” The two of them began to walk back to the tunnel they dug when Ruth squeezed her mother’s paw. “Mama, look!” She piped. Beatrice looked at where she was pointing. “There’s more cheese!” In the corner of the room there was indeed a block of cheese, around the same size as the one Beatrice had just taken. It sat on a thin wooden plank adorned with red paint, on display for the both of them. Beatrice tilted her head. “Why would there be cheese down here?” Beatrice asked herself. Ruth turned to look at her. “Can we take it, please?” she asked. “You haven’t gotten to eat any yet, Mama!” Ruth was right, Beatrice hadn’t taken a bite when they were caught. “It’s so weird,” she muttered. “There’s never been cheese down here.” “Come on Mama, let’s take it and run! Pleeeeease?” Ruth begged. “Alright sweetie,” Said Beatrice with a sigh. Carefully she approached the cheese. It was still fresh. Beatrice extended her arms to grab ahold of it. Ruth heard the screeching whine of rusty metal. In an instant the trap activated and grabbed hold of Beatrice. The wooden platform jumped into the air and came down with a snap, a thin metal bar crushed Beatrice’s spine in an instant. Twice she twitched, then she didn’t move at all. Ruth looked from less than an inch away. No other moment in her life was this silent. Underground, she couldn’t feel the wind or hear the trees. In the dim light, she only saw the mangled corpse of her mother. “…m-Mama?” Ruth whispered. Her voice quivered. “Mama?” She called out again. There was no response. Ruth, shaking now, heard the footsteps of the farmer once more. Her ears started ringing, so loudly she couldn't think. The only thing she thought to do was turn around and scurry out of the tunnel. | 16,011 | 1 |
I. Joe is not a farmer. He is not really anything regarding occupation, except unemployed perhaps, as he is a man who prefers to do everything as much as possible for himself. His last occupation was as a prospector, and he never saw a flake of gold, certainly not a nugget, and not even a speck of dust. That was some years ago, and now he grows his own food, repairs his own home, salvages and fixes many of his own tools out of scraps he finds in his shed. His shed is well-stocked, in that it is stocked with anything you would ever want to find in a shed, if you could ever actually find anything in his shed, which he mostly cannot. He is not a hoarder as much as a saver. Whatever he gets his hands on, he saves. From this saving and industriousness he is, as he calls himself, “a self-reliant man.” Joe is currently hoeing a row in his garden, cursing the soil. The soil is infertile, he says, because the previous landowner did not properly care for it. The previous owner died seven years ago, but that does not stop him from receiving much of the blame for the amount of food that Joe does not get out of his land. Of course, the deceased is not the only one to get blame. Joe is a “sharecropper,” as Bill calls him, but not in the usual meaning of the word. That is, he shares the blame for his poor annual yield with everybody that has anything to do with his black soil. He blames his son for the way he tills, his wife for the way she weeds, the oner of the bank for keeping prices high, the real estate agent for how he represented the property, and naturally Bill, the owner of Bill’s Farm Supply, who sells him the seeds and fertilizer. “These no good seeds,” he’d say standing in the dirt, looking at the weeds and the fledgling sprouts. “Nothing good to come up out of these lousy seeds.” When he stopped by Bill’s Farm Supply he was always sure to tell Bill that he was going to harvest his own seeds next year, and get manure from the Dairy Farm. But Joe had set the bridge to the Dairy Farm alight long ago, and everybody in town knew that. But with all the repairs going on around Joe’s homestead, he doesn’t have a lot of time to chat with Bill. So, on Saturdays he sends his son, Junior, to Bill’s Farm Supply and pick up whatever he can’t find in his shed. On Saturdays the conversation goes like this: “Welcome back, Junior. How’s yer pa?” “Good.” Junior isn’t much of a talker, and besides Bill’s well-known affability, that is the main reason Bill engages with him. Junior rummages around the store and picks up a few odds and ends that are unquestionably in the shed. He lays them up on the counter and looks at Bill. Junior’s hands, as usual, have a black rim under his fingernails. “That’ll be twenty-two and fifty.” “Pa says to take it out of what you o’em.” “Owe him?” “Yes, Sir. He says you o’em for that seed.” “Son, I’m not sure I follow.” “Pa said the sunflower seed ain’t no good. He’s gonna return the whole lot.” “He’s gonna return the lot of sunflower seed, and—I—owe—him? For the seed?” “That’s right. Says they ain’t worth a lick.” “Well, I’ll be a—,” He flattened out the string bow tie around his neck with both hands. “Look, I’m gonna give you this here box of nails and the bag o’ lime, on credit. You hear me? On credit. The rest needs to be put back on the shelf. Tell your Pa that when he brings them bag of seeds back in here, we can settle up the score.” “Settle up the score?” Junior didn’t know that expression. “Settle up. The payment, I mean. Work it out so that it is even.” “Yes, Sir.” Junior put everything back where he found it, loaded the nails and the lime into his wagon, and headed home. Bill flipped the sign on his door, locked it, and went up to the attic. He looked at all the shelves, everything ordered in an exact place so that he could find it when he needed it. He blew the dust off the case that held his feather collection. Every feather labeled with perfectly straight letters: “Red-Tailed Hawk” right next to the big reddish-brown feather, “Raven” pinned next to the sleek black feather, “Cardinal” with pins through the red feather. He lifted the case and gently set it down on a trunk. Underneath it was his butterfly collection, meticulously labeled in the same manner and with the same silver pins stuck through labels and wings. He stacked his butterflies on top of the feathers, and lifted up the box with the various bullets from the War he had found in his yard. Then he came to the fourth box down, exactly where he had left it. III. The following Monday, Bill carefully walked up the stairs, strategically placing the sole of his boot in a spot where he thought it was least likely to fall through the rotting planks. He stood on the slanted porch of Joe’s homestead and looked at the wood siding loosely hanging on to the posts. He was glad he had lent him the box of nails on Saturday. He heard rustling inside. When Junior answered the door, he told Bill that “Pa ain’t here,” and “won’t be back for some time.” Bill explained that he came to do his Pa a favor. He wanted to inspect the lot of seeds himself and see just how bad they were. He said he figured he would save his Pa a trip into town carrying that whole lot for no reason. “You mind if I take a gander?” “Reckin not.” Bill walked around to where Joe did his gardening. It was hard for Bill to think of this plot of dirt as an actual garden, for actual gardens grew vegetables, and this place did not. The best Bill could grant was that this is where Joe gardened, even though that exacerbated his imagination. Bill walked around back. He peered through the window in the shed and saw enough supplies to open a competing store. He went looking for the seeds in the barn, but couldn’t find them. Finally, he went back to the house and asked Junior where they were. Junior pointed to Bill’s feet without saying anything, and Bill mimicked this quiet gesture. The two hands, index fingers extended toward the warped porch floorboards: one big, aged, and clean, the other, wiry, young, and with dirt under the nail. Bill looked down and realized that Joe had been storing his seeds under the porch. He crawled under and looked at the bag of seeds. Soaked through. He couldn’t tell if the seeds were absorbing water up from the ground, or getting it dripped on from above, but it was probably both. He crawled out and walked around back again and looked at the place where gardening happened. Then he walked back to the porch and knocked on the door. “Tell your Pa he’s right, these seeds ain’t no good. I’ll come back tomorrow and pick ‘em up with the wagon. Can’t carry ‘em back myself today.” The next day Bill returned to Joe’s property, loaded the wet seeds into his wagon, and tied them down. He knocked on the door. Joe opened the door and saw Bill standing there with dirt on his knees, dirt on his boots, and sweat on his collar and cuffs. Bill told him that he would credit him for the cost of the seeds and apologized. Joe grumbled as he was wont to do. “Hope you don’t hold it against me, Joe.” “Well, Bill, don’t let it happen again. Next year I’ll just harvest my own seeds and then we won’t have to do this again.” “That’s certainly your right. Your business is always welcome anyhow, Joe.” He turned and hauled his wagon back into town. IV. The following Spring, Joe began to turn over the garden again. He dug up roots of weeds and turnips and carrots and other things that had started to grow but never quite made it. He cursed the rick black soil for being too stubborn, too hard, too inhospitable to life. Junior kept his head down and kept digging away at his row. Joe cursed how slow his son was working, telling him if he didn’t pick up the pace, they weren’t “gonna get anything in the ground till June!” In an angry fit, Joe speared the shovel into the soft ground and felt the handle vibrate as it hit a stone. “Tarnation, always something!” He pulled the spade out and saw the chip in the blade. “C’mon over here and dig this out, Junior.” Joe went inside the shed and set up his bench grinder. He watched Junior through the window. Junior pulled the chunk out, looked it over and threw it in the rock pile. The glint off the rock caught Joe’s eye. He put his file on the bench and moved his head left and then right, and left again. The rock pile glimmered as he moved. He stepped quickly outside and picked the rock off the pile. “I’ll be danged,” he whispered. He didn’t like to curse around his child, but this occasion warranted it. “What is it, Pa?” “Boy, you wouldn’t know what to do with it if I told ya.” V. Joseph T. Richards put on his vest and tie and walked into town. His first stop was at the James Whig’s Barber Shop, a place he had not been to for over seven years. James Whig asked him how he could help him, as surprised as if a dead man had sat down in his chair. After a cut and a shave, he walked across the street to Taylor & Sons: Men’s Fine Clothing store and ordered a grey suit in linen and a straw hat. He purchased this on credit, of course. He next went to the Savings & Loan on Main Street and opened a new account. They issued him a checkbook with over one-hundred promissory notes. “Mr. Richards,” he asked to be called. Then he went to the department store and purchased a watch with an embossed locomotive on the case. This, too, was purchased on credit, for the gold nugget that he had pulled out of the rock pile which his foolish son had haphazardly discarded without even a glance was not yet cleaned and weighed and presented to the Guaranty Corporation for weighing and cleaning. That would have to be done in three weeks, when the next coach was headed East. In the meantime, it felt only right and fitting for a man of Mr. Richards’ means to present himself as his station permitted. After picking up his suit from Taylor & Sons, Mr. Richards donned it and the straw hat, and walked to Bill’s Farm Supply to tell him that all was forgiven, no hard feelings. They were both to blame for certain incidents in the past, and some things were simply outside of their control, said Joseph Richards. One could not hold on to a grudge, as it says in the good book, without a grudge also having ahold on to you. Bill agreed it was wise policy to forgive and forget, but could not recall that line from any book, much less The Book. Either way, they shook hands and Bill smiled as Joseph Richards walked out the door. Several people in town commented not only on the change to Joseph Richard’s appearance, but also his demeanor. He walked taller, he walked slower. He sat on the bench downtown and watched people walk around. He bought coffee and lunch at the diner. He had not spent a dime in town beyond the most basic of essentials during his near decade living there, but now he had everything to spare. Even more than that though, he was congenial. He greeted strangers and talked about the rain. Any talk of rain in the past had only to do with drainage and soil, but now the rain was just a curiosity, something to be actively avoided and enjoyed. The weeds in the garden grew, and by the end of the three weeks his time in the garden evaporated to nearly nothing. It was bad soil, he had always said, and sowing your seed in poor soil is casting pearls before swine, as he once heard someone else say. For the next three weeks, all of his produce was acquired at Mr. Herb’s Grocery Store, and sometimes he even splurged on a basket of oranges for Junior and his wife. Naturally, all of these things were bought on credit or promissory note. VI. On the third week after finding the heavy gold nugget, Joseph stepped out of the first class car of the S&O Railroad and kindly thanked the conductor for the pleasant ride. He stood on the platform and headed smartly to the Guaranty Corporation with his box in hand. An attendant, a pretty lady in a white ruffled shirt and black frock asked him if he would like a tea while he waited. Joe Richardson hated tea and said, “Yes, that would be most charming, darling.” He exchanged the box with the gold stone in it for a cup of green tea and explained what he expected “Mr. Gwerantee” to find. He estimated it to be, more or less, enough to buy the whole Guaranty Corporation building, if not the entire city block. The young woman in the frock smiled politely. In what felt like hours to Mr. Richardson but in reality was only few short minutes the Manager, Mr. Stephens, in a pinstripe black suit, double-breasted and with a pocket square, came out and told him the results. “Mr. Richards, here is your stone and your cigar box. How do you like the tea?” He handed him the box and the stone in a little red bag. Joseph Richardson looked inside the bag and verified his stone was in there—he knew how these bankers could be—then asked, looking up from the bag, “Where’s the Certificate?” Mr. Stephens explained to him the process and the results and even took him back into the laboratory where all of the observations are made. Joe walked back to the train station with his box and waited for the train going West. When the same conductor who had helped him have such a pleasant ride into the city walked past and shouted a cheery hello, Joe just stared at him. VII. When he returned home, Joe resumed his work in the garden, to the same usual effect—lots of sweat and cursing in, little vegetable production out. It was a week later when the Savings & Loan rejected the first promissory note with “Mr. Richards” name on it. Once this happened, the Mr. Whig, Mr. Taylor, and Bill gathered together to discuss what to do about it. Bill suggested he was on good terms with Joe, had a long relationship with him, and asked to be allowed to resolve it. The business owners all agreed and gave Bill three days to get Joe to come to a satisfactory resolution. Bill showed up at Joe’s house one day while Junior and the wife were away. Joe owing every business in town more than he would make for the rest of his life had little choice but to listen to Bill’s scheme. Bill soon owned all of Joe’s debt. He bought it from every store in town at a “modest markdown.” Nobody ever knew exactly how much it was marked down, only that it was, because all Bill or the other store owners would ever say was “modestly marked-down.” The owners all agreed to this scheme, because they knew it was the last chance they’d have to recoup a nickel of their loss. They’d never get more than a few cents out of Joe Richards. So that is how Joe became the first employee of Bill’s Farm Supply. He worked six days a week most weeks, and had never heard of the word “overtime.” For every hour he got paid, he worked four hours “for free”; that is, his salary went back to Bill who took it off the debt that he owned. For five and one-half years, Joe worked “one on, four off,” ten hours a day, including most Saturdays. He even got Bill to hire a second employee, one that was more curious to customers, more tolerant of following exact instructions, and one who never argued, and worked the same one-to-four deal: Junior. The one benefit of this for Joe, besides avoiding prison, is that he was able to save a little money for the first time. He was able to do this because he his garden produced the same amount of food that it always did, just enough to keep his family from starving, despite Joe’s great time reduction in digging, watering, and fertilizing the black soil. “Self-reliant” Joe was as miserable as a man can be in this arrangement. Working for another man, not getting paid, bonded to his boss for a number of years that he did not have the mathematical acuity to calculate, with his son in bondage beside him—this was the life he had made for himself. VIII. One winter day, some years later, when the store was open but there was nobody coming in, Bill asked Junior to go into the attic and retrieve a new ledger from the “fourth shelf on the left.” Junior, crawled up the stairs and went to the left, he counted four shelves over and saw the ledgers. As he pulled a ledger out of the box he saw the feathers in their dusty collector’s box. He looked through the glass and saw the hawk and cardinal. He loved birds, so he took a peek underneath that box to see what other feathers there were. Then he saw the butterflies, but he was not particularly interested in butterflies, so he looked underneath and saw the collection of bullets from the War. Insatiable in curiosity, Junior lifted the collection of bullets and looked at the fourth box in the stack. He looked at it, but could not make sense of it at first. He saw the collection, each item labeled in perfect handwriting, with little silver pins stuck through the labels. He read the labels: quartz, gypsum, granite, calcite. He looked them all over very carefully and saw an open space in the collector's box where there had once been something, but now was nothing. He read the label of the missing item: “Iron Pyrite,” and in parenthesis next to it in cursive writing, “(Fool’s Gold)”. Junior thought about the past six years and the money he had been able to save. He put the boxes back where they belonged, and brought the ledger downstairs. | 17,600 | 2 |
​ The shining sun through the curtains. The salty, refreshing breeze intruding through the opened window. Outside, the waves crashing on the rocky shore, the seagulls feasting. Oh, and a silent melody, hanging in the air, that no one can hear. Yet its serene notes resonate through time, in this tiny corner of paradise you call home. You look up from the words you just wrote, there on your notebook. Such empty ideas. You put down the pen and get up, stretching. You pour yourself some peach juice and bottoms up- You take out your favourite vinyl, and handling it carefully you place it in your turntable. Dropping the needle, the music fills the house with a crescendo of violin and cello. At the same time clouds passes by, claiming the sun rays for themselves. A chill. Goosebumps all over you, and you turn around, to the front door, now wide open. You notice there on the ground the carpet is inversed. ''Did you bring wine?'' you can read on it. You close the door shut. At last the blessed sunlight shines once more through the curtains, and what a sight to behold. It's orange divine rays ooze in and sanctify the house, the floor, and you, so warm and comforting it is. You close your eyes. Your mind, empty of anything, except perhaps bliss, gratefulness... And the hint of a doubt? You open your eyes once more to this peaceful haven of yours, and notice something familiar, something empty; the way things are, the distant nature of the music, almost wavering away in incertainty. Of the repeating sounds, of the too vibrant paint on the walls, of the way the sun shines a bit too bright, a bit too warmly. You burst out of the house, kicking the door open, and outside you see it, the flame, casting shadows on the stone wall. The blinding, cruel flame, and the mere silouhettes, the objects casting shadows on your mind. A house. The sun. And you! There, you, a vulgar concept at the end of a stick, unceremoniously brandished, for a time, in front of the flame, its shadow spreading long and thin across time and space, coalescing in yourself, this grotesque creature so willing to see and feel, this absurd creature, so naive. And so you turn away from the unwavering flame, source of all lies. You turn away and look up to the sun in all its glory. You run toward the cliffside, so tiny you are there high above the rocky shores below, where the splashing of the waves and the chaos of the sea face the immovable wall of the land, deafening ruckus, undeniably real. Closing your eyes once more to a fountain of resolve, you let go of everything, you reject it all in favor of the one ideal, truth. You let yourself fall down to certain death, much more certain indeed that all this is a mere farce, a sick joke. Your courage is struck down by the hammer of terror as you fall down the cold watery air, at such speed and with such fatality that your mind falters and panics at once, bracing for impact you scream silently and cover your face with your arms, as if that would change anything. Yet of course you awake, suddenly, and with no heavy eyes for you have no more eyes; gone is this body of yours, and after a second of grief, of distant hazy regret you look around, well you observe around you, to the overwhelming nature of your newfound sensory abilities. Around you isn't a place stuck in time, as you experienced all your life. Around you is everything at all time, and you can see all of it at once. Dizzying and overwhelming, you faint yet the spectacle perdure, and you can't help but take it all in, clumsily. And after witnessing everything there was, there is, and will be, you can't help but look inward at last. Inward where you realize now is the only source, the only origin of Truth. There it was, all along! Shining beacon, blinding lighthouse amidst the deadly mist of the barbed wire that is reality. In the midst of winter, you found there was, within you, an invincible summer. That no mere shadows flame or window to all of reality itself can hinder, can extinguish, for this is Truth, beyond any doubts. Truth, certainty, bliss. Not in some external source, of some objective concept of worship, but in oneself, in oneself! The self, eternal, triumphant, undeniable. In other words, the only oasis, the sole heaven, the lone paradise of your boundless mind. For is there anything more real, anything more certain, anything more true than the mind? Master of all things and slave to them too. Yet only once you close your eyes, empty your thoughts and face yourself can you see it, the you, the true you, the only you there ever is, beyond this MASQUERADE, this silly spectacle that is life. The essence of yourself, this spinning black hole that is your self-consciousness, positive feedback loop of eyes looking at eyes looking at eyes, of two mirors creating an infinity, corridor of the soul. You wonder, of course, will you awake once more? To something beyond all this, or perhaps close your eyes forever more, to a pitch black emptiness as you stare and nothing stares back? Or perhaps to eternal reccurence, to relive in an absurd way your life over and over and over and over and over and over- Maybe reincarnate as a higher being or as a silly worm, or come face to face with anubis, your heart and the feather? Or become one with the Unity of all things. | 6,219 | 1 |
/ / As the days past, the grey rock in the mine became more impenetrable in my mind. I spent the days trying to recall decades-old conversations or once-read books for a clue, but all to no success. There was no library or experts I could consult. What knowledge I already had was all there was, and it was nowhere near enough. When we first arrived, Ethan had invited us to a festival eight days away. It had seemed far off. As I woke up on the day of the festival itself, I was all too aware of how that time had slipped by. No headway had been made on the unknown rock, no new lead discovered about the mystery building or in finding Sannaz. Everything was static, progress as minimal as the work in the mine. I spent the day walking around the island, hoping that stamping on frost-tipped grass would alleviate my frustrations and the cold winter air might jog some new thoughts. I needed a break from turning over the same stones in hope of something new. My aimless wonder took me down towards the coast. As I arrived at the beach, I could see a boat untying its moorings and tightening the sails. By the foot of the jetti I saw two women carrying crates. Each crate had thick red lettering painted on the side, and was bedeing lift onto a cart with a cow tied to the front letting out plaintiff moos at the coming haul. Then I saw their supervisor, it was Ethan. I scrunched my brow. Since I got here I had never seen Ethan anywhere but the mines. He’d never shown an interest in greeting ships. Slowly, my feet fighting against the dry and powdery sand, I made my way over to him. By the time I arrived, only the last couple of crates were yet to be added to the wagon. Ethan was watching on, fiddling with a white rag tied around his hand, a dark red stain seeping out. “Are you okay?” I asked. He looked up and chuckled. “Yeah. I was trying to help Geordie with the farms this morning. Thought I’d show that I can still do the hard work too.” He held up the hand, inspecting the hastily wrapped cloth. “Turns out I’m out of practice.” “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad,” I replied. He shrugged one shoulder - not even finding the effort for both. “Work injuries never do. Purpose makes the pain go away. It’s the useless ones that hurt.” “The useless ones?” Without even turning, he lifted up the side of his shirt revealing a patchwork of scars. Long, thin welts ran like protruding veins across his back, crossing patches of dark, wrinkled pink skin. One or two were ancient, scarred over from puberty. Others almost looked fresh, the skin light and raw, as though you could still make out the marks of the whips braid. Then he moved his hand down to a spot on his lower-left back, just above the hip. “Now that one still hurts like a bitch,” he laughed. There was a patch of pail skin surrounded by a deep plum rim. In the middle the surface looked rippled, almost rubbery and loose, marbled like meat. “Hurts every time the shirt moves across it.” Ethan let the shirt fall back down. “How did you get it?” I said. “If you don’t mind me asking.” “A few years back the guy running the farms has a heart attack and dies. Right out there among the cows.” He pointed to a far off field. “Those shits up on the hill can’t possibly promote from the slaves, so they sail off and bring in this new expert. Brilliant farmer from some island down south.” Ethan’s voice dripped with contempt as he waved his arms in mock celebration. “Even on this place, surrounded by all those bastards, the prick they got was genuinely awful. He just wanted people who had to obey him. He took the job and moved all the way to this cold rock just to be at a place where he could be as cruel as he wanted and everyone had to salute him for it” He gave a slight shake of his head, loosening the memory. “He had it in for me from the start, and despite what you may think I wasn’t generally a troublemaker.” He raised his hands in innocence, grinning widely. “I didn’t want to annoy him. He gave orders, they made sense, so I did them. Fine. “Then two winters back, a bunch of ewes gave birth late in the year, so we’ve got day-old lambs in January. One night, I take one look at the sky and I know - know from thirty years of living on this island and seeing that sky - I know that it’s going to be cold.. I don’t think you’ve done a winter this far up north, but let me tell you that when it gets cold up here it’s brutal. Easily enough to kill a newborn lamb. And I didn’t want to wake up to a bunch of dead sheep in the morning. So I start rounding up the flock to get them to the barn, and start lining the place with hay. “The *expert farmer*…” Ethan elongated the vowels with enough sarcasm that even the sheep could understand it. “He tells me I’m wasting hay and to just leave them outside. I try to explain to him: ‘these lambs are going to die’. He punches me square in the face; tells me he’s in charge and I’d better put the livestock back outside.” Ethan paused and laughed. “So you know what I did?” Even though Ethan wanted me to, I couldn’t smile. I knew how the story ended. “You took the sheep inside and laid down hay.” “Your damn right I did!” Ethan slapped his thigh, bellowing with laughter. “So the next day he finds out, and tells me I need to learn some manners. Got two of my best friends - Geordie one of them - to hold me down while he roasted a hot iron over a fire.” The grin suddenly faded, the memory bringing back some of the sting. “It hurt like nothing I’ve ever known. Still does. The useless ones always do.” I lowered my head. “I’m sorry.” “It was during that I knew I had to fight back. Everything that came before, even the whippings, it felt like it had rules. Horrible, cruel rules. But rules. That day he decided anything was allowed. And so I decided the same.” The intensity broke, and Ethan’s grin returned as he shook his head. “Even if he was an expert, sometimes you just gotta trust your gut. I’m glad I did. The lambs outlived him.” I didn’t respond. My mind was being pulled in multiple directions: an admiration, a charm, but intimidation, concern, then sympathy, then horror. The end result was never being sure whether to retreat in fear or advance in friendship. Instead I froze, stood straight, like a soldier awaiting instructions. “I’ve found the solution to our rock problem by the way.” He nodded to the crates. I felt my chest lift, a weight removed from my shoulders. “How?” “Come.” We walked over to the last crate yet to be loaded onto the cart. Its lid was lifted off and tightly packed straw swelled over the edges. On its side I could read the writing in red paint. HANDLE WITH CARE - NO FLAMES Ethan nodded. “You got any experience with these?” Standing next to him, I peered inside. Nestled among the hay for protection, were several large sticks of dynamite. Looking up, the crates already loaded onto the cart had the same red writing on the side. I swallowed hard, stepping back. “Where did you get these?” “Fidella got speaking to a merchant who’d come to buy some wool. Turns out he had some things we like too.” Ethan grinned. “You used them?” “We used them on Kadear from time to time in difficult jobs…” I trailed off. “Gotta be enough to get through that rock, though, right?” I blew out a sharp puff of air, feeling that weight placed back on my shoulders. “You can’t use these.” He looked to the side and laughed. “Why? It’d help with the rock right?” “It’s as likely to bring down the entire mine.” “Oh come on,” Ethan said, raising an eyebrow. “You used these in mines on Kadear right? Those mines always collapse.” “No, but-“ “Right, so they can be used safely. We can use them to get through that rock.” He leaned down, creating a small shared space between us. “And you’re going to tell us how.” I pushed back, breaking from the circle. “The whole mine’s next to the reservoir. It’s too close. One explosion could cause the whole thing to flood.” I could feel my voice rising, tension clinging at my larynx. Ethan waved an arm, dismissing the concern. “Not where the rock is. Only the entrance passes by the reservoir.” “Shockwaves.” “That far? All the way to the entrance?” He shook his head. “No way. The earth would dampen them.” “The earth, sure. But the water?!” He paused, a brief scrunch of the face. “The water gets pushed by the shockwaves creating waves, as that momentum comes back - the weight of all that water - it’s going to be like taking a sledgehammer to the wall.” “We can sure up the wall-“ “Listen to me. It’s too dangerous.” The words left my mouth in a panicked fury, a growing frustration borne from his lack of reaction. While my face turned red with concern and my arms gesticulated every syllable, he smiled calmly, leaning back on one leg. The suredness, the lack of a fight, it was enough to make me think I was the mad one, that we were discussing two completely different mines on two completely different islands. “We asked the traders. We’ve got everything we need. A few dozen sticks of dynamite. Ignition switches. Spool wire - not a ton, but enough to get us out of the danger zone. We’ll get some of the poles from Geordie’s fields, to reeonforce the walls and ceiling.” “I want to get through that rock as much as you Ethan-“ “Worst case scenario, and a ceiling collapses, we’ll dig it back out again. It’ll be easier when it’s loose.” “Ethan. The whole mine could flood. If that happens you aren’t ever getting in there again.” “Could.” He said, raising a finger. “We could be struck by lightning tomorrow. Kicked by an angry bull. There’s always a could. Always a small risk.” “It’s not small!” The shout was loud enough for Ethan to raise his eyebrows, but the smile remained. It was only now I noticed the two women standing by the cart, awaiting instructions, their limbs twitching in uncertainty. Ethan looked to them, then to me. “You really don’t think we should do this, do you?” “No.” “There’s no way you’d ever agree to this?” He said, with reluctance, but also acceptance. My response came in a long sigh. “No.” He rolled his head, thinking before turning to the women. “We’ll find a use for them. They’ll be other mines. Take them up to the site and store them there. We’ll use them one day.” The two women nodded and eagerly picked up the last crate, placing it on the cart. “I’m sorry to have said all that in front of them,” I said as they set off, the old heifer struggling to shift the cart. “I don’t want to undermine you.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s good for them to see people disagree with me. People should disagree.” A long pause passed, the only sounds the soft lapping waters and a wooden wheel creaking through sand. “We’ll find a way through that rock.” “I know,” Ethan nodded slowly. “I know.” He reset himself, clicking his back into place and adjusting his smile. “I hope you’re still coming to the festival this evening.” I nodded. “We’ll be there.” —————— Alessia and I headed to the festival together. Even the walk to the beach was a nice moment together. I had hardly seen her since we arrived. She had taken to Ethan’s request to help with their trade. Every day she woke early and headed to the beach to offer advice on everything from the best kind of moorings to how to greet traders when they arrived. Though, I feared she might be avoiding me too. A kiss on a cheek had yet to be discussed. We arrived just as the sun was setting. Around the perimeter, torches on long poles were being lit to compensate for the fading light. The festival hadn’t begun, yet already it seemed like most of the island was here, sharing old stories as drinks poured from imported casks. Most of it looked like cheap mead, little more than malted barley and hops. It smelled of fermentation, and it had an almost frothy texture. Still, alcohol by its nature was a luxury, something for elites. And, at least for tonight, all of Reinallile would enjoy. Whether it was the celebratory occasion, or the islanders’ first experience with alcohol, I couldn’t help but notice the posture of every islander relax. The lifetime of wariness was being switched off, eyes no longer constantly checking for threats, spines no longer straightened in respect for someone who might be watching. Every single person seemed a few centimetres smaller, the vertebrae in their backs allowed to shrink a tiny bit. In the corner, I could see musicians setting up. An old and scarred violin, carefully hidden and passed down for generations, was being tuned, the old strings being tightened turned by turn. A woman set up a large kettle drum, it would only play one note, but that was all that was needed to keep the beat. Lastly, an accordion player strapped the instrument around their torso. Their tuning was interrupted as Ethan stepped up onto a makeshift stage made of stacks of palettes, the crowd immediately erupting into cheers. “Hello my friends,” Ethan shouted. A round of hollers rose in response. Ethan waited for them to quieten. “Today is one year since we took our island back. Since we overthrew cruel, evil men and women, and began a new era for Fabled Reinallile. One based on freedom, growth and success for all, not just the greedy.” More cheers grew from the crowd. Raised arms sent cheap beer into the air. “We have all been through a lot together. We were mistreated, ignored, unlistened to. But we are moving forwards to a better future. Industry, the mine, will make our island a destination. Traders will sail the length of the Archipelago for Reinallile coal, to stop at our great port, to see our work.” I looked at the crowd. Every face was entranced, wide eyes reflecting the flickering flames of the torches. “I am so thankful to every one of you for joining me in making our island better. For believing in me and believing in yourselves. Saying no to those that oppressed us was the first step in a brighter future for all of us. For our children. No one, not from our island or across the seas, will ever oppress us again!” He paused, soaking up the roar. “Now. That’s enough talk,” Ethan said, clapping his hands together. He turned to the musicians. “Are we ready?” They nodded back to him. He walked softly to the front of the stage and leaned forwards as if talking to each member of the crowd individually. “We’ve all earned this. We deserve this. We deserve everything.” He shot back up and raised his hands to the sky. “So, let’s all have a party.” As he finished, he ran forwards and jumped off the stage, bouncing into the audience. The throng of people welcomed him, Ethan’s momentum carrying him into open arms, clasped fists, and grateful hugs. Right on cue, the band started up. As Ethan worked his way through the crowd, a dance floor formed on the dusty ground nearest the band. People ran towards each other and thrusted arms and legs in erratic patternless fashions, dull, dusty skirts gaining new colour as they twirled in the torchlight. The movements were so fast, missing buttons or tears in shirts disappeared, torsos becoming white blurs, old rips made whole. The only thing that seemed still were the open smiles, people panting for breath as they laughed and jumped in time to the rolling music. I saw Geordie join the crowd. The downturned face from being chewed out from Ethan was gone. He held tightly to the waist of a woman, lifting her and twirling her around, as she squealed in delight. I saw Fidella too, swinging from arm to arm, until she clocked Alessia and I at the side of the crowd. She immediately split from the festivities and ran over to us. “Ferdinand, Alessia, join us.” She looked like a different woman to how I’d seen her. Her neck was lifted, but not stiff. Her hands were down by her side, her fists tied up in excited balls. And the voice, there was no uncertainty. *Join us*. No matter the tone or invitational intent, the grammar was an order. An order she gave us. I laughed. “We’re just guests, not sure this party is really for us.” “It’s for everyone,” she shouted over the festivities. “If you’re on Reinallile, you’re part of Reinallile.” I inspected the fast movements, trying to understand the steps. “I’m not sure I know the dance. I’ve not really been taught.” She burst out laughing. “You think those old bastards gave us dance lessons? There are no rules. We make it up as we go along. Come on, I insist.” I chuckled, turning to Alessia. “Shall we?” Alessia raised her eyes and swirled the tumbler in her hands. “Oh, I’ve got a slightly dodgy knee. I couldn’t.” I knew that tone. Enough to pass at face value to a stranger, but be dripping with sarcasm to me. She smiled, her tongue between her teeth. “Ferdinand loves a good dance though. Just bring him back in one piece.” “I will,” Fidella said. Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the music. I looked over my shoulder at Alessia who was already bending over in laughter. We arrived among the dancers, two still statues among the raucous frenzy. “So how do we start?” I asked. She looked over at a couple next to us. With each bar, they would hook onto eachother’s arm, swing round, turn around on their own, before marching back to hook the other arm. Every third time, they’d stop and grab each other’s hands and spin round. “That looks fun, don’t you think?” I laughed. Part in agreement, part in nervousness. “Sure.” And so we danced, my uncoordinated arms failing to lock onto hers, my feet desperately out of time with the music. I was terrible. Yet I was smiling from ear to ear. After completing two of the hooks and turns, Fidella reached forward and grabbed my hands, spinning in a great circle. Behind her soft face, the rest of the festival became a spinning montage. The band, unleashing long-buried instruments, Ethan smiling and laughing as he moved from crowd to crowd, dancers unlocking a human instinct that had for so long been buried, friends sharing drinks they were never allowed to drink. And of course, Alessia, watching me, smiling. She lifted her hands to her mouth. “Spin faster,” she shouted. We obeyed and leaned back further, the momentum pulling at my arms as Fidella and I clung on. The hunt for Sannaz, tough impenetrable rock in the mines, the panic over the explosives - all of it was forgotten. All I could see were grinning faces, swirling hues, torches burning away the cold night air. The whole world was nothing but a beautiful, colourful haze. | 19,109 | 1 |
The crowd parted for me as I strode from the alley way into the town square. My fuligin cloak flapping behind me. It was my first excursion to the eastern border of the marches. The air was slick with dew and although I’ve overheard some complain in passing about how it clings to the skin like steam, I personally find within the sensation a nostalgic sort of comfort. Although none here would have likely seen me before, certainly whisperings of the legends would reach even this remote intersection of the world; and voiceless lips along with motions gone yet unseen confirmed this. I spotted a young boy near the repurposed scaffold brought out for this visit of peculiar significance and decided to single him out during the performance. This was among my usual repertoire of small deceptions to make the performance more significant. I skimmed the surface of the steps in what I knew appeared as a single motion executed with perfect fluidity. It was in this way that my entrance to this performance, which was of course to be as significant as my last, but not any more so, would come to mirror the abrupt and sudden egress to everything I loved. Perhaps half a watch or less into the performance, which had been going very well up to that point. I spotted a man clad in white armor that seemed to blaze phosphorescent in the afternoon sun; as he began to approach from where he had stood against one of the pillars of a building that lined the square. The square, which was not really so much a square as a half octagon lined with dilapidated shacks stacked upon one another. Among these makeshift shelters and storefronts pocked alley-ways and roads that appeared to dart off at random, to the behest of some unseen and unthinking god. It was after I had pulled the boy up to the wooden foundation, and performed some simple tricks to help the day appear more significant within his mind, that the white-clad man unbuttoned his helm and challenged the validity of the performance. Looking back, I must admit that my immediate rage was likely spurred on by my passion and love for the art of the performance. I see now in memory how my grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder as the man climbed upon the pulpit, and how the eyes of the spectators turned dark in response to the pain in his face. He proposed a series of three trials, the first proved to be trivial, and I will not recount it here. The second I found slightly more difficult, and I was forced to conjure a series of animals from the audience to appease his request. He then proposed, I think with some bemusement, that I warp the boy onto a drooping railing above the struggling dentist’s workshop. This, I knew, was still somewhat beyond my capabilities. But I felt within myself the overwhelming need to prove to this stranger, to the crowd weeping and moaning as they were, to myself that I could overcome his accusations. I felt a desire to prove the worth of my guild, and the value of the performance that overwhelmed my sense of reason. The looks of horror and anguished cries from the crowd did not escape me, but none of them encroached upon us, knowing that they held no sway in the events to come. I positioned my hands upon the boy in the way I had seen done before, and softly chanted the incantation in the way of the untrained or unprepared. Although I could not see the man, nor anything else as I held my eyes firmly closed in focus, I felt in some deep recess of the soul that he was grinning inwardly with a depraved thrill. The final runes stumbled clumsily from my mouth and my eyes snapped open to see the boy pop out of existence, appear upon the designated banister, and then vanish once more. He then, as we all watched in some abject horror, besides perhaps the armored man nearby me, though I know not of his reaction as he was not within my sight; appeared once more before me and let out a small, panicked cry that quickly reduced into a gurgle as the bottom half of his corpse materialized a final time upon the balustrade and crumpled into a wet pile. The half boy gurgled and spasmed once more before laying as still as the crowd and myself. The only movement on the scaffolding was to be the gushing of his blood that pooled above the cracks in the wood, and the slow steps of the man in white approaching me. “You have failed Adulus, this test is over.” His voice had shifted to a distinctly authoritarian tone that immediately betrayed the meaning behind his words. I was too dumbfounded by the realization that my own guild could have done such a thing to properly react to the hand motion that precipitated an alteration in my perspective. Now I was level with the man's eyes. I could see the distinct regal haze that adorned the pupils we once shared and I wondered how I had not noticed it beforehand. How I had not understood his purpose from the moment I laid eyes upon him. We ascended, and he clutched my ankle to suspend me in the open air. “Tell me Adulus, with all of your powers, can you save yourself?” “No, master.” “Who can?” “You, master.” “Only me?” “Only you.” He smiled at my words, and we descended back to the pulpit. “Adulus, because you have responded with humility, your punishment will be less severe.” He again flicked his hand with a perfect fluidity as he spoke, and I felt all the joy and beauty in the world drain from my being. When I rose again the man was gone, and the crowd parted once more before me as I stumbled from their township. \-- This was based on a writing prompt that me and my friends did together for fun. We had a strict 1000 word limit so I tried to fit as much in as I can. PS that is a direct pull from Gene Wolfe as I just read Book of the New Sun and like I said this was just for fun. | 5,840 | 1 |
​ We were lying in bed. The only noise was the loud whirring of the box fan on high in the corner of the room. Sometimes, when I'm trying to sleep, the sound of the box fan somehow morphs into cascading water, almost as if someone's showering in the adjacent room. Other times the box fan morphs into the rhythmic, rattling whine of cicadas; the buzzing gently rises and falls and circles around me in bed as if there's an entire brood surfacing in the room. My ex-fiance had a patient who was deathly afraid of the noise of cicadas. The more I think about the noise, the more clear and inescapable it becomes, sort like becoming aware of the blurry image of your nose. I've always wondered how the sound of the box fan changes. Is it an over-active imagination, brain tumor, or schizophrenia surfacing? I'm about the right age, and my grandfather (or was it my great-grandfather?) did have to get electroshock therapy for something. Anyway, this time the box fan just sounded like a box fan. He was right next to me in bed, but he felt miles away. I wanted to reach over and touch him. I wanted to tell him to talk to me. About anything. I wanted to tell him *I'm so lonely*. But I just froze up. He was the one who eventually broke the silence. I noticed that the more upset he got, the higher the pitch of his voice would become and the latter half of each sentence he spoke started to sound like Jerry Seinfeld (“Have you seen this? Have you heard about this?”), or the guy that does the announcements in the Jungle Jim's parking lot. Half of my brain was processing everything he was saying, while the other half was running through every animal fact I knew. “Hey, kids! Did you know that blue whale penises are between eight and ten feet in length?” My mind started drifting away, thinking about wrapping my arms around a dick bigger than my entire body and feeling the warmth radiating from it. I wonder, what would it sound like to hold your ear up against it as it throbs? The sound of his voice slowly faded into the background as I defocused my eyes and completely dissociated. It's a secret trick, a coping mechanism, that I've used my entire life. Whenever my anxiety becomes overwhelming, I just defocus my eyes on command to stop taking in information from the world. It allows me to go through life in a blur, like I'm in the wings of a stage peering out from behind a curtain into an audience where everyone's faces are featureless, clay-like masses. Occasionally, I will do it on the drive to work and not remember the entire trip. This is, of course, after the onset of the anxiety attack, which involves turning my car off so I can check the mailbox, unlock the door and check if I turned the smoke detector back on, turned the stove off, and closed the fridge door after getting my lunch ready. Unfortunately, the anxiety attack doesn't involve making sure I have my name badge, water, or headphones, because I forget them constantly. My secret trick not only gifts me blurry vision (imagine if the old man from The Tell-Tale Heart had two evil eyes), but it also gifts me the power of invisibility; if I can't see other people, they can't see me, right? I used to think it was so implausible that Harry Potter, a teenage boy, would use an invisibility cloak to sneak into a library of all places, but upon reflection, I've never done anything exciting with my invisibility, either. In this moment, though, I think maybe if I blur my vision enough, I'll simply stop existing. It doesn't work. The red dot holds me in the room. It's the red dot that tells me that the TV is still plugged in. Is anyone in the world grateful for this information? My fridge could quit working at any given moment and I'd have no idea because there isn't a red dot on the outside of it telling me that it still has power. If my fridge quits working I'll lose hundreds of dollars worth of food and my house will start to smell like Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment, but if my TV quits working I'll just become more productive. Why do I need to know that it's plugged in? How much does it cost to run the tiny red dot 24/7? Does the cost of running the little red dot get factored into the energy rating they always print on the box? As I obsess over the uselessness of the red dot, I blur my eyes even harder in a desperate attempt to remove it, and myself, from the room, but I can't escape it. The dot is growing and now resembles a brake light through a windshield. I push my secret trick to the limit and the red dot stretches into a parabola before it splits into two distinct dots. The two red dots are like eyes staring back at me (these are a lot more like evil eyes than ones that just have regular ass cataracts). As I realize that my trick won't work against the TV, I admit defeat and my eyes well up with tears. The red dots keep staring, though. The light from the red dots travels across the room; some of it reflects off the tear droplets surrounding my eyes, and some of it pierces the tears and refracts. Under the right conditions, I imagine this might create a tiny, imperceptible rainbow, but in this case, it just further warps the red dots into a translucent red veil that spans across my field of vision. Like shining a laser pointer into a glass of water and watching it dance across the walls and ceiling, the red dot multiplied throughout the veil like a small constellation only I could see. In the expansive web of dots and lines, I noticed that the dots were no longer just dots, they were numbers. One. Nine. At least, I think that's what the TV was trying to tell me. Or was it nineteen? Nineteen, like Adele's debut album. Nineteen, like the amendment that gave women the right to vote. Nineteen, like COVID-19, the atomic number of potassium, and the number of years the Vietnam War went on. Wasn't I nineteen years old when I first met my ex-fiance and he pulled me into the woods to kiss me? Nineteen when he lied to my parents and told them he was a student at my college like I asked him to. Nineteen when he held me down and choked me and spit on my face while fucking me. The sound of the box fan whooshes back in and my eyes snap into focus. The red dot reverts back to its initial form, nestled in the corner of the TV, and I realize that, in a cruel way, it worked; I'm now completely alone in the room, just me and the red dot... | 6,553 | 5 |
Deaths' Memories Prologue To whom shall read these pages let it be known that the words here within are not meant for mortal eyes. If you are not dissuaded from this venture then keep in mind that if I am in a slumber find me and I shall reward your courtesy. There are many who fear me through the ages I was not one whom you should fear. I am a warm embrace or an old friend welcomed to visit, magic is a wondrous thing to you mortals. I was born and created in magic in the beginning when the universe was saturated in magic by the creator. He and I walked for eons before he deemed light should be cast to every corner of the universe. He goes by many names in the Abrahamic religions God, Yahweh, and Allah, to me he was friend and father in one. We should start my story at the very beginning. Darkness surrounded me in the void, but a form of energy and power washed over me and filled my incorporeal body with substance to giving me form and purpose. My friend the creator bent down to draw my form from the pool of liquid magic he stood over. I was taken by the hand and raised from the pool at his feet, then a weight fell on my shoulders he shrouded me in a cloak. With a voice that could only be described at overpowering yet gentle he said “ you are Death charged with guiding all of those to come through the veil of life to eternal existence.” he touched my throat to give me the gift of speech saying “I gift to you the voice to speak to all future life” then touching my head he says “ I gift to you knowledge in all things present, past, and future” he then touched the cloak that was draped over my form and said “ this fabric is a gift that can change and adapt to any and all environments you walk in. While you wear this shroud you will be safe warm and satiated” He grabbed a portion of the void creating a dark essence imbuing it with power forcing the formless material into a scythe” This will serve as your tool to complete the plan I have in mind for your existence, it will take what ever shape you command of it” He then told me to walk with him. Into what felt like a vast void absent of life except for him and I. It was like walking on water rippling masses traveling from out footsteps The creator then put his hand on my should while standing next to me and said you will bear witness to this great miracle and see the mysteries of life I am to create. First he created the stars, taking time to create the science needed to sustain a cycle that is both destructive and creative in nature ensuring that life continues. We walked as he talked and told me of his plans for me to nurture and guide his creations. The creations he spoke of were humans I bore witness to his molding of Adam from clay and Eve from his rib so that man might live in harmony with woman in an effort to ensure that companionship is established to and life endures. The universe was now teeming with life, Stars, Nebula, Galaxies, Planets and various other wonders that you humans are not privy too. The last time he and I spoke was a about 13.6 billion years ago. We stood in the plane of existence that he created for me that is in between that of life and the after life all things visible like a thin veil almost ethereal in nature. We talked of my charge and my limitations of being able to interfere and manipulate only during certain situations. For one if the entirety of life on earth is threatened he will permit me to act. I am allowed to befriend humans and walk among them to understand the times and make passing easier. It easier to guide a soul when it sees something it is familiar with. My true form must not be shown to humans to protect them from what they could never understand. I must guide and protect all souls as they traverse their paths through my realm into the realms they believe in. The conversation ended with the creator hugging me and telling me that I am going to live a lonely life but he will be watching. I know now this was his way of saying he was going to miss our time. We spent 1 million years together as he created and molded an enumerable amount of life and wonders. I miss our walks more than anything, the first time we walked the water by what is now present day France at the coast of the Mediterranean sea. I loved the color of the crystal blue water with the waves gently crashing against the shore it was peaceful. I cannot walk this path with you Death for you are the only one I have created for this however, you will have minions which will do your bidding. What would you call them “ call them reapers for they reap the fields of life and thresh the soul to help it find its way to its final destination.” I nod in agreement the name is very fitting. He gave me the knowledge to summon and command them he then sent me to my task as man was on every corner of the earth and needed its shepherd through deaths embrace. He vanished and I started my work if you are still reading you should know I can feel your eyes on these memories I have shared and am on the way to talk. | 5,060 | 1 |
“My daughter says I’m racist.” “You’re what?” “A racist. She says I don’t like black people.” “You?” I was bewildered. I had known Johnson for several years now and he had the character of a Washington, the heart of a King. “Thank you!” He clapped his hands then threw them up. Impossible, he seemed to be saying. I looked at my friend, the man who had taught me my trade and that I now supervised. Not wanting to dismiss the absurd allegation, I let the confusion lay around my face and asked the question I knew he wanted me to ask, “Why?” “She wants me to give her a ride to see her friend in Sampson. But I told her I ain’t driving up there for her, for me, for DeMarcus, for nobody.” “Where’s Sampson?” “Not where—What. Sampson’s a prison just outside Clinton.” “Her boyfriend is behind bars?” I thought he might grab me by the collar if I called a man doing hard time her boyfriend again. “Not her boyfriend, Sir! Her friend. They went to school together. She says I don’t like any of her black friends. No, I told her, I don’t like your friends because they are criminals.” “He’s black?” His eyes scattered across the room. “DeMarcus? Yeah, Sir, he’s black alright. She said, ‘see you don’t like him ‘cause he black. You don’t like any of my black friends.’ I said, ‘no, I wouldn’t give you a ride to Sampson if he looked like Eminem. The reason I don’t like him is because he broke into somebody’s house and tried to steal a TV. Then he pushed them down the stairs when they tried to stop him. I don’t like him cause he’s a criminal.’ She started talkin about, ‘It wasn’t even the regular stairs. It was just the steps on the porch.’” The look on my face explained I had no idea conversations like that even happened. Tyrone knew too. He continued, “She said, ‘But you didn’t like him before that. You said he ‘ghetto’.’ Yeah! Guess what, Sir. He tried to show up with a football jersey on backwards and pants eight sizes too big. I kicked his sorry tail right on outta my house. Had Joe Montana’s name across his chest like a durn fool. Ain’t gonna show up at my house lookin like that. She said, ‘see! You racist, you don’t like black people or our culture’.” Baffled, and unsure how much I should agree with, I said, “Is that even possible? I mean, can you even be racist against your people?” “He ain’t my people! My people know how to keep their hands off other people property. My people know how to act right and wear clothes the right way. Don’t try and put them low-lifes on me.” “Sorry, I just mean can you be racist against someone from your own race?” “Sir?” he stepped back. The look on his face carried more pride than I had ever seen Tyrone Johnson express before, as though he had been an eyewitness to Orville Wright’s piloting the Flyer across the dunes at the Outer Banks, and I—naïve me—had the temerity to question whether they had actually done it. I did a quick examination of conscious and could find nothing offensive in what I had said. Tyrone repeated himself and continued, “Sir—it’s Black History Month: I can be anything I want.” His grin was brighter than the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. I shook my head as I ruffled through some papers in my desk, “Can you be on time to formation?” The smile flattened out and Tyrone’s eyes squinted at me. “How ya gonna do me like that on Leap Day?” I tried not to laugh. I let a chuckle slip. Then I looked up from my papers at his still squinted eyes and found the grin he had lost. “Of all days. On Leap Day! And not just any Leap Day—a special one—a Leap Day on the final day of my month.” Tyrone looked at the plastic replica Baxter Clock on my desk. “Is that right?” “Yes, exactly.” “Oh dang, I’m finna be late to formation. Why didn’t you tell me what time it is!” He darted out the door. \*\*\* Follow QuillAndTrowel on Medium for more. (Links in Profile). | 4,045 | 1 |
The Artists Choice. She sat and rolled a cigarette. It had only just gone 11 in the morning but she was done. Not with her job, she still had half a stack of leaflets to hand out, but with life. The constant ‘trying’ - why am I always trying - she thought. Does everyone constantly try? Finishing her cigarette she returned to the street corner on which she had stood just 20 minutes before and began again, energetically lifelessly handing out flyers. *ART SHOW.* *NOVEMBER 2nd.* *18:30 - 21:00* *Refreshments provided* *Free Entry.* She regretted not paying someone else to do it but limited funds meant sucking up the heartbreak and turmoil that comes with promoting one's own work. She took another break strolling to the entrance of the gallery, a location chosen for its seduction to art enthusiasts and patrons. There, in the opening of a bin, stood a valley of crumpled flyers filled with coffee cups and wet cigarettes, slowly absorbing the seepage, combing it all into a brown mush. Death. That is what these people wanted. Conclusion of one's output. An ending, in which they can enjoy an artist’s narrative in the comfort that no other factors, an affair, a decline in quality, an affiliation with right wing politics, may come. There’s little drama to be had, when someone is dead. She lay awake that evening, looked out of her window, stared at the ceiling. She wrapped the covers around her body, threw the covers off the bed. She lay silent. She watched the sun rise. Grabbing a large canvas piece, she strapped it to her bike, left her apartment, passed the bin, entered the atrium, and placed it on the floor of the gallery. Taking out a paint brush she scrawled across it ‘*WHAT WILL THIS BE WORTH ONCE I’M DEAD?*’. Pulling out packs of cigarettes, a bottle of gin and a variety of pills, she smoked, drank and ingested. As a crowd gathered, some filmed, some made comments, none offered to help. A man stepped forward, turning out his wallet and presenting £85, another offered £150. An excitement broke out around her, as the crowd bid and argued. Believing the performance to be fake, it grew in size and enthusiasm, encouraging her to continue her self destruction. In a haze she saw lights, heard shouting and tasted bitterness. Her adrenaline surged, the room span, people’s voices crescendoed in a high pitch squeal, she passed out. Waking in the hospital bed, she discovered her newfound fame. The talk of the art world, she had redefined boundaries and iconoclastically shown the turmoil of the modern artist. The media success and viral internet fame resulted in a sell out show, famously not attended by the recovering artist herself. But they had got it wrong… they always do. They sensationalized the stunt, fetishising suicidal desperation as a talking point in newpaper columns and coffee shops. Months later she sits staring at herself in the mirror. Her phone buzzes with messages and missed calls from agents, publicists and PR people. Another appointment, another interview, another question of what she’ll do next - another expectation. Her body may not have died but her faith had. She no longer believed in her previous wants, those of artistic authenticity, approval and financial stability. Having touched death and lived the aftermath she now wandered with a nihilistic determination, caring not for thoughts of how her art or actions may be received but energetically riding the wave of what is likely to be her only chance. She vowed to only ever work with pigments made from hazardous chemicals, her workshops ventured to increasingly treacherous locations, the presentation of her new canvas at the Tate Modern was accompanied with a base jump from its roof. A private party of collectors saw her showcasing sculptures before she risked choosing the laced cup from a selection of 10 identical ones. Each stunt aim to bring her closer to death. The room is full, the corners compacted with reporters, prospective buyers and staff members. She sits staring at the baying crowd as her masterpiece is bought out to be gazed upon. The room ripples with mutters and conversation. Eyes drawn to the canvas last only a second, its beauty, artistry and presence are quickly forgotten, exchanged for fixation on her next move. Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a revolver. She loads one bullet into the chamber, spins the barrel and aims the gun to her head. The bidding begins. *$500,000* *$750,000* *$1,000,000* *$1,500,000…* The bidding drone becomes an incoherent drivel, her hand begins to shake and her palms sweat. The bids continue to increase. The trigger is pulled. The gavel comes down. | 4,722 | 1 |
7:08am. Caroline opened her eyes half way trying to shut off the alarm she placed on her phone just three short hours ago. She had been up working on her final project piece for Graduation. Something about the ringtone for the iPhone alarm always drove her into annoyance. She knew it annoyed her more than it should. It was also why she chose the alarm sound she hated the most. To get her out of bed after late nights like last night. Except, she had slept 8 minutes longer than she should have. A blurred thought crossed into Caroline’s groggy mind. “Carolina Elena! Levantarse Encanto Por favor!” which was a gentle, but also very stern way of saying get out of bed. Anytime she woke up late, her grandmother would say this to her. Her grandmother was docile, gentle, and sweet but had a thick Argentine accent that always made it feel more serious. Caroline was never an early riser by default. Between the dreaded alarm, and her grandmothers voice reaming in her head it always made her get up. It meant “Get up, please sweetheart.” Usually followed by some inspirational quote Caroline always thought was cheesy. “How are you going to chase your dreams when you are asleep.” By this time Caroline glanced at the time on her phone, which read 7:15am as she managed to pull it together. She had to get going, everybody in New York, City was already up and headed steadily to wherever they were going that day. This played a factor of regret in Caroline. She never really enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the big city. She didn’t like the noise, the traffic, the abruptness of what they call a Northern attitude. Caroline was quiet, and warm, and loved to be at home most days, Which home to her was A 5th floor walkup studio apartment 7 blocks from where she needed to be daily. Most of her friends stayed at Wilson Hall which she had done the prior years, but she wasn’t a roommate person. She had what they say as “Black Cat Energy.” Staying in the heart of New York wasn’t Caroline’s long-term plan. For right now, it was a small price to pay to get what most artist dream about. Not even into the Julliard School of Music, I mean of course they dream about that. But it starts with a dream to even get the chance to Audition first. Three years ago, Caroline got that chance. She had played piano 6 times a week from the time she was 9 years old. She received early acceptance on a No. 14 Beethoven piece called “MOONLIGHT.” Caroline was always grateful for the opportunity. Even though she didn’t like New York that much, and missed her family, she was grateful for the three years, of getting to learn something she loved, and the friends and colleagues she had made. New York to Caroline was more overwhelming than anything. Busy, and honestly some what kind of dirty at times. A face paced, and cold change to where she came from. Caroline grew up north of Dallas – Fort Worth which isn’t anything at all like New York. She grew up with her grandparents, her grandmother an immigrant from Buenos Aires, and her grandfather from Baton Rouge. They were kind and warm people. They treated everyone like family. Often times with she was younger her grandma would make her “Voodoo Soup” which essentially was just Chicken and Rice Gumbo. Just the thought of it could make her mouth water, and sometimes maybe even made her feel lonely when she was here on her own in New York. The day Caroline and her family got the infamous letter that she was invited to audition for Julliard, as prestige as it was, and dream for some, a dark wave came over her as she knew she would have to leave home. “Oh Carolina, I'm so happy for you! You must go! She wanted to make her family proud even if that meant pursing ambitions in a place that didn’t entirely make her happy. But that’s what she did. She busted her butt the last 3 years, surviving on $2 pizza slices, canned sprite and ramen just to see if she could make it. With graduation around the corner, it seemed like there was potential light at the end of the tunnel. There was just one problem. All her friends were getting signed, and receiving job offers left and right. Despite all the hard work Caroline put it, she still hadn’t received anything. “Hey Carol…wait up! “Caroline snapped her head around to see Andrew. Andrew was in her music theory class, and as nice as he was, he had this people pleasing annoyance about him. Caroline had specifically also asked Andrew not to call her Carol for three years now, but it always fell on deaf ears. “Oh...hey Andrew.” Caroline greeted. It not that she disliked him, but she just wasn’t in the headspace for his constant chatter. She was still running on lack of sleep, thinking about her senior project, and her lack of job offers haunted her daily. What would her grandmother think of her? The thought of her going home, spending all this time in place she disliked only to face her family and tell them she’s 50k in student debt with no job?! She shuttered at the fact. “Earth to Carol. Hello?! Did you hear me?” Andrew was now waving his hand in front of her face. She felt a shred of frustration but bit her tongue as usual. “Sorry…it’s been a long night” she responded. “I wanted to know if you could help me work on that Piano Structure for Music theory? I’ll buy you dinner as a thanks!” Andrew offered. Caroline knew he meant well; she was just so…not in the mood. She couldn’t help her thoughts circle back to not having any job offers, when she had worked so hard to get where she was. A thought grazed her mind “Why so you can just take what I teach you, and get an offer too.” But she didn’t say that nor would she ever. She simply smiled and said “Sure thing”. And together they walked to Lincoln square. She could feel the cold of winter approaching, even though 56 degrees was still considered warm for October. She did enjoy the fall leaves and the scenery New York had to offer. The parks were always beautiful year-round. That night after her evening with Andrew, Caroline made the brisk walk back down 7th avenue. She had a thought that maybe if she spent more time helping herself instead of others, she too could have the job of her dreams. To Caroline the dream was playing music for people that appreciated the art of Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, and all the greats. She wanted to play her own music and make a living doing so. It was the only reason she had come here. While she brushed her teeth, Caroline slipped on a ratty bleach splotched Van Halen t shirt. It was 2023 but she still yearned for the sound of records, and how the music filled them room on her old inherited record player. She placed the needle on the record, her bare feet tacking across the cold wooden floor, and into bed. Caroline stared at the ceiling as she could hear car horns, people laughing up and down the walk down below. The music was the only thing that made her feel not so alone. Soon dozing off as Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones filled her bedroom. 3:33am Grogginess filled Caroline’s eyes as she staggered to raise her head. Her vison blurred as a person’s does when they first wake up from a deep slumber. She see’s the time and slams her head into her pillow face down. “Caroline, my princess now isn’t the time for sleeping.” Caroline’s snapped up right in her bed. It wasn’t the soft sweet voice of her grandmother, instead it was that of a man. She scanned the room but didn’t see anybody. She lay back down believing her mind was playing tricks on her. “As brilliant as you are, you could have everything you ever asked for princess.” The man’s voice says again. This time with Caroline hopping out of bed. She scans the room a second time and catches a glimpse of what appears to be a silhouette of a man, coming from her floor length mirror angled in the corner of the loft facing her bed. “Come here, sweet girl.” As Caroline slowly makes her way across the loft the silhouette sits stature. As she gets more, and closer to the mirror she makes out one of the most beautiful smiles she’s ever seen on a man or on anybody. The man was also naked with his arms crossed over his chest with a fire ring tattoo on his middle finger. The man’s voice speaks again “You work so hard, you deserve to have what everyone else has, don’t you princess.” This time she can make out a face, and features. Raven Colored hair, and eyes so blue that you almost couldn’t look into to them for too long before it felt too sinister. “What are you here for?” Caroline asked the man. He laughed a soft but maniacal laugh, and responded “What is it you wish for. Hm? Clothes, Jewelry? Fame? Fortune?” Caroline squeezed her eyes shut and reopened them. Where she would normally feel panic, she felt soothed by the voice and image in the mirror. “Who are you, and what do you want” Caroline asked again. The image of the man was gone but his soft yet gentle voice lingered around. “My name is whatever you want it to be. And I told you I'm here to grant you what you deserve so what is it that you seek, sweet girl?” Caroline started to stutter “I…, I…” finally she just blurts out the one thing she so desperately wants more than anything. “I Want the highest paying job offer after graduation that there is to offer! NO! not want…I DESERVE the highest paying offer. Nobody works harder than me! Everyone parties, but then comes to me for help and gets what their after but then what do I get? NOT SHIT! FUCK THAT, AND FUCK THEM! Caroline realizes she’s shouting now. She’s interrupted but what sounds like a leaky faucet dripping on the floor, only its not water. It’s a darker, thicker substance. It hits the cold wood floor in small splatter. Drip…Drip…Drip. Caroline bends down and drags her pointer finger across on of the small puddles, and realizes its not a leak…Its blood. She turns over hand to see a one-inch slash on the inside of her palm as blood trickles down her wrist on onto the floor. She also realizes the man and his voice is gone. She palms away at the blood with her other hand, but it just keeps coming. Seeping out filling her open palm, and the splashing on the floor until a giant pool surrounds Caroline’s feet. She whimpers in panic, so smearing the blood away in more of a panic. “What’s happening?!” she sobs looking around the bloody mess when she catches a glimpse of the man’s silhouette in the mirror once more. She can fully see her reflection in the mirror as well and the tears streaming down her face and blood pouring out of her open wound. He doesn’t say a word, like he did before. Instead, he just stands there smiling at Caroline. Caroline repeats herself “WHATS HAPPENING, PLEASE?!” she begs. As he stands there smiling, it’s not a daunting smile, but almost gentle in a way. Finally, the figured man responds in the calmest voice she’s hear in a while “I like it when you cry, angel…” Caroline's panic comes to an ease and crying lessoning and she looks perplexed. She responds “Wha, what?” BEEP, BEEP BEEP, blasted from Caroline’s charging iPhone next to her bed. Startled, she wakes up in a and sits up in bed her heart pounding, and her stomach uneasy. She hops out of bed and darts to the mirror, and the floor where the messy, giant puddle of blood was. Only there was no blood. She flips her hand over and there’s no gash either. “Holy shit that felt so real” Caroline says to herself out loud caressing her palm. Walks over to her phone to check the time that read 6:55am. She goes to her bathroom mirror, places some water on her face, and brushes her hair and teeth. A ding goes off on her phone its notification from Gary, the guy who monitors the mail room. Gary and Caroline weren’t exactly friends, but he had worked the mailroom for as long as she had lived there. He made sure any lingering people that lived on the street wouldn’t come in and poke around people’s mailboxes, and She had always said hello in passing. When Gary was working nights, it made her feel a little less alone in the building, and he was prompt about always giving her anything that looked important. She opens the notification and reads “Good morning, Ms. Caroline you have a large envelope that wouldn’t fit in your mailbox, its from Straumann Strings Quartet & Co.” Caroline headed down the 5 flights of stairs, upon walking into the mailroom she sees Gary at his desk which faces anyone who may walk in. Behind him were rows of metal mailboxes that lined the walls. “Hey Caroline! Good morning! Im sorry for texting your personal number, but I had this envelope here that wouldn’t fit in the mailbox. I wanted to get it to you before I was off for my shift. looks pretty important.” Gary said. Caroline still shaking off the weird dream she had from the night before. She murmurs back a response, her eyes on the manila envelope with her name on it.” Its fine, Gary no big deal, thank you.” Gary smiles and nodes and slides over the envelope towards Caroline. She hesitates in anxiousness before she reaches out and grabs it. Finally, she grabs it and clutches it to her chest. “Again, thanks Gary. Hope you get some rest.” She looks up at Gary who seems to be just sitting there. Their eyes meet for a moment. His eyes are so blue. Much bluer than she remembers, she had never really stopped and looked. She smiles and turns to leave. She takes a few steps towards the door, when he says something very slow and somber. Which was out of character for him. He was pretty cheery for a guy that worked nights. “I hope whatever is in the envelope is everything you’ve been hoping for, sweetheart.” Caroline stops in her footsteps. Sweetheart? Gary and her were friends but not once has he ever spoke to her that way. And in that tone. She turns around now almost laughing thinking he was just joking around, but when she does Gary is simply just gone. Caroline shakes her head and murmurs to herself “what an odd guy.” And continues to walk back up to the five flights of stairs back to her loft. She opens the door tosses her keys onto the small tray table she substituted as a make shift kitchen table since she didn’t have one. Who needs a kitchen table when all you eat are noodles anyway. In the past when, she had gotten a few envelopes like this but it had been a while since anything came, and even then, it was all intern catalogs for companies that don’t pay shit. 6 months prior she received a catalog, and invite to intern at one the most prestigious companies in New York. They did the music for everything from the nutcracker ballet, to the radio city rocket performances. Caroline had the called the contact on the envelope to ask for a more permanent paying positions she was interested in. They lady scoffed on the phone and responded in condescending tone “We don’t hire new graduates for paying positions. The internship gives you experience, and at the most prominent company.” “I have a lifetime of experience, and got accepted on first round auditions to the most prominent music school.” Caroline said back in a challenging and maybe little bit of a mimicking tone. It was then the other end of the line went dead. She had often wondered if that terrible phone call was the reason, she hadn’t had any job offers. Caroline started at the envelope in her hands, and brushed off the unwanted memory. She tore off the top of the envelope and pulled out the stack of papers that was inside. She anxiously reads the words off the paper below: To Whom it may concern, this contract is in regards to Ms. Carolina E. North Now and therefor in consideration of the mutual promises and agreements. On behalf of The Straumann Strings Quartet we would like to offer you a binding contract upon graduation from The Julliard School. Caroline goes on to read, and a smile spreads across her face. Straumann Strings is offering her world tour with their music group, along with a permanent position with the company after the tour is over. Her eyes skim down to the last numerical of the contract where she see’s a very big seven figure offer. “Holy shit “she says in excitement. She grabs the nearest pen and without any further reading signs on the dotted line. That night she could barely contain her joy as she laid in her bed, the fog and streetlights shining in through her window. She had called all the people in her life that mattered to her anyway. Still reeling from the thought of her dream coming true. Her Grandmother was so excited for her she started speaking in Spanish. Something Caroline couldn’t quite understand, with a mix “Thank you, Jesus.” All the hard work paying off and she thinks back to her encounter with Gary that morning. How he said he had hopes everything is this letter was what she had wanted. With that finally thought in her mind, and winding down from exactment, she peacefully drifted on to sleep. Caroline awakes to what she feels like someone is watching her. She rolls over and fixated her tired eyes on her window, when she sees the same man from the dream the previous night before. Still naked, and still so beautiful. She gets out of bed and walks towards him. He stands in front of her as he grabs her hand and turns it over. He places a piece of paper in Caroline’s hand that reads “I told you I could get you anything you asked for.” He then takes his fingernail and cuts a small gash through Caroline’s hand. The blood seeps through the paper in little spots. She looks up at him, the same beautiful blue eyes. She can feel the blood dripping, but this time it doesn’t hurt. Her eyes fixed on his. He takes a step towards her as he reaches around and the back of her neck and places a firm grip around it. He smiles as his tongue comes out from in between his teeth. His tongue splits in two right down the middle and he yanks Caroline closer and she can feel his penis pressed against her thigh just below the seem of her t-shirt. He says nothing still, and with blood still seeping from her wound he slowly licks the side of her neck towards her mouth. He licks it slowly up and down with spit dripping off. All of a sudden, his tongue parts together again as he puts it back inside his mouth. Then the paper bust into flames and falls to ashes at Caroline’s feet. “AHH!” Caroline screams jumps up from her dream yet again. Her heart pounding and she looks over and see’s her Straumann contact. She smiles again. “Just a bad dream again.” She places her feet on the floor and does big stretch with her arms over her head. She goes about starting her day, and as she’s brushing her teeth a gust of wind blows through her open loft window. “Brr! Did I open this last night? Must have forgotten to shut it.” As she shuts her window she turns and walks away back towards her bathroom. Just in time to miss the pile of ash being carried away by the wind outside her window pane. In the course of two years Caroline’s life had changed much to the whirl and of graduation, and signing a seven-figure job offer. Night, after night it was a different city. The same set of songs, just different crowds. Caroline probably slept in her own bed 12 times in the past 720 days. Among those days, sleeping through holidays. Spending Christmas, and thanksgiving in her new penthouse she was never in. Its true, it was everything she had ever wanted. Except for one thing. Empty dirty used syringe needles litter in clusters all over her beautiful penthouse floor. It started at about two months into her tour when she walked up on a roadie named Josue leaned up against the bus snorting a bump of cocaine off his hand. “Oh shit, I didn’t see you there. The long days, and nights man I tell you what. They catch up to you.” Josue said. “Please don’t tell anyone. I really need this gig, and I just… I just get tired sometimes, okay?” Caroline had never seen anybody do drugs before, so once the initial shock wore off, she responds with “I won’t tell if you won’t.” Josue smirked and turned around to start unloading the instrument equipment from underneath the bus. It was true, these were long days and nights. Long past caffeine helping. “Hey Josue…” Caroline said. “Do you have anymore?” After that Caroline told herself never again. It was just a one-time thing. Then it turned into night after night meeting Josue in the same spot. They would snort bump after bump and power through a show and continue to party through the night. She had never felt more alive in all honesty. But with cocaine being an upper, she was plateauing. The lack of sleep and nonstop partying was catching up to her. The cocaine wasn’t helping much anymore anyways. It was then Josue tied and elastic band around right above her elbow for the first time. “Watch this.” Josue heated up a powdered substance in a spoon with a BIC lighter. The brown liquid melts, and he tears up half a cotton ball and puts in the liquid. He pulls back on the tiny syringe needle, and injects Caroline. In just a matter of second she falls flat on her back on the bed they were both sitting on. “Turn on your side, so you don’t Jimi Hendrix yourself.” Josue said. Cosmic flurries of dust danced around just above Caroline's head. And soon she passes out as Strawberry fields forever drifted through the hotel room. And after that Caroline couldn’t live with out the only thing that’s ever made her feel alive. Heroin. “Wake the fuck up, you pathetic whore!” A mans voiced boomed. Caroline sluggishly opened her eyes, a needle still half stuck in her arm from the night before. She had not dreamed about the beautiful man since that night she signed her contract. She didn’t see anyone, but she could hear him. He laughs a deep bellowed laugh “You didn’t even make this hard! You were so desperate. Im coming for you soon, sweet girl.” Caroline sat straight up in her bed. It wasn’t unusual to hallucinate, or hear things after coming down from a high. As she raises her head, she projectile vomits brown liquid all over the floor. She steps over it and doesn’t even bother to clean it up. She rips the needle out of her arm, and frantically searches the used needles scattered all over her penthouse. She had been asleep for almost two days, she was withdrawing. She needed just something but she had blown through her monthly salary and advancement, and she refused to blow some seedy, foul-smelling dealer again. “Omg I'm so fucking dizzy” Caroline says to herself. She put her arms out trying to balance herself, she catches herself on her practice keyboard. She opens her eyes as she hits a key note with her hands to steady herself. She then picks up the keyboard, throws on her slides. She doesn’t even bother to put pants on despite it being 29 degrees and hauls it downstairs, and down the block. She walks into Freddy’s pawn shop and walks out with $1500 in cash. The next morning, she lay in her unmade bed. The vomit from the day before still dried up and sticky on the floor. She was shivering, and starts to heave again. A familiar reoccurring feeling. This time when she projective vomits. Its not brown, its blood. And she doesn’t just vomit once, like she usually does. She vomits blood over, and over until she decides to call somebody for help. She’s not withdrawing, she shot up two hours ago. She crawls up into her bed, reaches for her phone, unlocks it. And with blood vomit seeping down her chin, she manages to scroll through her contacts until she finds her grandmothers contact and hits call. She would know what to do. She always did. Shortly after the call, she passes out and wakes up in an ambulance. Her body aching and in sweats. She over hears the paramedics talking as they work over her. “I need 200cc of lactated ringers, the patient has a fever of 103.” Everything was such a blur; her grandmother must have called the ambulance. “Hey, the patient has track marks up and down her arm, she is a user.” One of the paramedics said. “Caroline, have you taken anything today?” Confused she tries to lift her head, her head pounding from combination of fever and the ambulance sirens. She goes to speak but passes back out, and just before she closes her eyes, she sees the man from her dreams lurking in the corner of the ambulance. This time when Caroline wakes up, she’s stable and in a hospital room. She see’s her grandmother and what looks like a doctor to be talking in the hall. To her right, she sees a nurse injecting medication into her IV. When she notices Caroline is awake the nurse smiles and says “Welcome back” in a soft tone. “What…What happened?” Caroline asks. The nurses warm smile drops as she replies “Your grandmother is here; she will be happy to know you’re awake. And DR Johnson he will take good care of you and explain everything that’s going on.” Right about the same time they both walk in, and the nice nurse walks out. Her grandmother wasn’t saying much, which wasn’t good. Then abruptly DR. Johnson blurts out “Caroline, you have been diagnosed with AIDS. I suspect from sharing needles from your drug usage.” The words hit Caroline like a brick. Hearing the doctor say it out loud made her feel shameful. Gross. “We have been able to give you fluids, and antivirals to keep the infection down. That’s what causes the fever and vomiting. After that we will start you on a dosage of Doravirine. Page the nurse if you have any other questions.” And just like that he walked out of the room. Caroline’s grandmother starts to cry, but as shocking as the news is to Caroline, she can’t seem to shed a tear. She is just numb. “Carolina Elena what happened to you…Drugs?! HERION?!” I know…Caroline responded. “How does this happen in two years, you’ve just waisted your life away.” Her grandmother scolds and turns around and puts her hand to her eyes and wipes the tears away. They both sit in silence for what feels like ages but is probably only two minutes. Caroline starts to speak “Im embarrassed I don’t know what to say, I couldn’t come to you because I knew you’d be disgusted with me. Im disgusted with myself.” She reflects back to the night she had that weird dream. “I... I had this dream, and I signed a contract. In an instant everything changed, I had everything I ever wanted. I keep seeing this dude, and I swore I saw him in the ambulance on the way here…ever since that night I’ve gotten, and lost everything I ever wanted.” Caroline's grandmother turns around with wide eyes. “What?” Caroline asked when she saw her expression. “You signed a contract in your dream? You saw a man? Was he…” Caroline notices her grandmother starts to clutch the cross that hung around her neck and then continues “was he naked?” Caroline confused says “yes, he was. every time.” A loud gasp come out of her grandmother’s mouth and she clasps her hands over to cover the outcry. “We don’t need a doctor…we need a priest.” “Are you out of your mind?!” DR. Johnson shouts to Caroline's grandmother. “We ARE NOT doing an exorcism in the middle of the ICU.” Crying, her grandmother responds “You have to trust me, it’s the only way, I’ve already called him.” “CALLED WHO?” at that moment there is a soft knock at the door, all three of them turn to see a priest standing in the door way, with a backpack hung over one shoulder. “Hello, everyone. Father Jacob Malone, I'm here about the girl.” He shuffles a few steps forward with his hand outreached, no sooner then that the lights in the room flicker. Father Jacob walks over to Caroline, and makes eye contact with her for a few moments before turning his attention back to DR. Johnson and Grandmother. Caroline’s eyes had started to turn a pale yellow from the fever. “He knows I'm here, we need to do this asap.” Father Jacob says directly. “Can you help her?” Caroline’s grandmother asks. He turns back to Caroline and says “From what your grandmother told me on the phone, it seems you have signed a blood oath the devil, and now he’s started to take over your soul. Im going to do everything I can to reverse it.” Caroline stammers a response “How will you do that? “I need you to write out what was on the contract in your dream, and then well need to cut you where he sliced you and sign your name in blood to reverse it.” Father Jacob says. “ABSLOUTLY NOT, SHE IS HIV POSTIVE, NOT POSSESED BY THE DEVIL!” DR. Johnson screams. The lights flicker again. “Look, this is the only way to reverse this”, Father Jacob looks back at Caroline. “Caroline, he showed up to you naked in your dreams, that’s the ultimate calling card of the devil. That’s why your grandmother called me here today. I promise you this is what we need to do.” Dr. Johnson, grandmother, and Father Jacob go back in fourth in circles for 15 minutes as Caroline stars off into space, as they all debate a solution, Caroline feels a hand gripped around neck and then release. She interrupts them and says “Lets do it.” No longer as the words leave Caroline's lips, the lights flicker for a third time, and without permission from the doctor, Father Jacob slices Caroline's hand open. “He comes in threes.” Father Jacob whispered to himself after the lights flicker the third time. He pulls out the contract that’s hand written by Caroline on a piece of notebook paper. It reads out what it read in the dream that night. “I will give you everything you ever wanted.” Father Jacob grabs Caroline’s hand as the blood seeps onto the paper at the same time a prayer leaves his mouth. “Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Caroline’s grandmother clutches her cross chanting something in Spanish. They all four stand and watch as the makeshift contract turns into ashes right before their very eyes. DR. Johnson runs out of the room in terror. And then, its silent. “Is that it? Is it over?” Caroline asked Father Jacob. “I think so…” He lets go of Caroline's hand, and now his is also covered in her blood. He walks over to the sink to wash when all of a sudden monitor’s start beeping. Caroline’s eyes roll into the back of her head and her body starts convulsing. She starts coughing up blood, and its spewing from her mouth. Nurses, and DR. Johnson gather outside the hospital room to afraid to set foot in there. Caroline’s Grandmother screaming. The lights start to flicker again in threes, the first three times Father Jacob see’s the figured man standing over Caroline with his hands around her throat his long black coffin shaped nails digging into her flesh. He knows nobody else can see him. That demons only present themselves to who they want. Suddenly, he goes from human looking, to snarling, his eyes no longer blue but yellow and his teeth grow into fang like canines. “She is mine.” The demon stairs directly into father Jacobs eyes. He pulls out a cross from his bag and holds it up to the demon now straddling Caroline’s body. Protecting his vessel for evil. The demon laughs out a loud evil laugh “Fuck you, and your cross.” His tongue parts between his teeth again, and splits into two. His voice deep and evil starts to chant in Latin. “VENI, VIDI, VICI” “VENI, VIDI, VICI.” Which means “I came, I took, I conquered in demonic Latin. Caroline starts to cough up a serpent with two heads. Father Jacob continuing to hold up his cross and yells at the demonic entity “YOU WILL LEAVE. YOU CAME AND CONQURED NOTHING. O LORD, WE BESEECH THIS, THIS HABITATION OF CREATURE OF THINE, AND REMOVE FAR AWAY FROM HER ALL SNARS AND ASSAULTS OF THE DEVIL.” The demon laughs again, and directs his response to Father Jacob, his hands still around Caroline’s throat. The lights still flickering. “She is mine, to her my name is unknown.” Father Jacob doesn’t stop reciting. “Let thy Angels, Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel dwell therein.” The demon screams again “IT WONT WORK! In a snarl. Father Jacobs keeps chanting “Preserve her in peace from all unclean spirits; and let thy blessing be always upon us and let her go. She IS NOT yours Samael.” When Father Jacob says his name the demon screeches. “She may not know your name, but I know who you are…SAMAEL!” The demon screeches one last time before relinquishing his grip on Caroline. He simply vanishes into dust along with the two headed serpent coming out of her mouth, the lights stop flicking. DR. Johnson steps one foot inside the room shaking. Caroline’s grandmother sobbing, still clutching her cross in terror. The machine next to Caroline is still beeping. “Flatlined”, DR. Johnson said. “Time of death “2:43am” as he pulls the bed sheet over her face. Caroline's grandmother wailed out in grief and falls to the floor sobbing. Father Jacobs walks over to Caroline's bedside. She looked almost peaceful. “Im sorry it had to be like this. Bless the father, son, and holy spirt.” “I’ll give you some time.” DR. Johnson said to Grandmother. He walks out into the hall, Father Jacob not far behind. “Hey Father…sorry I'm not religious but can you bless this room…you know, after?” “Sure thing” Father Jacob responded. “How did you see it? And how did you get it to stop?” DR. Johnson asked. “I spent years in southern France studying and training demonology. It was smart enough to not to give Caroline its name, its works as a weakness towards demons if you call them by name. Especially, if they’ve been cast out of heaven. They don’t want to be called by their heavenly given name. If they are called by their name that have to leave the vessel. It wounds them, and they are no longer strong enough for that vessel any longer” Father Jacob replied. It was about this time he heard Caroline's grandmother scream, they both run into the room. Caroline was sitting up, peaceful and beautiful and smiling hugging her grandmother. “Holy shit, I need to go to start going to church”, Dr. Johnson said in astonishment. The checked her vitals, and every thing came back clear. No fever, no yellow eyes, no gash on her hand. They tested her blood and she was no longer HIV positive. Her grandmother ran and hugged father Jacob. “Thank you, and Thank you Jesus.” She walked back over and put her cross around Caroline's neck. Father Jacob walked over to Caroline and grabbed the hand he had used to break the oath in the same way he had before when she had tested positive. Unafraid. “Told you it was over. | 34,219 | 3 |
He told me once, “Everything screams when it dies.” For what, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s fear, or anger, or one last desperate attempt to remind the world of its existence before it’s gone. “I’m here! I existed! Remember me!” But this death was silent. No screaming. No dramatic monologue as the villain is finally brought to his knees. No cries for help or pleading for another chance. Just tears, and silence, and an understanding that this was the end, and though I wasn’t the one dying, I was the one unwilling to accept it. Though I suppose he didn’t have much of a choice. What can I do when there is no fight left and death is standing over me other than take his hand and follow him home? I said nothing as I held him in my arms. A long silence fell between us. We didn’t speak, only his labored breathing, but his eyes said a million things. I teared up. I couldn’t help it. Bittersweet? Maybe. I won. After all these years, I won. We were enemies, but I knew him so well. Almost like we could’ve been friends if things had gone a little differently somewhere along the way…almost. I broke the silence. “I never thought I’d grieve for you.” He still didn’t speak. It seemed he wanted to, but his breath wouldn’t allow it. Unfortunately, X-ray vision can’t read minds, but it can see wounds, even those under the surface. I looked through his chest, and next to broken ribs and collapsed lungs I could see a heart beating bitterly at the thought of death, but softly at the thought of rest. I spoke again with shaky breath, trying my hardest not to sob as tears began to stain my cheeks. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.“ His pain-labored face softened into a grin, or maybe a smirk, maybe a little of both, but still no words crossed his lips. He looked deep into my eyes with an understanding as if to say, “Don’t be. It was always supposed to end this way.” I could see as his heartbeat began to slow, the bitterness gone now, and acceptance in its place. “I could have saved you. I should have saved you.” He lifted his hand up to my cheek, his face softening even more into sympathy. He closed his eyes tight. A tear fell from the corner as his hand wiped mine from my chin. His eyes said what we both already knew, “It was always too late for that.” We stared into each other’s eyes, sharing tears until his hand fell from my cheek and his heart fell asleep. I lost my strength then, letting myself cry like I hadn’t since I was a child. I sobbed for my enemy. My enemy who was also once a child. Who knew love and joy and loss and pain. My enemy who was just like me. I wept for what felt like hours. First at the grief, then at the irony. Both of us possessed power beyond understanding. I can see through walls, lift entire buildings with one hand, and punch through solid steel. He could fly, keeping up with even the fastest jets. He could manipulate the electrons of non-organic materials and change one atom to another at will. Yet there he lay dead in my arms. And there I sat, weak, unable to move, and submerged in feelings I didn’t fully understand. How absurd. How backwards it all seemed. All the power in the world, yet still bound by death. How…human. And who was I in all this? The hero? That’s what they called me. And they called him a villain. But there, in that moment, there were no heroes or villains. No good guys and bad guys. No moral high ground. Just two men who fought because it’s all we knew how to do. It was all we’d ever known. Before, we fought because we had to. It was a necessity. It was survival. But now? Now I don’t know what it’s for. With his body in my arms, and my bones on fire, I screamed. I screamed as loud as my lungs could scream. I screamed until my throat tasted like blood and my vocal chords shredded. I don’t know why or where it was directed. But I screamed. I only knew two things in that moment: I wasn’t the hero anymore. I was done fighting. And everything screams when it dies. | 4,058 | 3 |
The man in the dark is one of the most mysterious people to live on the planet. He stays in the shadows. He looks almost unapproachable with a large black cape that covers his whole body, a weird pale face, and black boots. But when you talk to him, he seems to have everything you need. “I am the man in the dark, what do you desire?” The man always says. But when you go to say something, he says it before you even get a chance to speak. “Very well, if you insist,” The man says. But then he always says something really weird afterward. “But you just remember, nothing in life is free.” The man says as he vanishes. I always get what I want every time I go there. It's like it just magically appeared in my room the very next morning. But I always wake up with a non-stop burning red mark on my arm. I have 6 of them now. I wonder what they mean. After I just got off of a long shift at Subway, I had found myself letting my mind wander, and I couldn’t help but think about the man in the dark. I just wanted one more item, and then I would be done. At least that is what I thought. This was my 3rd time saying that. After all, I had no idea what those red marks were doin, all I know is that it burns. Just as I was walking to my car, I saw a dark alley and just had a feeling he was in there. This is how it usually goes. It’s like there is an aura so strong that you cannot resist. After walking into the alleyway, he repeats his line he says every time. “I am the man in the dark, what do you desire?” But this time I didn’t want any physical item, I wanted answers. Right away as I thought that, he cut off my thought by saying “Very well, what would you like to know? Just remember, I will not answer any personal question about myself” I quickly ask “What do these red marks mean?” The man has a visible grin on his pale face. “Would you wish to get rid of them?” The man says as he lifts his hands from the cape. I didn’t even get to say anything before he grabbed me by the arm and started doing a ritual. As I struggled to get loose, he let go. The man says his line, he says every time before disappearing, “But you just remember, nothing in life is free.” Just then I heard a woman’s scream. It immediately sent chills down my spine. I turn back, and the man turned out a note. The note read “5 more to go.” I checked my arm and a mark was missing. Reading that note was enough to give me goosebumps. 5 more what? Who was that screaming woman? I had to go investigate but I was way too scared. | 2,538 | 4 |
In the endless expanse where the fabric of the cosmos stretched thin, a silence reigned, profound and unsettling. This silence, a herald of change, enveloped the UNSC Infinity as it navigated the void. Spartan-117, the Master Chief, stood before the ship’s holographic star map, his imposing figure a bastion against the unknown. Beside him, Commander Sarah Palmer surveyed the cosmos, her stoic expression belying the storm of thoughts within. “It’s too quiet,” Palmer finally said, her voice a soft intrusion into the silence. The Master Chief, his gaze never wavering from the star map, responded, “It’s the quiet before the storm,” his tone carrying the weight of battles past and those that loomed on the horizon. The cosmos before them shuddered as if in agreement, birthing a maelstrom of cosmic energy that tore through the darkness. Colors unknown to human eyes swirled into existence, painting a vortex that screamed across the void. The Infinity, despite its might, found itself ensnared by this force, drawn inexorably toward the heart of the chaos, like a ship caught in the pull of a tempest’s heart. Far below, in the ancient land of Skyrim, under the eternal watch of stars, the same silence presaged a similar upheaval. From the snow-capped peaks to the verdant valleys, an air of foreboding settled like a shroud. The anomaly, manifesting as a rift against the night sky, cast a pall over the land, an omen of a storm that threatened to unravel the very threads of reality. In Whiterun, within the stone walls of Dragonsreach, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater paced, his heart heavy with the weight of impending doom. The hall, usually a cacophony of life, was subdued, the air thick with unsaid fears. “This is no mere celestial event,” he declared, his voice resonating with authority, yet tinged with concern. Proventus Avenicci approached, his steps echoing in the quiet, “The people are anxious, my Jarl. Such phenomena… they hark back to legends of old, to times when the fabric of our world grew thin.” Gathering his thanes and advisors, Balgruuf’s gaze swept across the faces before him. “Then let us face what comes with the courage that has defined us through the ages,” he proclaimed, his voice a clarion call in the gathering dark. “For whatever emerges from this celestial maw, we shall meet it as one.” The anomaly’s wake left a silence that belied the chaos it birthed. Aboard the Infinity, as the crew readied themselves for what lay ahead, and in Skyrim, as warriors and mages prepared for an unknown threat, the realization dawned that their destinies were no longer their own. The rift had woven their fates together, a tapestry of courage, fear, and alliance in the face of the unknown. And so, under a blanket of night that concealed more than it revealed, the stage was set for a convergence of worlds. A tale of valor and sacrifice awaited, of heroes bound by destiny and united in purpose. This was the beginning of a saga where the fate of universes hung in the balance, whispered by the stars and shadowed by the coming storm. The narrative that unfolded would be one of discovery, of battles fought in the shadows of uncharted lands and against enemies forged from the essence of fear itself. But above all, it would be a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who, standing on the brink of oblivion, dared to challenge the darkness and, in doing so, found light. | 3,475 | 1 |
“The Seed” by P. Orin Zack [2001] [NOTE: *In 1982, I started working on a short story. By page 30, I had to admit that it was becoming something greater: my first self-published novel, 'The Shoals of Time'. Afterwards, I wrote this story because I was curious about the incident which spurred Gillian Thomas into becoming a Licensed Healer. And that, in turn, drove me to write 'Deadly Attractor', a prequel novel to 'The Seed', because now I was curious about how her Uncle Frank had become the black sheep of the family.*] Gillian knew her parents wouldn’t approve, but she couldn’t turn back. It happened the summer she turned fifteen. There was a big to-do at the MedCenter where her folks worked, and she lucked into a two-week visit with her Uncle Frank. He was not merely the black sheep of the family; to hear her father tell it, he was leading a plot to subdivide the meadow. She knew her dad was being melodramatic, but it only served to heighten her curiosity about Uncle Frank. She was a city kid. Having grown up in the midst of the vast coastal sprawl called Los Angeles, Gillian knew how to make the best of the free services offered to residents of Mexamerica’s regional capital. That included not only transportation and communication, but education as well. School was fine, as far as it went, but to her it felt confining. She got this odd gnawing sensation from time to time, and lately she’d begun to realize that it meant some part of the lesson was being omitted. Usually it was just a simplification that was cleared up later on, but occasionally it was more mysterious. She tracked down the ones she could, and was learning to live with the ones she couldn’t. Sometimes they were marked, ‘proprietary’, at others ‘security’. With Uncle Frank, however, it was ‘family secret’. And this was her chance to ferret it out. At the moment, however, she was starting to be a problem for her uncle. Today’s expedition had been presented to the kids as a nature walk, but she was more interested in the geology they were walking through than in the plants her uncle was so fascinated by. Gillian could hear her younger cousin rattling off everything she’d been told in school about the changes forced upon the wild world by climate change, but neither Peg nor her uncle were in view. They’d started down into the canyon just past the ridge Gillian was studying, and had paused for the umpteenth time to finger some plant or other. Rocks, to her way of thinking, told better stories than plants. But that was about to change. “Gil!?” her uncle called. She ran a finger along one of the strata in an exposed boulder while waiting for the echo to fade. “Be right there,” she said. The crunch of an approaching flurry of footsteps never broke through her intense examination of that rock, because the next thing she knew, her cousin was poking her in the ribs. “Ow! Stop that, Peg,” Gillian protested. Pegwin straightened. “C’mon, rock hound. There’s plenty more of that to look at down below. My dad said there was a slide near here, but when I asked him about the swings, he—.” A sudden crack split the rush of wind through the trees. It was followed closely by the unsettling sound of something being dragged, a hollow thud, and then silence. The two girls looked at one another, and then ran off towards the sound. An old rotted tree stump had given up its perch atop a rise, slalomed along a gully and jammed itself headfirst into some animal’s burrow. They were picking their way towards its severed root when Uncle Frank arrived. “Sure it’s dead, Gil,” he said, “but it won’t be a fossil for some time. What’s your interest in it?” Gillian studied her uncle for a moment. Frank’s resemblance to her mother went beyond the usual comparison of features or build. They both naturally tended towards the lean side, both exuded an air of intensity that at times bordered on the manic, and each was steadfastly rooted to some secret core of certainty that they used to guide their lives. They just used it in different ways, that’s all. “Gil?” he repeated. Smiling impishly, Gillian pointed towards the broken main root that was now the highest part of the tree. “The rocks it took with it. It dug them out of the ground for me.” He huffed. “Yeah. I should have known. Look, I’ll make you a deal. If you tell me the story of the rocks, I’ll tell you what this tree says about the environment around here. Deal?” She nodded, and then launched into a lengthy monologue about the history of the continent. After describing the ancient mountain-building periods, her tone changed, and she related the effects of the devastating quake near San Francisco at around the turn of the 21st century, the one that opened a path for the Pacific to fill in a suddenly lowered central valley. The fact that there were people involved made it much more real to her, even though it happened over 250 years before. While Gillian spoke, she kept an eye on her young cousin. Uncle Frank listened carefully and supplied those non-verbal cues we all need to let us know we’re being heard. He stepped over to examine things as Gil pointed them out. In short, he was a model audience. Peg, on the other hand, was showing signs of exasperation and annoyance. She feigned disinterest, appeared to study some plant or other, or watched the clouds. Clearly, she craved attention. In the silence that followed, Peg wandered back over, sighed deeply at her dad, and glumly said, “Your turn.” He frowned. “You’re bored, aren’t you, pumpkin? I think I’ll take my turn on our way back, if that’s all right with you, Gillian. Right now, let’s continue down to the streambed. I want to show you something.” The rest of their descent was punctuated by the girls’ renditions of various popular songs. When there was no further to go, the three stood for a few moments and looked back up at where they’d come. Going down was always easier, but the climb back had home at the end of it. Down here the main attraction was the stream. You couldn’t even hear the wind through the trees anymore. But it did echo nicely. “Okay,” Gillian said flatly. “What was it you wanted to show us?” Uncle Frank sat down on a rock beside the stream. “Well,” he said, “your cousin told me about that feeling you get when you’re on the trail of something.” Gillian’s gaze drifted towards Pegwin. “What did you tell him, peanut?” Peg shrugged. “Only that your bloodhound sense got you into trouble at school.” When Gillian looked back at her uncle, he asked, “Do you know what it is?” “Not a clue. Why?” Frank smiled. “Because I do. And I’d like to help you learn how to use it.” “My dad won’t like that,” Gillian said. “He says you’re a bad influence. He only agreed to letting me visit because they had no other choice.” Frank spoke quietly. “What do you want?” She was silent for a time, and then looked over at her cousin. “Can you keep quiet about this?” Peg raised her right hand. “Blood oath.” “Then tell me,” Gillian said. “What is it?” Frank thought for a moment. “A seed.” “A what?” “A starting point. We can use it to grow your tree of psychic abilities.” He leaned forward and touched a leaf. “We can start with this weed.” Gillian stared at the leaf, and imagined it staring back. “All living things have an energy field,” he said gently, “and everything’s alive. Psychic abilities are nothing more than ways of recognizing and interacting with that energy. That sense of yours is like this leaf. It’s the tip of a growing thing, but there’s more to it. You can find the root that nourishes that sense, and help it to become a vital part of yourself. Just like I did.” She studied her uncle for a bit before speaking. “What do you do, exactly? I’ve asked my folks, but they don’t tell me. Or rather, what they tell me triggers that sense.” “I’m a Healer,” he said. “What do you know about them?” She shrugged. “Not enough. I’ve read about how the courts defined when a person is to be treated at a Hospice Center instead of at a MedCenter like where my folks work. They say it’s nothing but quackery with good lawyers, and that people who go there are fooling themselves. I know that people have been using alternative forms of health care for centuries, and that there’s plenty of evidence supporting both sides of the argument. What I don’t know is how it works.” Frank motioned his niece to sit beside him. “I tell you what. If your sense goes off about anything I say, let me know so we can fill in the gaps. That way you can start using it to guide your exploration. Will you do that?” “Sure. So now what?” “Well, what do you want to know?” Gillian smiled. “I’m a scientist at heart, Uncle Frank. How do you use it to collect data?” “You could say it’s like radar.” He held his right hand out in front of him with the fingers spread, and slowly moved it left and right. “Decide what you want to detect, and how you want to be made aware of it, and then trust your intuition.” She laughed. “That doesn’t sound too rigorous to me. How can you know if you’ve imagined it? How can it be validated or reproduced? For that matter, how can you even quantify it? What can you write down?” “All good questions, too. And that’s what the training is all about. It’s also why Healers have to be licensed and to take an oath. Not like the one your parents took; a different kind of oath. The Healer’s Oath has more to do with respecting your patients than with not harming them. How am I doing?” Gillian looked puzzled. “What does your sense tell you? Am I holding back? Disguising the truth?” She smiled. “No.” “Next question, then?” She thought for a moment. “Okay. Say you’ve collected your data. Diagnosed the patient. How do you do something about it?” “Truth is,” he said, “sometimes you can’t. The first thing a Healer has to decide is whether to send the patient to a MedCenter. That’s not something they do where your folks work. And that’s my personal fight. Getting them to start.” Gillian stood up and stretched. “I’m getting stiff sitting in one place. Can we do this while we walk?” Pegwin, who had been quietly staying out of their field of view, came skipping around from the left. “It’s about time you thawed out, rock hound. I was beginning to think you were going to fossilize on that rock. Which way?” Frank held his hand up to stop the action. “Here’s your first lesson, Gil. We can go upstream or down. Tell yourself that you’ll know the answer when your palm tickles, then hold it each direction and ask yourself which way will be more interesting.” She hesitated at first, but then Gillian did as he’d suggested. She repeated the process several times before saying anything. “Upstream? I think?” Her uncle laughed. “Say it as a statement, rather than as a question. That way you’ll start gaining confidence in your psychic decisions.” “Upstream, then. Definitely.” The three set off on a rambling exploration of the canyon floor. Gillian and her uncle pointed out signs of the area’s history to one another from the geological and biological perspectives. Their chatter was punctuated by wild flights of imagination as Pegwin latched onto odd bits of the discussion. The afternoon was starting to cast shadows over their adventure when Frank slipped on a loose rock and landed on his butt. Peg’s laughter was cut short by an unfamiliar warbling coming from her father’s backpack. “What’s that, daddy?” she said. He frowned, and opened the pack. “Nothing good.” The girls waited while Frank pulled out his handheld and pressed a few buttons. “I think I’m going to need your help, Gillian.” They breathed in frightened silence as they drew closer. “I have a neural implant that manages pain for me. It was installed when Peg was a toddler.” He scooped up his daughter and looked into her eyes. “My body sends spurious pain signals, Gillian. Enough to have laid me up shortly after your aunt and I first met. Learned biocontrol techniques are the usual solution, but not for Healers. They’re fine for people in other fields, and we tried to use them initially, but they made it impossible for me to focus on my patients properly. We tried targeted gentech meds for a while, but they so affected my psychic acuity that I couldn’t work. Finally, we agreed to the implant.” He glanced at the handheld. “Unfortunately, it just reported that it’s failing. And we’re out of range, so this thing can’t call for help.” Gillian took a deep breath. “How can I help, Uncle Frank?” “Well, we have two problems to deal with. First, there’s the pain. I’m okay for the moment, but I’ll be having increasing waves of uncoordinated pain signals shortly. When it works, the implant monitors the pattern of neural pain signals headed up my spine, turns down the volume, and chooses which ones to pass based on its assessment of where that pattern is in my normal neural attractor. Then—.” Gillian’s expression was not promising. “I’ve lost you, haven’t I,” he said. She nodded vigorously. “Okay. Try this. Close your eyes and imagine looking down on a forest on a breezy day. The wind is ruffling the leaves, and some of the branches are swaying gently. Now, instead of watching the leaves, try to see the wind itself. Look for patterns in the motion of the trees as the breeze goes past. First it moves one branch, then another, right across the forest. Focusing on the wind is like examining a patient’s energy fields. How are you doing?” Gillian opened her eyes and grinned. “That’s easy. And in a way it’s like reading the history of the rocks, rather than just examining the strata. So now what?” “Well, an attractor pattern is like the kind of wind you’d like to have going through your imaginary forest. It doesn’t matter which way the wind blows, or how the gusts trace their way through the trees, but if the wind gets too strong or the gusts too violent, they can break off branches and even uproot trees. What the implant does, when it’s working at least, is to play with the wind. It watches for high winds or erratic gusts, and calms them, but other than that allows it to blow as it wants. I guess you could describe it as sculpting the energy field.” She looked doubtfully at her hands. “You want me to sculpt your pain?” “That sounds so funny,” Peg said with a giggle. “What does it feel like?” Uncle Frank shrugged. “It’s different for everyone, pumpkin. Then there’s our second problem. We need to get out of this canyon so we can call for help. The longer it takes, the harder it will be for me to move safely without your help, Gillian. If I slip on the rocks, I could tumble downhill and really get hurt. So we need to get started. Ready?” “I guess. What do I do?” He winced, and rubbed his left leg. “Before we start back, I want you to find and feel the energy field you’ll be working with. It’ll be getting worse as we go, but right now it will at least be close to normal, or rather the normal we want to keep it like.” Gillian grew more serious than she ever recalled being. And she had a feeling she couldn’t quite pin down, a feeling that this was more important than she knew. “While it still works, I can set the implant into a special state that makes my pain level vary in a regular pattern. This is so someone without training, like you, might be able to help in an emergency. It will be uncomfortable for me, but tolerable, so tell me when you have found it. Start by closing your eyes like before. Only, this time imagine that you can reach inside the back of my neck, and into a flow of water going up into my head. Tell yourself how you’ll recognize it, and trust your answers. The flow will be doing a three-step pattern: a long peak, and then two short ones. I’m turning it on now.” Frank shuddered a few times, and then settled into a subtle involuntary twitch of his shoulders, following the pattern he’d described. One… two, three. One… two three. After several cycles, Gillian shook her head, wrinkled her brow, and nodded slowly. “Okay, Uncle Frank,” she said quietly. “I have it.” “This is the tricky part, Gil,” he said between shudders. “Keep focused on the flow while I reset the implant. You’ll need to be able to touch back in without the target pattern. Ready? Now.” He tapped the handheld and visibly relaxed. Gillian smiled confidently. “I still have it.” “Good. The next step is learning what you’ll be doing until help arrives. If you’re imagining that flow as something you can stick your hands in, now imagine that it’s also alive. Gently stroking it, like you would a cat, helps to calm the energy down. I’ll start the target pattern again, and you can practice calming the first beat of each measure. Stroke it as it goes past. Just make it quieter, don’t try to stop the beat, because the implant will fight back.” Frank watched his daughter petting an imaginary cat for a moment, and then tapped the control again. Gillian floundered a bit, but eventually got into the rhythm. Slowly, the pattern of her uncle’s twitches changed to something more like ‘pause… two three’. And he tapped it off again. “Good,” he said. “You’re a quick study, Gillian. I think we’re ready to go, now.” She smiled. “Thanks.” Frank closed his pack, shrugged into it, and stood up. After retracing their path back downstream, the three started uphill along the trail they’d originally come down. Partway up, Frank slowed and then stopped. His face was pale and he was moving stiffly. “Okay, Gillian,” he said. “It’s time. I can’t keep it in check any longer. See what you can do.” She pressed her hands together briefly, then closed her eyes and reached out to locate the place she’d found earlier. Nothing. She tried again, and failed. When Frank saw that she was frowning, he said, “Take your time, Gillian. Stop for a while, then try it again.” The third time, as they say, was the charm. But things were different in there now. It seemed like the psychic wind her uncle had described was now howling, like a heavy storm blowing through his energy field. There were eddies and crosscurrents as well. She took a deep breath, and started to massage the turbulent fluid she sensed, but nothing happened. It just blew through her fingers and around her imaginary hands like they weren’t even there. “I can’t,” she said tightly. “Nothing happens!” Frank cupped his hands around hers. “Yes you can,” he said gently. “Try it again.” This time, she started differently. Instead of attempting to quell the storm, she focused on the gusts within it, and stroked them. Amazingly, they responded. Soon, the storm had lost its chaotic feeling and acted more like a heavy wind. Frank’s breathing eased. “Thanks, Gillian. Stopping those stabbing pains helps a lot.” She stared at him like he’d just told her she could stop flapping and glide through the clouds for a while. It was an exhilarating feeling. A whole new world was opening. They continued up the trail, but Gillian was only paying partial attention to where she was going. A growing part of her was still watching her uncle’s storm. And something about it was beginning to bother her. “Uncle Frank,” she said at last, “what’s the stuff being carried by the current?” “What stuff? Do you see something?” She wrinkled her nose. “Feel it, really. I keep thinking there’s some dirt or sand blowing on the wind. Do you know what it means?” “No. But we can investigate it further after we get back. Is it bothering you?” Gillian was silent for a moment. “Not me,” she said, “my bloodhound sense, as Peg here calls it. It’s important for some reason.” Pegwin perked up at the sound of her name. She wobbled around the path ahead of her father like a spun-up top. “Pumpkin,” he called. “Stay close, okay?” It went on like that for a while. Every few minutes, Gillian calmed another swarm of her uncle’s stabbing pains. When she wasn’t doing that, she was mulling over the mystery she’d unearthed. They were rounding the last switchback before the place where the rotted tree had landed when Frank sank to the ground, removed his shoes and started massaging his feet. Gillian stood beside him. “Feet hurt?” “I know there’s nothing physically wrong with them, but that’s where the pain seems to be coming from. Want to take a look? Psychically, I mean.” She started as before, but then traced the wind back from where it came, hoping to somehow end up in the vicinity of his feet. When there was a split in the current, she used the trick she’d learned earlier to select one. As she went, she noticed that the sand was getting less pronounced the further she went, as if it was being scraped off of something along the way. And then it struck her that the dust itself may have something to tell her, just as the pebbles torn away with that tree’s fractured roots did. So she stopped thinking about the wind, which represented the nerve impulses, and focused instead on the dust, to see what kind of a picture that made. “Uncle Frank,” she said carefully. “What would something that looks to me like rock strata mean?” He scratched his head for a moment in thought. “Well, since it’s your imagery, it has to be something that makes sense to you. How would you read rock strata?” Gillian looked around. “Out here it tells about the history of the ground. Tales of volcanoes, mud collecting under still water, mountains built by plate tectonics; things like that. In there…?” Pegwin put down the leaf she was fiddling with and said, “I’m hungry.” “She may have a point, you know,” Frank added. “Food?” Gillian asked, momentarily perplexed. “Seemingly random events are sometimes clues,” Frank said as he started putting his shoes back on. “Ideas are food for the mind; love is food for the heart; music is food for the soul. Where does that take you?” She thought about it for a while. “Well, if bits of what you eat can end up clogging your arteries, what can bits of what you know clog up?” He smiled. “I like that. If our bodies are the physical manifestation of our images of ourselves, then what you’re seeing is like that image weathering out. Psychic erosion. Do you think you can filter it out?” Gillian was beginning to feel more like a colleague than a trainee, and she rather liked it. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Once she had re-established the image of his internal psychic wind, she switched on her mental geology lens and the blowing sand froze in place; it stood out like it was carved in bas-relief. She smiled to herself for a moment, and then imagined that everything in the carving suddenly vanished, leaving just a smooth plaster wall. When she opened her eyes again, she found her uncle gaping at her. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked hesitantly. He took a few short breaths. “I… I don’t think so. In fact, I think you made the problem go away, at least for now. I don’t hurt!” “Can we get dinner, now?” Peg asked. “You bet, pumpkin. And I think we need to get something else as well.” “Dessert, daddy?” Uncle Frank laughed. “Sure. But we should also get a license for your cousin. She’s a Healer, now.” THE END Copyright 2001 by P. | 23,167 | 1 |
Zita hurries to open his eyes, scrambling to see what just leaped onto his stomach. What he sees makes Zita regret waking up. On the surface level, the thing straddling the prone Zita resembles the wooden statue of the former student, yet it cannot be. it is an abomination. The monster has the framework of the boy that the statue was made to resemble, but deformed in uncanny ways that Zita's mind could not process. The wood is now grey and dying, rotting with festering mold growing upon it. Strings of Green veins are across the statue's body, transparent and circulating a dark blue goo across the enigmatic effigy. The statues blank, dead eye's remain, apathetically staring at its victim with a blank and uncanny expression, the absence of emotion other than a calm smile befitting that of a statue, but the eyes of apathy speak to that of a murderer. This creature clambers atop Zita's abdomen, Zita screaming his lungs out and slapping the creature in a fruitless effort, the strikes not even leaving a mark. The statue is unhindered, staring down on the boy with a cruel apathy that only a mask could express. After a prolonged stare, The creature slowly begins picking up a rock near Zita... "WAIT!- WAIT!- NO!-" Zita desperately pleads to the creature as it slowly raises the stone like an executioner raising his axe. Zita cries as he continues trying to wrestle the thing off of him, but the statue is as unmoving as a boulder. The rock slowly rises overhead whilst Zita begins putting his hands up, open hand and dreading the coming meteor. "NO! NO!" Zita struggles on the ground as his arms flail uselessly against the animated statue, noticing a black-blue liquid drip out its blank, uncaring eyes as if it was weeping, the things smile as mellow as ever despite this. The rock is directly over the mannequin's head. *I-I'm going to die! S-Someone, please, anyone, help! I don't want to die, I DON'T WANT TO DIE!* Just as Zita thinks that, a pair of fists make a circular motion around the creature's head. The movement might remind him of a hitman wrapping wire around a target's neck. As this happens, the monster atop Zita stops and shudders, not moving the rock anymore when the figure finishes this wrapping motion empty-handed, they pull their fists away from each other and stretch their wingspan, the wooden creature's head spontaneously explodes in a spout of dark blue. The creature holds the stone aloft whilst headless for a second, stump neck producing a deluge of the dark blue fluid that was weeped. After 5 seconds of this, the body finally sways to the left and falls to the ground, a cloud of light blue particles floating off the body like fireflies migrating. The smell is like that of synthetic slime. The fall of the demon allows Zita to see his savour. By providence, it's the figure in the black robe, staring at him with disbelief visible from their slightly open mouth. Zita is able to see up the hood from his angle, a pair of contemptful eyes and raven black hair visible underneath. The cloaked person stands there, more statue-like than the monster, whilst Zita lies on the ground whilst sniffling, hyperventilating and with tears streaming down his face as he stares back at the figure. Then he notices the dead monster's leg is still on him, the corpse rotting at a rapid pace and more blue particles floating off it. Zita screams again and kicks the leg off him, proceeding to tuck in his knees as the tears become even more plentiful. After a 10 second pause of Zita wailing, the cloaked person speaks: "... You... You can really see them, can't you?" From the voice, Zita can tell the person in the cloak is a she. They have a feminine but deep voice with a large amount of disappointment in her tone as she stares down at the sobbing boy. Zita chooses not to speak, pausing a second as he shakes. Finally, he responds to the woman's question with a singular shy nod. The woman looks at the ground and sighs, slowly putting a hand to her face... Editing bookmark Slowly the figure brings both her hands in front of her and readies her fists by putting them together in a way Zita doesn't quite see through his blurred vision, eyes going red from tears. She then holds her fists opposite to each other after separating them, putting them by the side of Zita's head. As she does this, Zita abruptly feels something invisible and stretchy be pushed against his entire face, like a pillow or plastic wrap. Something that won't let him breath. He tries to reach out for her, fight back. he struggles and kicks, he tries to breath, he tries to resist. All 3 of these efforts fail. *WHAT?! WHAT DID I DO?! THIS ISN'T FAIR! PLEASE, STOP, NO-* He attempts to plead but is silenced by the substance, his voice simply not escaping the invisible sheet as it slowly suffocates him. The cloaked figure stares at him in the eyes whilst doing this, teeth gritted behind sealed lips from what he can make out of the view of her mouth. Her eyes are filled with not fury, but irritation if he could presume. His vision blurs and tunnels as he struggles for breath, face turning blue as his fists uselessly flails at her arms in a hopeless attempt to make her free him. Eventually he feels all his strength dwindle as; *...no...no...* his arms go limp. He can't find the energy to move his legs. His body slowly descends into the leaf-shrouded dirt of the forest as Zita's eyes roll into the back of his head. He is blacking out. After what Zita can only guess to be a second, his eyes slowly begin to open again. *... ur... what happened? Was... was that a dream?-* As he wakes up, he can make out through his blurred vision that he is in a grey room, a colour that most certainly does not match his bedroom. He wipes his eyes and opens them again, heart sinking. To his horror, it was not a dream. Where he finds himself, Zita can only be described as a prison cell. A plank strung up by a chain on each side for a bed, a cinderblock wall and concrete floor. To the left is prison bars, trapping him inside the small room. It smells musty, fresh air not having been here for a while. Then, he hears from the bar's, someone. "Yo! Good mornin'!" A woman's voice casually calls to him from beyond the cell. Zita scrambles up and quickly turns to her. The person on the other side of the bars seems... unusual. She is young, mid 20's at most and has a slight tan complexion. Her fashion consists of a green sleeveless crop top and brown shorts. Her body is rather muscular and well toned, a visible six pack and muscles across her body. Their hair is short, brown, unkept and oddly has a twig in the shape of a wishbone nested inside of the locks, sticking out as an accessory. She's slightly hidden in shadows due to light radiating from behind her, but mostly visible from the cell. "Hey! Sorry if it was rough-" the woman asks before Zita rushes up, grabs the bars and wildly shakes them, visibly in a state. "PLEASE MISS I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG! I JUST WANTED TO KNOW WHAT THE CLOAKED FIGURE WAS DOING, THEN THERE WAS A BUNKER, AND A STATUE-" Zita cries whilst fruitlessly shaking the prison bars, tears streaming from his eyes. "Woah, woah, easy little guy! You're not in trouble, I swear! Just don't panic and try to listen, ok?" The woman responds, sympathetic in tone as she responds in a casual and kind voice. Zita takes a few deep breaths, sniffles as he stops shaking the bars and nods, still clutching the bars. "Good, that's better... I'm Sylvie, allow me to give you a quick rundown of what you saw and what happened. After that, we'll give ya a decision. Then, we'll get you out of here to where you'll want to be. That sounds ok with you?" Zita sniffles, wipes the tears from his eye's and after a second, nods. "... y- yeah..." "Alright, let's begin with what you saw; it all starts with a little physics. You know the law that energy cannot simply be deleted from the universe, but instead is converted into something else? I heard you were a smart kid, so I doubt you won't know." Zita nods whilst cleaning his face of tears and marks, still red from stress and face scrunched. "Now, apply that principles to emotions and the brain. What happens to emotions once they exit the body, or the soul when the vessel dies? Surely it doesn't disappear?" She asks the boy rhetorically, who stares at her curiosity filled red eyes. After a pause, she continues. 'It all goes into the earth, in the form of energy. We call this energy "aetherplasm." After that, the aetherplasm may gather other puddles of aetherplasm that were generated from similar stresses. Still with me?' She asks, raising a finger as she explains. Zita nods in response, prompting Sylvie to give a little clap. 'Good! Now, if given enough time, aetherplasm will rise from the earth and assume the identity of the stress that produced it. Then, it will cause havoc, manipulating aetherplasm to do feats we consider impossible. We call these entities ``ghosts." The creature that assaulted you- the statue thing, not the girl- was a ghost. Normal people can't typically see them, but~... well, complications happened with you.' "S- so... g... ghosts are... real? A- and, complications?" Zita asks, eyes widening out of confusion upon hearing this. "Yup! And, the complication... Well, in places known to cause stress, such as schools and courts, we set up runes. They are pools of aetherplasm designed to attract other pieces of aetherplasm so we can safely dispose of it before forming a serious ghost. That was what was in that bunker, and the disposal of it was what you interrupted." "... O-... Oh... I-I see..." Zita nods, nervous, figuring that's what was inside the bunker. "So, you got blasted with aetherplasm and now that awakened something. But don't worry, it's nothing that can't be lived with." Sylvie iterates, gesticulating with her hands. "... o-oh... T-that's relieving to hear... I suppose..." Zita says with a shaky voice. 'So, whatcha are; when something like this happens to someone, or you are born into a family of people who already knew how to do this, you awaken "aether." In short, it's aetherplasm that the user has control over That can be used in some... pretty impressive feats, I must say. There are factions of us, working behind the scenes to exorcise ghosts and try not to strangle each other. We are known as "druids." Did you get all that?' Zita stares at her a second and nods cautiously, eyes still red and cracked. "Ok, now I'm going to have to ask you to make a decision. I'm sorry to ask you this now of all times, but... it's important. If you answer, you can go home or pursue an opportunity. Your choice. Take your time before answering." Zita nods in response and prepares to listen. "... So. Option 1 is to go home. Live with the images of ghosts and nothing more. You'll know nothing of them, only have to see them floating around, not able to act on them. Option 2 is staying with our organisation, and allowing me to teach you about these ghosts and what they do, as well as how to exorcise them. Those are your choices. Now think. | 11,142 | 1 |
A cold breeze of wind swifting through the warehouses adjacent to my workplace. The suns heat warms up our shiverred body, whilst vanning products into the container. The bell rang notifying us that it is lunch break. I swiftly got out the container where it is hardly finished while glazing through our work. What are the products you may ask? Well, it is mostly beverages and snacks. Walking with fatigue, closing my eyes whilst taking deep breaths, towards the car my mom gifted me. A white CH-R (Compact High Rider) attached with a so called, "Sports Mode". Basically, CH-R is "Cool" and "New Gen" themed car that my mom thought fits me. It doesn't When I enter into my car regulary taking 30 minute naps, As I close my eyes, there's a particular moment in my life that I regret painfully. My instinct pounding this thought, trying to tell me It had altered my future. The questions keeps on coming up in mind. 'What if I haven't let my love life go?' 'It was the best choice for the both of us, right?' 'Was I egoistic to push her away?' I imagine and mesmerize her beauty. A black dress with white and light blue poke dots. The shoes were casual shoes, and her small ruby-colored pouch. The pure black long hair, lengths until her shoulders. In contrast, she has white skin beauty like Cinderella. A little bir thinner than your average typical modern Japanese woman. The moment I have conquered into making eye contact with another person, she was the one who indirectly led me to ensure I talk to a person through their eyes. She was different. As she gets closer, I can see the white-beauty, glossed lips, and brownish eyes. The sun is incomparable with her warmth, genuine, and bright smile. Then, the alarm went off. My alarm was set to gently wake me up, the alarm that I heard was a clock. A repeated ringing pattern that is familiar and nostalgic. I feel somewhat comfortable laying down. The feeling of reluctance to waking up. The temperature and warmth was mysteriously pleasant to sleep again but my alarm was too loud. No choice but to wake up and hit it. I turned the blanket and hit the alarm clock to snooze for 5 minutes with dozed half-opened blurry eyes. I went back to bed, tucked myself and bent like a baby while hugging a pillow. 'Wait...why is there a pillow?' 'Where did I get this blanket?' 'How am I in bed?' A hundred questions was asked in my thoughts then suddenly, then the sound of rolling wheels under a door has opened by itself. A womans voice fading in beside me. 'Ken, wake up, you're going to be late' 'No, this can't be right. This is just a realistic dream, I'm just gonna shug it off.' I thought. 'Your breakfast will get col-' As the woman touched my hair, my body reactively woke up sitting straight with my eyes wide open. At first glance, there's a leathered couch with a TV in front of it streaming "Duel Masters" (A card game anime) I looked at my left, there was a desk used for studying, but the design is for elementary schoolers. At my right was my mom. 'Are you ok?' She asked. There were no words that can describe this feeling. Confusion, Suspicion, and Desbelief. There is absolutely no way, I only thought this was possible if oneself dies. No, "Reincarnation" is not on the table here. I was in complete form with good 1 day schedule ensuring my performance wouldn't drop. 'So does that mean...' I murmured. 'Look, I know it's going to be rough on your first day but don't worry. You'll manage.' 'What do you mean?' I asked. My mom migrated to Japan in order to gain money because Philippines was generally a poor country back then. She went to medical school and tries to gain the access of "wealthiness" to support her family in the near future. Unfortunately, at a young age, she left her family and education to pursue wealth in another country. Japan. 'You don't remember? It's your first time going to a Japanese school' No words have come out of my mouth. To the pure shock that I have right now, I am still figuring out if this is a dream. It looks to surreal. 'I'm going to shower ok? Eat your breakfast then toothbrush' 'Wait' I reacted. 'Can you slap my hand?' I asked. She was puzzled with my unusual request. Nevertheless she did. Slap 'Are you awoke now?' The sense of immidiate pain, faded out quickly. This is not a dream. This is reality. My mom went to go shower and I was still on bed sitting up straight. I mumbled to myself 'If this is reality, then I might ha e slipped through time but that's not possible.' The odor of fresh cooked sausage, bacon and eggs that I usually eat in my past was gradually coming towards the bedroom. 'If this is real, then spiritually it might be plausible.' 'A phenomenon that I used to wish to God, have I manifested this?' I covered my nose and mouth with 4 fingers while the thumb is under contrast of both my ears. | 4,914 | 1 |
Pressure. I was dreaming again but the pressure startled me awake. It’s as if I have a thousand feet of ocean crushing down on me. Like my skull has been split and fractured into a jigsaw puzzle. But what scares me is the absence of pain. I try to move my head but it is anchored to the cold hard ground. The filaments are still there. Splitting the stone beneath beneath my head and growing through my skull. I’m its its grips and I can't escape. I’m never getting out of the god forsaken chasm! Stop. Stop panicking. Remember to breathing. Breath in. Focus on the body. Breath out. Wiggle my toes. Breath in. Im still in control of my toes. Breath out. Stretch my legs, get the blood circulating. Breath in. I can still move my legs. Breath out. You’re doing great keep going. Breath in. Move my hips, get more comfortable. Breath out. Feel the knots forced into my back by the jagged rocks. Breath in. Can't change that but its okay. Breath out. Im okay. Breath in. Feel the cold darkness on my skin. Breath out. Feel the sweat dripping down my forehead into my eyes. Breath in. It’ll be okay. Breath in. Focus on the pungent mold and decaying plant matter filling this chasm. Breath out. Focus on the pressure In my head. Breath in. The filaments are moving deeper in my head. Breath out How long have I been here Breath in Stay with the body Breath out Move my hand up to the filiments borrowing into my brain Breath in I can feel it, pulsing and writhing in my grasp Breath out Try to tear it out now! Breath in It doesn't move, it doesn't hurt Breath out I can feel the pain of my hand squeezing my filament too hard Breath in I can feel the stone deep beneath me Breath out I can feel the water trickling over me I can feel my trunks on the ground all around me. I can spread out and feel my branches and leaves. I can feel a soft gentle breeze above the chasm. I feel the decay in my bark. Lying here, rotting, not dead. But the leaves aren’t rotting. The chlorophyll keeps them green. If I stretch I can reach the tops of my branches up higher to bask in the sun. Its so warm and nurturing. I stretch my mycelium down deeper into the rock. The water is so crisp and refreshing. I take my hands off of my filaments, before I pull one of the muscles in my arm. I relax, so I can spread further into my body. I know its uncomfortable, but remember it was the same with the tree. The tree fell into this chasm too and it’s leaves never would have felt the light again. But it didn’t resist and let my mycelium could help it. Burrowed into the branches. Grew and spread upward along the chasm wall. Brought the leaves back up into the sunlight. If I relax I can do that again with the body. I would love to feel the sunlight on my skin too. I could make some of vitamin C again. My brain needs those nutrients after all and I would hate for it to rot down here. I love how thoughtful it makes me now. | 3,260 | 3 |
Baseball players perform a remarkably unlikely task when their bat makes a solid connection with a baseball going 90 mph. A recent study at Washington State University found that when division 1 college players were up to bat, they were not keeping an eye on the ball as coaches have advised from dusty bleachers since antiquity. A batter has a 4th of a second to decide when and where to swing the bat. The study found that the batter was predicting where the ball was going to go, not where it was. Or maybe the batter is using a part of the mind that knows what’s going to happen before it happens, a brief glimpse into a different dimension of time. Perhaps intuition is a brief perception of what is just beyond the veil of reality and striking a speeding baseball is no different than astral projection, except baseball is a fun way to spend an afternoon with some good buds in autumn. That’s exactly what Kyle Forrester, 26, was doing on a warm drowsy mid-October afternoon at Makinaw Park just north of Lacuna, Wisconsin Pop. 10,500. There was another park in town with a baseball diamond, but Makinaw Park was better because it had tall old white pines that bordered the outfield, so it felt like a stadium. There was also a lake and the girls from the nearby Lake Lacuna Community college would run there so that was nice. There was a light breeze coming north off the lake and it spilled out through the pines onto Kyles back where he was in the center outfield position. The breeze had just a hint of Canadian cold and it felt nice on his sweaty neck, he heard squirrels nickering, and then he felt something let go and there was only darkness. The last thing he heard was Spencer on 2nd base yelling “GET UNDER IT KYLE!” When Kyle came to he was on his back and Spencer was helping him up with a few other teammates loitering nearby. “whaa… what happened?” Kyle asked as he rubbed a now swelling bump on his forehead. “You got lost in the sun dude!” Grunted Spencer as he helped pull Kyle up by the arm. “Ha ha yeah, I guess so, you should have got it Spence!” He joked, but he knew that wasn’t it. He never saw the pop fly coming right towards him, the lights went out before that. “Well, that’s a pretty good noggin knocker ya got there man, you had better sit the rest of this one out. Put some ice on it and I can give you a ride after the game.” “Nah, that’s fine Spence. I’ll be fine plus I have to open the store early and I’ll need my truck.” “Are you sure man?” asked Spencer with a look of concern. “Yeah dude, you know me! Not much to damage up there anyway!” he joked as he jabbed Spencer in the arm for assurance, although he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. He had never fainted before, and it didn’t feel like what he thought fainting would feel like. Kyle gathered up his bat and gym bag from the bleachers and left the game early, not worried that his city league team would suffer with out him. They usually didn’t even make it to the play offs. As he walked across the grass to the parking lot where his old grey Toyota Tacoma was parked, he felt a little sleepy and figured it would be a good idea to stop by casey’s general store and grab a red bull and some snacks on the way out to his house. Kyle lived alone in a small but comfortable house with a brown mut named Yoda. Yoda had a face that looked like the small green jedi from Star Wars. The house was a 2-bedroom bungalow with wood siding and nestled on a spot of land with some large old shade trees, about 20 minutes west of Lacuna. It had been his grandfather’s house but was handed down to him after his grandfather disappeared 3 years earlier. His grandfather had dementia and had wandered off before but then one day in late October vanished without a trace. It was getting dark earlier each night as fall marched towards the long dark winters of Northern Wisconsin. The sun had already set when he popped into the Casey’s just outside of town which was the last real sign of civilization save for a few farm houses on the way to his house. He grabbed a 16oz red bull, a bag of combos, and decided to buy few scratchers at the counter so he could talk a bit longer with the cashier girl who he thought was cute, her name tag read “Marsupial”, but he knew that couldn’t be right, no…it was “Marcella.” After he made his effort at flirting with Marsupial, he hopped back in his Toyota, switched on the college radio station out of Madison, and headed west onto route 43 into the rapidly darkening night. He noticed that as he drove it felt much later than it could have been, but the stars were out, and the moon was high in the sky. “I guess I lost some time at the ball field but how much? It feels like its midnight!” He thought as he checked the clock on the dash, but he hadn’t set it in years and it read 8:37 am. He decided to crack open the red bull and roll down the window to stay alert. The cold air felt good and rushed through the cab. Route 43 turned into a one and a half lane black top about 5 miles out of town and entered a series a long hills and valleys where the banks were steep on either shoulder and the trees grew over the road creating a canopy that was heavily shaded even at full midday sun. It was in one of those valleys when an intense red light completely engulfed the cabin, and in the rear view all Kyle could see was the red light. It lasted for a split second and was gone. At the same time the head lights, electronics, and engine shut off in the truck leaving Kyle in pitch black darkness as the truck slowly rolled to a stop. Trying not to panic, Kyle tried to restart the truck, nothing, not even a turn over. He tried to turn on the dome light, again nothing. For a moment Kyle sat in the cab in absolute darkness attempting to slow his racing thoughts in the infinite darkness. He noticed that it was completely silent around him too, he couldn’t even hear crickets. He struggled to control the wave of fear rushing up into his chest and thought “Stay cool, there is a logical explanation for this.” It was hard to tell how much time had passed as he sat in the void, but eventually he decided to step out of the truck and see if he could walk back towards the gas station. When He stepped out his feet hit the ground, but it didn’t feel like the pavement, rather a flat featureless surface. He walked directly away from the truck and kept expecting to run into the ditch on the opposite side, but it wasn’t there, nor could he feel the air, or see any stars. This is when the panic took over. He turned about face and ran towards the truck, miraculously bumping into the truck bed and almost falling in. He felt his way back into the truck, fumbled the keys, and some how it started but none of the lights would come on. He started to drive slowly at first hoping he could get out of what ever he was in, but it just felt like a flat surface where there should be hills and bumps. Driving blind, Kyle gradually gave the truck more gas, not caring if he crashed because at least it meant there was something out there. He couldn’t see the odometer, but it felt like he was going 80 mph and at the same time going nowhere. After what could have been minutes or hours of driving into nothingness and feeling more and more hopeless, a faint light appeared in the distance as if in a fog. As he slowly got closer the world started to come back into shape, the road, the trees, the wind, even the crickets, although it seemed unfamiliar now. Kyle was so relieved to be back in reality it didn’t matter where he was. As the light came into shape through a misty fog it emerged as the lit-up sign of a hotel. It was clear to Kyle the only thing to do was stop here. The sign, illuminated in old yellow incandescent bulbs, read “The Drowsy Dutchman Hotel.” He had never heard of the hotel before and had no idea where he was, but he parked in the mostly empty lot out front of the building. The other few cars were just that, the shape of cars in the mist and the longer he looked at them the harder it was to tell what make they were. The Drowsy Dutchman had an old English tutor style exterior, a style once popular in the upper Midwest. As he walked forwards a warm welcoming light glowed from the big front double doors windows. When he walked through the vestibule, he found himself in a softly lit lobby which opened to a lounge that looked like it was right out of the 1950s. There was light jazzy piano music emanated thru the air and to his right was a check in desk where a kind looking older lady with short gray hair stood. “Hello Kyle, we’ve been expecting you, and we’re so glad you made it this evening. Your room is ready for you, but you’re welcome to have a drink or hot cocoa at the bar. Max will fix you right up.” A strange and dream like drowsiness was flooding Kyles brain like opium and the edges of the world became soft. “Oh, wonderful, thank you.” Was all he could manage. She handed him the key to the room which was… 217 or 602, it seemed to change when he looked at it. He seemed to float into the lounge and up to the bar. “What’ll it be, sport?” Max swayned in a syrupy north woods accent. Max was a stout man, unremarkable but for his large bushy eyebrows and mustache. “Just a hot cocoa I think, Max.” It was strange but not in the least bit to Kyle that he didn’t want a beer. “Commin right up, bud.” Max replied. “Nothing like a nice cuppa coco to sooth the old head ey old sport?” “y..yeah.” murmured Kyle. Kyle sat down in a fine leather high back, his eyes were heavy and slow. The music swayed back and forth. In a series of still frame images, the stairs, a long hallway of doors, the door to his room which opened as he arrived, then the room which was the pure image of cozy comfort. A flannel comforter, soft lamp light, a comforting painting of a dog in the woods on the wall. He floated onto the bed and disappeared into nothingness for what may have well as been eternity. | 10,124 | 1 |
The zooms from the energy beams above their heads were becoming more frequent now. The rock that was their sanctuary didn't seem like such a great idea to hide behind now. Three cadets. All wearing standard issue Star Division cadet uniform but each had one area in which they could attach their own little flair in the form of a button. Cadet Jackson. the one with their grandfather's old Star Division jacket buttons screamed over the noise of energy beams and concussive grenades that they needed to get out of there and fast! All of a sudden the sound of weapons dissipated. All that could be heard was the distant sounds of commands being barked. It was alien and robotic sounding but they knew the universal language of orders. Kind of like music. “Ok here is what we are going to do.” The cadet with the button displaying the logo of his favorite holo comic was speaking. “I’m going to look over the rock and count how many are out there real quick. I tried to count based on where I thought the beams were coming from but I lost count when they started throwing the grenades. Them things are so freakin’ loud! I was up to 4 confirmed before that though, what about you guys?” The two other men didn’t know how to respond. Their shuttle had been shot down during a routine recon mission. Well they were told they were picking up data about the area that was covered in what seemed like an endless woods. What’s routine about your first mission though? Their commanding officer, hoping to sleep walk to their next promotion, was last seen flying out the front window of the shuttle due to the centripetal force the shuttle experienced after being hit. He was part of one of the ‘Old Star Division families. Believed it blaize for an officer to wear a harness on their own bridge. The cadets had also not known each other before setting foot on the shuttle together 20 minutes ago. They were a little taken a back by the way the other cadet was handling the situation. Like as if they weren’t about to die horribly but hopefully quickly. They just looked at each other and back. “Eh. Maybe I’ve actually gone deaf and am speaking too softly! Cadet Riley can you hear me?!” the third cadet said in a raised tone before the others quickly shushed them. “Christ yes Cadet Portman, can hear you just fine.” RIley, who was missing their flair button and looked to be the type to always be in a disheveled state replied. “And we heard you, so go look quick!”. Portman shot a quick grin which unnerved Jackson and Riley and crawled to the precipice of the rock and peered over for what was probably a few seconds too long before Jackson snapped to get the fuck down before they got sniped. Portman shuffled on their behind to back down towards the other two who where anxious to know how many they were up against. Portman let out a big sigh. “I’m not gonna lie to you fellas. I forgot what I was supposed to do the second I popped my head up”. Jackson and Riley stared back mouths agape. Unable to tell if they were serious or not. “Have you guys ever heard of the doorway effect?” was all Portman could say before the dirt left in the wake of a suppression grenade rained down on them. And the firing started again. Portman screamed that he remembered just when Jackson pulled him back and spotted 4 figures in the near distance. It was 5 in total. He guessed the the fifth guy was Mr Grenades. He also clocked a bunch trees that seemed to be rotting away a bit and formulated an idea. But he needed their knives. A cadets only weapon, it was more ceremonial than anything as it wasn’t very big. But right now they felt like excalibur in their hands as it was their only weapon. “Quick!! Give me your knives!” Portman hurriedly asked, trying not to sound like an order but it was do or die. Riley gave theirs over almost right away. They didn’t know why but they felt like Portman knew what they were doing. Jackson needed a further persuasion of a head tilt, one eyebrow raised and the outstretched hand of Portman opening and closing quickly to hesitantly hand over their only means of personal defense. Portman hurriedly got to work by unlacing their boots. “Have you guys ever heard of the story of Icarus?” portman started. This time it was Jackson raising one eyebrow but in confusion. Portman took the lull in firing again to elaborate as he appeared to tie all the knives together. “There he is sitting at home in Greece or wherever he lives. He just got done from a long day inventing shit all day long or whatever inventors do.” Riley and Jackson quickly side-eye each other. Portman is too enveloped in the task at hand that he doesn’t notice. He continued on. “And then in comes his wife and is all like ‘Look I know that the wheelchair that you invented for my Mother was amazing and all and no one has ever seen anything like it at all. But like how the eff is she supposed to get up all the stairs and talk to Zues at the acropolis. It is only 500 meters from the base of the mountain. And the first step is 300 meters right to the base of the mountain. Ugh why can’t you be smart enough to figure out the slope OF A PERFECT RIGHT ANGLE!!! ’ So off she goes and storms away.” Portman looked like he was finishing up just as the firing was starting up a little more. “So Iccarus is all like ‘WTF’ but he goes about trying to figure out if it is even possible to know the slope of a right angle. But just like that he has a dream where an equation hovered above him and had an epiphany. The next morning he put on his little boots with wings, grabbed his little bow and arrow and off he went and made the best gosh darn ramp Greece had ever seen leading right up to the acropolis. Icarus proudly pushes his mother in law up the ramp. It was a little bit steep but he powered through just in the hopes that this will finally satisfy his wife so she’ll stop nagging. He just wanted to chill and just think about stuff like cool people did. But when they got to the top of the ramp do you know what they did?”. It was a rhetorical question but Riley shook their head anyway, fully engrossed. Jackson’s eyes were as narrow as slits but was glad at least he was entertained in his final moments. “He just bent over and whispered in her ear, ‘a2 + b2 = c2 bitch.’ and then just let her roll down the ramp. I guess he never installed brakes.” Portman let out a guffaw before pulling the laces taught and bouncing up. He began swinging the knives around like a lasso but almost impossibly fast. It flung from his fingers and zipped right towards the bunch of very tall but very dying sets of trees. About 6 or 7 trees started to domino on each other and on to their new found enemies. Once the dust had settled there was no sound, not even orders being barked over a radio. Jackson turned to portman, still unable to believe what he just witnessed. “You know, I think you have your mythologies and fables mixed up a bit there. And somehow math.” Portman looks back at Jackson. “Ye but what I was doing seemed like a long shot andI didn’t have time to be talked out of it. So I went with the confuse route. But also I wasn’t joking about them grenades!” Portman shot Jackson a smile but this time it didn’t unnerve him at all. “Ok new plan!” Portman exclaimed while giving Jackson a bump to the shoulder. “I say we move to recover what we can and head south.” The three men nodded in agreement and they started in their way…. | 7,456 | 2 |
Everyone seemed to leave the dining hall in a better mood than the one they went in with. Even Madeline with her maudlin thoughts of lost loved ones had to admit that the warmth radiating out from her stomach provided some comfort. Though the group still followed the guard in silence, it felt like a friendlier, more contented silence than the harsh, tense silence of the walk over. The sun was already grazing the horizon during their short journey outside — not that dawn and dusk would be as important as they once had been to Madeline. Living in a windowless building with wired-in electric lights was going to take some adjusting too, having lived for so long being woken by the sunrise. When they got back to the dormitory, there were a few muttered goodnights between people who’d been chatting at dinner before everyone sloped off to their respective bunks. Madeline followed Billie to their corner in something of a food coma-fueled daze, collapsing onto the lower bunk wordlessly. “I suppose I’d better take the first shift then,” Billie remarked, leaning over her. “Hmm?” She blinked blearily back at them. “Well, as safe as this place might *seem* I doubt either of us trusts it enough to both sleep at once. Besides, someone has to try and make radio contact with our allies on the outside while everyone else is sleeping.” “Oh… yeah.” “Only you,” a finger prodded her belly, making her groan, “seem to already be half asleep. So I guess that leaves the first shift to me.” “Thanks, Bill.” Madeline rolled over, shielding herself from further prodding — and to hide the grin spreading over her face. “You’re the best.” Though they grumbled as they climbed the ladder Madeline knew that there was a smile playing at their lips that they were trying to hide just as she was. She also knew that if she’d suggested taking the first shift herself, Billie would have had none of it. It was just more satisfying making it seem like she’d won somehow rather than simply giving in and letting them get their way. Still, she didn’t want to go to sleep with them being mad at her — even if it was pretend mad. Lying on her back, she lifted a leg to poke a toe through the slats above and into Billie’s mattress. “Billie?” “Yeah?” “Love you.” There was a pause, during which Madeline could have sworn she heard them roll their eyes. “Love you too, Mads.” She drifted off into a mashed potato-fueled sleep with a smile on her face. \ Neither Madeline nor Billie made contact with their allies on the outside that night. Madeline spent the whole time she was on watch hiding under the covers and whispering into a walkie-talkie that only hissed and crackled back at her. But, on the bright side, the ‘keeping watch’ part of her task ended up being unnecessary. The night passed without incident — good or bad. Unfortunately, the night also passed far too quickly. Especially given she only got to sleep for half of it. The lights in the dormitory came on automatically at God knows what time. Without any windows providing natural light, Madeline was completely lost. As she rubbed her eyes, squinting against the harsh, electric light, other members of her group started to wake, grunting and groaning as they did. The bunk above her squeaked as Billie shifted before their legs appeared over the side, climbing down the ladder. “How is it,” Madeline asked, sitting up slowly, “that even when I’m already awake, you’re still the first one out of bed?” “Because I’m trying to keep some things constant for you in this ever-changing world,” Billie replied with a grin before glancing around the rest of the dormitory. “So what do you think happens now?” Madeline stretched, standing slowly to join them. Other people were gradually making their way out of bed, and those that didn’t appear to be still half-asleep were looking around with wide eyes and a look of confusion that Madeline imagined was mirrored on her own face. The door swung open, and all eyes snapped to it. The young guard who’d collected their contraband and guided them to dinner last night strode inside. “Good morning, all!” he said, probably a little louder than was strictly necessary. There were a few more groans and squeaks as the last remaining people rolled out of bed. A few shuffled closer to the door, gathering around. Madeline peered through the growing crowd but remained where she was, tucked away in her corner with Billie. If they were about to be led out of the room again, she needed to find a quick hiding spot for her walkie first. “I hope you all had a good night’s sleep,” the young man continued, “as you’ll need plenty of energy for your first day of work.” He paused, looking around at what Madeline imagined was a sea of sleepy faces with bleary eyes. “You have half an hour to get ready, then I’ll be back with some breakfast for you to eat on your way to the fields. See you soon!” With a cheery wave, he ducked out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. At least they had some time — crucially not under the watchful eyes of a guard — to hide anything they needed to hide. As few of the group shuffled out into the corridor, likely heading straight for the washroom, Madeline turned to Billie. “So what do we do with our walkies?” “I was thinking about this last night,” they said, eyes glazing over slightly in concentration. “There aren’t really that many hiding places in here. And I’d bet my dinners for a week that they’re going to search this place while we’re out.” Their gaze focused on Madeline. “I think our only option is to take them with us.” Madeline frowned. “But won’t that be obvious?” “Not if we strap them tight to us, perhaps wrap a couple of layers of fabric or tape around, and then layer up over the top with some nice, baggy clothes.” They chuckled slightly to themself. “Trust me, I have practised hiding the shape of my own body underneath clothing. This isn’t that different.” “I always trust you,” Madeline said, reaching out to cup their face and pull them closer for a quick kiss. They spent the next twenty minutes or so hurriedly getting ready — waiting their turn for the washroom, making up their beds and tidying away their things in the chest at the foot of their bunk bed, and finally setting about the task of hiding their walkies on them and getting dressed. They were done with a few minutes to spare before the young guard came back into the room to take them out to the fields. When they got outside, Madeline breathed deeply, resetting her internal clock with the sight of the sun sitting on the horizon, painting the sky in pale blues and pinks. The air was bracing, making her grateful for her many layers in more ways than one. As it was their first day, the people from her dormitory were split up into small groups to work with someone more experienced. She and Billie were assigned to harvesting apples from the orchard. The walk there with their mentor was a nice length, providing plenty of time to take in the scenery. If your back was to the industrial complex — and if you could ignore the tall barbed wire fence on the horizon — it really was quite picturesque here. Fields stretched in every direction — rows of golden wheat, swathes of yellow rapeseed, more shades of green than Madeline had seen in a long while. And when they finally reached the orchard, it was even better. Rows and rows of trees stretched all the way to the towering fence in the distance. Their branches were splayed out like fingers reaching skyward, adorned with leaves which were beginning to show the first signs of autumn. Though lush greens were still visible, tinges of yellow and orange were creeping in, dancing like fire in the light of the dawning sun. Billie leaned closer to her. “Not a bad place to work.” All Madeline could do was smile. Under the tutelage of their mentor, her and Billie were soon working their way along their assigned row of trees — the other sections of the orchard being managed by more experienced hands. They took it in turns to go up the ladder, cupping the apples and gently lifting and twisting to see if they’d come away. Though the surroundings might have been beautiful, and the job simple enough, it was more tiring than Madeline had anticipated. Her back was not happy with carrying around the ladder and the buckets of apples. Her ankles and knees ached from the endless climbing up and down. Her shoulders felt like they were on fire from having her arms lifted constantly above her head. And her hands were getting rubbed raw from holding the rough wood of the ladder for Billie. Soon, she was starting to regret all the layers, panting and sweating with every apple she picked. She could tell that she was holding Billie back, though, of course, they’d never complain. Besides, she suspected they were glad of the excuse to take it slightly easier. Their red face and clouds of breath misting from their mouth told her that even they were struggling, if not as much as her. The break for lunch couldn’t have come soon enough. Madeline eagerly took her bread and fruit from the foreman, slumping down onto a comfortable enough-looking patch of grass near the other workers. When Billie joined her, they were carrying two cups of water. “I thought you might be thirsty,” they said as they settled down next to her. Madeline took a cup. “Thanks! I was so focused on food and rest I completely forgot.” She gulped the liquid down, savouring its coolness as it trickled down her throat before tearing into her meal. But the food was gone all too soon — sooner than the emptiness in her stomach was filled. Then, it was back to work. The hours of the day stretched ahead of Madeline. A hot meal and her warm bed seemed impossibly far away. | 10,052 | 3 |
In a universe where the fabric of reality intertwines with a mystical game of life, four individuals—Kayn (Ethan), Nobody (Liam), Flash (Gavin), and Spiderman (Noah)—find themselves drawn into a web of fate and consequence. Kayn and Nobody are brothers, while Flash and Spiderman are cousins, each represented by a number denoting their role in the game. Long ago, Kayn warned of future events, foreseeing his entanglement in a movie where he'd be powerless to act. Despite the warning, Kayn chose to participate, resigning himself to the whims of destiny. Driven by envy and greed, Flash plotted against Nobody and Kayn, resulting in Nobody's disappearance. Kayn, left alone and desperate, made a pact with a curse, knowing he could only return to his life by taking his own life with a knife. He also believed he could revive Nobody by staying true to the game. Unaware of Flash's true nature, Kayn continued to play the game through his and his brother's bodies. Meanwhile, Flash, driven by his desire to gain power, stopped playing the game when Kayn started to watch the movie, leading to Nobody's permanent demise. Kayn's music gift was not stolen by Flash, but its use triggered a curse, bringing loss and misery. At the end of the game, Kayn died in Flash's body (he was shot in his sleep) but was reborn, given another chance in his own body and world. However, he felt a strange connection to Nobody's body, where Flash now resided. Kayn realized Flash had committed terrible acts, including something involving Spiderman and Nobody. While Flash resided in Nobody's body and world, Kayn found himself trapped in a movie (Flash made him watch the movie), forced to watch Flash's actions. Flash, aware of Kayn's predicament, manipulated events to hold Kayn hostage, knowing he had made a deal that allowed him to take Nobody's life. As Kayn remains trapped, Flash grapples with the consequences of his actions, holding onto Kayn as a means of control. Despite Kayn's attempts to break free, he finds himself at Flash's mercy, unable to escape the confines of the game. When Kayn starts watching the movie, he sees Flash's life in a downward spiral. Flash, once wealthy and influential, is now alone and destitute. His real family and friends are out of reach, leaving him isolated and desperate. To cope with his situation, Flash resorts to manipulation, controlling those around him to maintain a sense of power. As Kayn witnesses Flash's decline, he feels the weight of Flash's actions bearing down on him. Powerless to intervene, Kayn suffers as he watches Flash's manipulation unfold. Despite the adversity he faces, Kayn remains determined to break free from Flash's control and find a way to save himself or his brother Liam. In the midst of his predicament, Kayn finds himself presented with three distinct options, each carrying its own set of consequences and implications for his fate and that of his brother, Nobody. Option 1: Kayn contemplates the pact he made with the curse, understanding that his return to his own life hinges upon the ultimate sacrifice—his own life. With the weight of desperation bearing down upon him, he considers wielding the knife, accepting the grim reality that it may be the only path back to his existence. However, the thought of leaving his brother behind gnaws at his soul, adding another layer of complexity to his decision. Option 2: Despite the torment of watching the movie, Kayn entertains the possibility that there might be another way to reclaim his life without resorting to self-sacrifice. He delves deeper into the narrative unfolding before him, searching for clues or opportunities that could lead to his salvation. Perhaps there's a hidden loophole or an unforeseen twist that could offer him a chance at redemption. Option 3: As Kayn's gaze remains fixated on the screen, a glimmer of hope flickers within him as he considers the possibility of saving his brother. He recognizes that staying true to the game may hold the key to Nobody's revival, even if it means enduring further hardship and uncertainty. With determination coursing through his veins, Kayn resolves to unravel the mysteries of the game, determined to rewrite its rules and secure a brighter future for both himself and his brother. As the game of life continues to unfold, Kayn and Flash are locked in a battle of wills that will shape the fate of all involved. | 4,472 | 1 |
In the vast expanse of the multiverse, where realities diverge and possibilities are endless, there exist four brothers who share a unique bond that transcends space and time. Meet Kayn, Nobody, Spiderman, and Flash – four versions of the same individual, each existing in a separate reality, each playing a mystical game of life. Long ago, Kayn warned of future events, foreseeing his entanglement in a movie where he'd be powerless to act. Despite the warning, Kayn chose to participate, resigning himself to the whims of destiny. Nobody, the eldest brother, harbored deep affection for his siblings, especially Kayn. With a sense of responsibility, Nobody envisioned a bright future for them both, planning grand adventures and achievements that would span across the multiverse. Spiderman, with his cool and chill demeanor, possessed a pure heart and stood his ground when needed. Friendly and approachable, he extended his hand to everyone, fostering camaraderie among the brothers and beyond. Meanwhile, Flash nursed greed and envy in his heart, his thoughts consumed by a desire for power and wealth. He plotted against Kayn and Nobody, scheming to usurp Nobody's fortune and claim it as his own. As the game of life progressed, Flash's envy and greed grew unchecked. In a ruthless move to eliminate his eldest brother, Nobody, Flash devised a cunning plan. Using his knowledge of the game's mechanics, Flash manipulated the rules to trap Nobody in a loop or cause him to vanish altogether from his reality. Nobody, once a renowned gangster in past lives, had made enemies and left behind a trail of resentment and fury. When news of his disappearance spread, the underworld seethed with anger, blaming Kayn for the misfortune that befell his elder brother. Kayn, though younger than Nobody, shared a deep bond with him. The moment Nobody fell into the trap or vanished, Kayn felt a pang of heartache pierce through him. The loss of his brother weighed heavily on his soul, leaving him shattered and vulnerable in a world filled with treachery and deceit. Kayn left alone and desperate, made a pact with a curse, knowing he could only return to his life by taking his own life with a knife if he ever would be in such situation. He also believed he could revive Nobody by staying true to the game. Unaware of Flash's true nature, Kayn continued to play the game through his and his brothers' bodies. Meanwhile, Flash, with his envy and greed festering within, became increasingly aware of Kayn's actions. Seizing the opportunity to undermine his brother and tarnish his reputation, Flash embarked on a campaign of sabotage, weaving webs of deceit and manipulation to thwart Kayn's progress at every turn. As the game progressed, tensions between the brothers reached a boiling point, leading to confrontations fueled by mistrust and betrayal. Kayn, determined to uncover the truth and restore balance to the game, received a mystical gift – the power of music. Through enchanting melodies, Kayn found a means to communicate with the game itself, unraveling its secrets and unlocking hidden pathways to success. In a surprising turn of events, Kayn emerged victorious in the next stage of the game, his triumph resonating with the melodies that echoed through the multiverse. Yet, before he could bask in his newfound glory, Flash, consumed by his insatiable thirst for recognition, stole Kayn's award and fame, plunging him into despair and disillusionment. At the next stage, Kayn decided to observe Flash's actions while Flash battled Spiderman. Flash and Spiderman both lost, but Flash's greed led him to covet Spiderman's fairy, Laila. Spiderman disappeared as a result, leaving Flash to face the consequences alone. With Spiderman gone, Flash appeared in Nobody's body, gaining a new form but unable to return to his own body where Kayn died. Later, at the end of the stage, Kayn was found dead in Flash's body, killed in his sleep. Kayn was reborn in his own body but remained unaware of his true identity. Flash, now in possession of Nobody's body, was a year ahead of Kayn. As the next stage of the game began, Kayn found himself at a crossroads, torn between the choice to continue playing or to finally find solace with his people in his own world. Despite his demise in Flash's body, Kayn felt a strange strength coursing through him, a connection to his brother's consciousness that transcended the boundaries of life and death. With this newfound awareness, Kayn could sense Flash's thoughts and emotions, his presence a constant reminder of the deeds that had led to their current plight. Kayn discovered Laila, she was already in Kayn's body. Flash understood that and was afraid. Kayn sent Laila to Flash to manipulate him, but never took her back. Flash, trapped in Nobody's body with no means of returning to his own, faced a different kind of torment. Knowing that Kayn could expose his treachery, Flash resorted to desperate measures to maintain control. He manipulated Kayn's perception, trapping him in a web of illusions or trapped Kayn within his consciousness. Where he could only watch as Flash's life unfolded before him like a movie. As time passed, Flash's fear of exposure grew, yet the knowledge that Kayn held the power to end his own life prevented him from taking any drastic action. Meanwhile, Kayn, unable to intervene directly, could only watch helplessly as Flash schemed and manipulated his way through life, driven by his insatiable greed for Nobody's fortune. Laila left Flash and disappeared. With each passing day, Flash gained an advantage, his machinations pushing him one step ahead of Kayn, while Kayn remained trapped within Flash's consciousness, a silent observer in a world not his own. As the game of life continues to unfold, Kayn and Flash are locked in a battle of wills that will shape the fate of all involved. let me know what you think about the characters and the story itself. | 6,250 | 1 |
It was a mundane Monday, another dull day on his way to a dreadful job. Dante Agustin was running late for work. He pushed through the other pedestrians, picking up pace to make it across the street before the light turned. But it was too late. He let out a frustrated sigh and looked up at the dreary sky. The towers of glass and steel loomed over him like giant overlords, casting their shadows over the minions. Dante shivered under their cold gaze as he waited for the light at the crosswalk to turn green. He spotted a growing crowd in front of a restaurant. The line wrapped around the block. He removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth he had pulled from his pocket, and slipped them back on. HAMS. It read on the restaurant’s black awning in bold gold letters. “What’s going on over there?” he heard someone ask. “I heard a new restaurant opened up the other day,” someone answered. “Is it any good?” “It must be, just look at the line! It’s not even opened yet.” “HAMS! What kind of name is that for an eatery?” When he arrived at the corporate building, he rushed through the glass turnstile doors, and hurried to the elevator and punched the button to up to the 49th floor. With his suit soaked in sweat, he huffed and puffed to his cubicle where he plopped himself down in his chair. He frowned at the piles of paperwork that had suddenly appeared overnight in his inbox. They were as high as city skyscrapers. For the next four hours, he stuck to the routine of settling complaints, reviewing forms, and stamping papers with the company’s signature red seal. The job was physically taxing. The joints in his fingers tightened. His wrists began to numb. But he buried himself deeper into work. The work overwhelmed him, almost sinking him into the dirt under its steel weight. The Big Clock on the wall clucked its tongue. Its tick tocks prickled the tiny hairs in his ears, and the stifling air heightened his irritation. At times, Dante believed the Big Clock was self-aware. It would tease the workers by pretending to glitch; its second hand slowed, and minute hand twitched. Have patience, he told himself. It was almost lunch break. The Big Clock knew what every worker was thinking. Smirking, it lingered a moment longer on the 59th second before it moved on to the next minute. Dante’s stomach grumbled. His growing frustration was locked up inside his guts. He had never once publicly shown a disagreeable manner which had earned him “Employee of the Month” a few times a year. The recognition came with a company pen, a candy bag, and—the best reward yet—a 15-dollar gift card to any diner within a mile radius of the office. Dante struggled to focus. His fingers tingled as if he had just plunged his hands through a thicket of pine needles. The tingling coursed up his arms to his brain, then a lightheadedness swept him off his seat. Weightless, he floated from his desk. His co-workers poked their heads up and gawked like gophers out of a hole. Laughing, he waved good-bye and flew out an opened window. He flew up above the skyscrapers who narrowed their steely eyes at him and gnashed their glass teeth in rage. They stretched out their long steel arms, whipping them about to grab him by the ankles and chain him back to his desk. But he was too high up in the sky now. He had reached the stratosphere. The sight took his breath away. Clouds rippled before him like ocean waves, and rings and orbs of heavenly colors surrounded him. He curled up into a ball, closing his eyes and imagining what it was like to be in a womb. But the high didn’t last long. A disapproving “ahem” popped Dante’s little daydream bubble. He fell from the sky and collapsed back onto his desk with an ankle shackled to the desk’s leg. He felt the invisible chain’s weight and its hundreds of tiny teeth digging into his skin and bone. The building rumbled. It was laughing. The walls and floor vibrated, and the fluorescent lights above swayed. Sliding his glasses back to their rightful place on the bridge of his nose, he lifted his eyes up to see the intruder. The Supervisor of Employee Productivity, a large man built like an ox, loomed over the towers of documents, envelopes, memos, and manila folders on the desk, which quivered under the pressure. He existed to make sure the employees were at task. If he caught one asleep or wasn’t present at their desk, he noted the minutes and added them to the time they’d be required to stay after office hours. Overtime…it sent shivers up Dante’s spine. Though he hadn’t served overtime (yet), he had heard from others that after 5 o’clock the atmosphere on the 49th floor would shift. The air thinned. The lighting glared hotter and brighter stinging the eyes. The Big Clock took pleasure in the workers’ angst. It slowed, so that seconds stretched to hours. Sometimes it stopped all together, and the employees would languish in despair for what felt like an eternal sentence, though in reality only an hour had passed. “Catching a few winks, Mr. Agustin?” The Supervisor took one of the papers from Dante’s desk and began reading. He had a fried burger in the other hand. The meat protruded between the buns like a fat burnt tongue slowly slipping over crusty lips. It had a strange and sweet fragrance like honey mixed with grease. The Supervisor took a bite of the burger. He helped himself to a second and then a third bite, each time emitting a sound—somewhat of a snort. An oink. “No, I wasn’t—,” Dante started to say, his heart drumming hard in his ears, “I mean, I’ve been just so tired late…” his voice trailed off, then he cleared his throat and kept his head down. “I know…I know, sir, that there’s no excuse.” The Supervisor returned the paper to the pile, but it slipped, somersaulted weightlessly in the air, and landed in front of Dante. On the left margin right by the paper’s edge, there was a greasy thumbprint. “This isn’t the report that was due yesterday,” said his superior, flatly. “The report?” The Supervisor nodded. “Yes, the weekly ‘Self-Reflection on Performance’ report that every employee here is required to submit. Come on, Mr. Agustin, you know that!” Dante’s stomach dropped. “I haven’t typed it up yet.” “That’s not like you!” “W-Well, I—you see—” he fumbled for an excuse, “My computer has been unusually slow and sometimes it freezes.” The Supervisor shook his head in disappointment. “Tsk, tsk! Looks like you’ll have to work over—” “But!” Dante interjected. “Rest assure that you’ll receive my report before five o’clock today.” With bated breath, Dante fidgeted in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He rolled his pen between his fingers. His right leg shook. The Supervisor leaned over so that his face was mere inches from his. A gust of onions and melted cheese and meat blew from the Supervisor’s flared nostrils and gaping mouth. Naturally, when someone breathed in his face, Dante would have taken a step back. But the aroma captivated him. It reeled him in like a seductress beckoning him to enter the bedroom. His stomach growled loudly. It yearned for lunch. The Big Clock was just seconds away from announcing lunch break. It heard the stomach growls of the workers, and purposely yawned, pausing its second hand which caused its minute hand to spasm. Hearing an employee break into tears, the Big Clock cackled. “All right, that’s fine by me,” the Supervisor finally said, “But remember that late work may affect your chances to have your name entered in the lottery for a promotion this year.” He dug through his pocket and offered a peppermint candy on the palm of his hand. “A little encouragement to keep you going, Mr. Agustin!” Dante cautiously reached out, and as he picked up the candy, the Supervisor’s hand snapped shut around his like a clam and squeezed. The blood drained from Dante’s face. “Is there something else you wanted, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Agustin, why didn’t you attend the office party last weekend?” Surprised by the question, Dante thought it over; he tried to remember the reason he gave. Unable to recall, he shrugged and gave the Supervisor an apologetic look. “I think I wasn’t feeling well that night. Why do you ask?” He sighed in relief when his hand was released from its trap. The Supervisor shrugged his shoulders. “I noticed that you’ve been withdrawn lately. Perhaps you should attend another gathering that I’ll be hosting this Friday night after work,” his voice rose in excitement, “I’ve just reserved a room at HAMS. Fantastic place! The food there…well, it’s something else! And they’ve only opened just the other day! I don’t know what it is but…” The Supervisor’s voice faded into the background as Dante inspected the man’s glistening face. Dante removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth, and slipped them back on. He squinted. His eyes settled on the nose. It was pushed back like a snout. The nostrils flared and snorted. He straightened himself up in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He ogled at the unshaved chins. Two, four, six chins he counted. They weren’t there before. He was sure of it. They quaked with every word as the Supervisor rambled on. “So, are you going to come or not?” A pair of black beady eyes zeroed in on him. “Oh…uh…yeah. Yeah, I mean—I don’t know” Dante stumbled again on his words. “—but, you know, I’ll think about it. I’ll definitely think about it.” “Don’t be a loner, Mr. Agustin. We’re a family here! And if you want to get anywhere in life, then you’ve got to open up a bit to people.” The Supervisor smiled, unknowingly showing the chewed pieces of dark meat that bespeckled his beige teeth. The Big Clock screeched like a banshee, signaling lunch break. The other employees practically leapt out of their chairs, grabbing their hats and coats, and raced towards the elevator hall. The Supervisor frowned. He hated it when the workers took lunch breaks. It was known in the company that he had made numerous attempts to whittle the break from an hour to eleven minutes. “Lunch breaks set back productivity,” he once argued, “Hunger is motivation to work a little harder, thereby increasing productivity!” Dante pushed back his glasses on his nose. He was fixated on the Supervisor’s face. Did his eyes get darker? Did his nose seem stubbier than a moment ago? The tuft of hair on his chins, however, glistened even more. These questions and thoughts on his close observations followed Dante across the street to the mass gathering at the restaurant, HAMS. Every man, woman, child, cat, and dog were waiting outside. With a ticket number in hand, they pressed their wet noses against the windows, anxious for the hostess to call out their number. A savory smell poured out when the hostess opened the doors and called out a number. The smell placed a spell upon the mass of curious and excited diners. Their noses turned up and took a deep breath, holding it in their lungs to savor the aroma as long as possible before releasing it in one longing sigh. Dante admitted to himself that he was no different from those who crowded before its doors. And like them, he was entrapped by the smell. His mouth salivated. When his number came up, he pushed through the herd who groaned in disappointment and angrily grumbled about the long wait. The hostess flashed him a saccharine smile and escorted him to a table for one. Then, a beaming waitress approached his table. She recommended the “HAMS House Burger,” their current popular dish. It came with thick potato wedges, a generous amount of coleslaw and pickles, and a soda with a silly straw that had more loops and curves than a roller coaster. But after a few minutes scanning the other dishes listed on the menu, he decided to order the pork onion soup, and the waitress complimented sincerely on his choice. Slouching in the chair, he glanced around the crowded smoky restaurant curious to know what others had on their plates. The first thing that struck him was the alluring smell. It played and twirled his nostril hairs. It kissed him on his mouth and tugged at his tongue. He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie. Perhaps I should’ve ordered the house burger, he thought. Was it too late to change the order? But as he raised his hand to wave at a waitress, he caught sight of a couple sitting at the table next to the window, where a group of salivating young folks peered in from the outside. Two juicy “HAMS House Burgers” sat happily on plates before the round and pink couple. They tended to the burgers with such care and awe as if they were the proud parents of newborn twins. Their mouths enclosed on the meal then, instantly, their eyes darkened and glazed like melted sugar poured over chocolate doughnut balls. They basked in the waves of carnal lust. The burger’s grease glowed like gold and shined on their chin hairs and left little golden droplets on the front of their shirts. The woman’s peach-shaped face darkened from pink to magenta and her greased pink lips shined like polished wood. The man’s forehead sweated as he undid his tie easing the discomfort on his growing and reddening neck. The ends of his handlebar moustache stood erect. After lingering in that blessed moment, they gorged on the food without restraint. Dante turned his eyes away, sickened by the scene yet secretly aroused. He laid his sight on a loud family of five seated at a long table. They had a small child, who restlessly swayed on its highchair. He noted that each plate had the house burger, and even the child fed on some morsels served in a little trough. Their eyes darkened and glazed over, too. So absorbed by the scene, he didn’t realize the waitress had already brought his hot soup. The aroma, like a pair of lover’s hands, rose from the bowl to cup his cheeks in its warmth. It pecked him on the nose and moistened his lips. He gingerly dipped a finger and tasted the creamy soup. It tasted sweet like honey and bitter like blood, and though that would make anyone recoil in disgust, the flavor roped him in. The steam rising from the bowl whipped around his neck like a noose and yanked him closer. Just as his tongue rolled out to dip into the soup, he heard a creature oink. He glanced over at the other diners around him. In disbelief, he removed his glasses and searched for the cloth in his pocket. I must’ve left it at the office, he mumbled to himself as he used his shirt to clean the glasses. The people were changing. Their eyes shrank into beady black eyes, and their noses shifted into snouts. Their clothes stretched and ripped at the seams as their bodies shifted into the shape of a pot-bellied pig. With each bite of the HAMS burger, they snorted and squealed in excitement. He wasn’t imagining the event at all. No, no, no. This was truly happening! He clutched his chest in shock with one hand and gripped the tablecloth with the other. He watched the diners fall to the floor on newly morphed four-toed feet. High-pitched squeals ruptured from their mouths. Then, chaos broke loose. What were once well-mannered humans, were now aggressive, loud, and riotous pigs. They ran amok. They turned over tables and knocked down chairs. Plates, mugs, and wine glasses shattered on the floor. Silverware was scattered, and the tablecloths and napkins were shredded into bits. Caught in the whirlwind, he clung to the chair for dear life but was violently thrown off. He froze as a couple of pink creatures approached him. They sniffed and licked the soles of his shoes. They snorted, sniffing their way up to his pale face. One smeared grease across his cheek with its lips. Then, realization struck him. He recognized the peach-shaped head of the creature and its companion with the erected handlebar moustache. It was the couple he’d seen earlier. Their black beady eyes bore into his. He saw a sliver of their former selves. They were once like him. They were once chained to a desk and buried six feet under a pile of paperwork and had served overtime. But now they were free! They’d never felt so liberated and jovial. They could eat whatever they wanted, love whomever they lusted, and roam wherever they desired. “Be with us,” Dante swore he heard them say. With trembling hands, he reached out and stroked their heads. His heart fluttered. Their short coarse hairs tickled his fingers sending a strange but thrilling sensation through him. They leaned into his touch. For the first time in a long while, he was moved. All the stress and frustration that had built up inside of him for years and years, one layer atop another, finally collapsed! A howl ripped through his throat. It shook the walls, cracked the floor, and shattered his glasses. He was exhausted but at peace. Leaning forward, he kissed them both on each blushing cheek. Then, wrapping his arms around one of them, he nuzzled their skin and breathed in their scent. The softness of their flesh made his skin hum in excitement. As he sunk his teeth into their softness, joyful tears flooded his eyes as the metamorphosis coursed through his body. | 17,205 | 1 |
Someone once told me once that hands carry the story of a man, tell his character- I wonder who. My grandfather. What would he think now? How much have I changed, would he even recognize me? I glanced down at my cracked, split hands. Calluses built high and hardened like stone along the palms. kneeling into the earth, I leaned forward, my reflection looming forward to meet me. I can barely recognize myself. Deep groves ran through my face, countless valleys cut by iron. My nose was crooked, bent at an ugly angle. I must have broken it at some point. Mother used to tell me about my eyes, of how they sparkled- how they would widen in wonder as they watched the world turn around them. Those eyes are gone. I met my own gaze, empty, soulless. All sense of wonder lost. Unsettled by my own face, I broke stillness, tarnishing the reflection and plunging my head under, taking deep, long droughts of this foreign water. Coming up gasping for air I began to wash my face, scrubbing dirt from my pores and watched as pools of red ran from my hand, blood. Not my own it was caked thick on my face and neck and clung to my entire body. Feverishly now, I began to scrub myself, to remove this blood that isn’t mine. A hand gripped my shoulder, I ignored, like a vice, the grip tightened. A voice accompanied it, “brother, it can’t all be washed away, come, we must prepare to march.” Looking up, Bjorn had his other hand outstretched, I grasped it, pulling myself to stand. The rest of the world came into view, the sky was a mottled grey, a thick sheet of dark clouds dampening the suns light. Smoldering remains of the ransacked settlement lay across the plains to the left, the dark and forbidding ocean to the right. England’s coast was full of small settlements like these and they were an easy target for our merciless party of Danes. I can still hear them. Cries of the English men are all the same, “the Danes are here, the Danes are here” “they’re monsters, not human, God save us” Constantly they ring through my head, a bell to remind me of the sins these hands have committed. “That look, I know it, this is for Valhalla brother, think of it, the glory we win for ourselves as we win battle after battle” I spit on the ground, mottled with red. “Slaughtering untrained men and young boys isn’t glory, it’s only senseless murder, isn’t it?” “Where’s the challenge?” I shifted my weight, turning to face the rest of our camp, roughly 70 tents were sprawled across the shore, the entirety of our band. My own was already packed, tossed into our small the supply train. The men of our band were just starting to form up, as the sun began to make its crawl into the skyline, ready for its own endless march across our sky. The captain always made sure we began our march before day break. Fifteen minutes later our party fully broke camp and began to march out in three straight lines, our destination, our destination- merely more battle, I grow tired of it, the endless slaughter, the sounds, the smell, like death itself it never truly leaves and hangs there, putrid. To my left and right, I stand by killers, more men with the same desolate look, we call each other brother, but I feel no kinship towards these men, I detest them as I detest myself, another hand to this pointless bloodshed. Why did it all start? Anger, hatred. Hours passed, time becomes somewhat lost, untraceable as one foot is placed in front of the other. Some grow weary from the steady pace that’s set. I do not, my body toned and conditioned through years- years, it’s been years, how much time have I spent making bloodshed my trade? I can’t even remember my own birthday. Stumbling, I ran into the man in front of me, he barely reacted, frozen in place as something had transfixed his gaze. The entire party had come to a stop. Following his line of sight, I watched as they emerged, hundreds of Englishmen pouring from the tree line, Many on horseback and all clad in mail, these weren’t settlers, this was the kings army. Horns bellowed, freezing the blood in my veins like ice, horns signaling a charge. I don’t fear battle, I’m a Viking for sake. Around me the men began to whoop and cheer, gums pulled back into a grimacing snarl, deep throaty voices calling for blood. Truly, these men lived for war, and died among it. I must escape this. Behind me hands began to pull me into formation. I shook my head, clearing the fog, I pulled my round shield from my back and drew my axe, a weapon of choice. Formation for our situation called for a circle, men on the outer lines fighting until they grew tired, fell back and we’re replaced by those on the inner circle, giving a chance for recovery, heavily outnumbered this formation was a matter of life or death. They came quick, the first man to reach me fell as fast as he came , as did the next, and thirty after that, eventually I lost count. My own ease at which I kill is what truly scares me, these men fall before me and pose no more threat than a child to me, what have I become? Their cries tell me, “vargr” Deserter slowly, my vision began to fade, a red glaze seemingly seeping over my eyes, my vision tunneled I could only see one thing, a faint, distant light, an opening, a break in the battle. I began to carve my way there, hands moving as if their own accord, splitting, hacking. I began to stumble, the body’s piled high. Hands grasped my feet, my ankles and my legs, urging me to join them on the floor that sets the stage for this massacre. I’m free. Diving, I tucked and rolled coming into a sprint, I ran and didn’t look back. Deserters are known to be hunted down, tortured and killed. To make this escape worth anything I must not be caught. Where do I go? I now have nothing to my name, simply what I carry on my person. To the Danes, a deserter is a man without honor, and a man without honor is no man. My legs began to burn, the efforts of war beginning to take their tole and I had to stop. It’s so quiet, who knew silence could be truly deafening. Why is it so warm? The battle fell behind me, the sounds merely a far off din, the adrenaline, the Norse Beserker rage is beginning to wear off and I feel the true effects of the battle. I need to inspect myself for wounds. I began to sit down when I noticed my arm, unconsciously clamped tight to my side, pulling away, dark red blood began to spurt form a deep gash, purple and black skin already beginning to fester around it. Almost instantly, pain began to rack my entire body, waves ripping through. | 6,660 | 1 |
The birds roosted high in the canopy, singing morning songs that filled the forest. The mist from the warm water rose into the cool morning air and created an eerie fog that rested against the trees. In the pool sat Taja. His back rested against the rock edge that cut straight down into the forest floor. The warm water rose to his neck and his chin hovered above the surface. His golden blonde hair floated carelessly around his head. He rested with his head back and eyes closed, listening to the morning songs. For the first time in months, he had felt relaxed. Taja had fought as the Great War continued to rage through Vanahelm. After many battles, he found himself alone. Wandering through the Lost Lands in search of something. A being of ancient legend. One that could bring an end to the wars. Many people had thought him crazy for venturing off at such a desperate time. They needed Taja for the war. Behind Mabs the fairy, Taja was the second greatest warrior in Vanahelm. His power was unrivaled by any elf, man, or giant. His magic was pure and golden, a light that shone brighter than any other, but that did not mean he wanted to war. No, what he wanted was to stop the war. To bring peace to Vanahelm. To settle the conflicts that tore the great races apart. Before he left, a figure shrouded in a white light came to him in his dreams. For what the dreams were about, he could hardly remember, but he remembered the words spoken to him. “Go now, Taja Midas. You must venture into the Lost Lands and seek the nymph of the Forgotten Forest. There you will find the peace needed for Vanahelm. There you will find your meaning in life. Your future and destiny the nymph holds.” So Taja left. He ventured west, far west, passing through the warring lands where Fairies and Elves clashed with Humans and Giants. He wandered into the forest long forgotten. The trees blotted out the sun making navigation difficult. A thick air rested in the forest that played tricks on the mind. Right was never right and left was sometimes left. But Taja continued to wander with no plan in mind. He trusted his dreams that felt all too real. The words rang true to him. His destiny called, so he followed. He had traveled for many days or weeks. Or even a few months. For how long he did not know. Time shifted differently for the elves and the Lost Lands played with his mind. But Taja did not fret, he continued to wander, until he came across a pool. A single hot spring, forgotten in the forest. The crystal blue waters sat still in a sea of sunshine. The canopy of the dense tree-covered forest opened up above Taja for the first time and a blue sky revealed itself overhead. The rays of morning sunlight danced across the surface of the water. A rainbow of colors streamed across the ground. A subtle cloud of steam rose from the water and pulled at Taja’s aching bones. He hadn’t rested in the pool for long when a feeling washed over him. The feeling of eyes that peered at him through the darkness of the forest. Taja opened his eyes and scanned the tree line but saw nothing, nothing but the darkness he had wandered. Then the voice boomed, “Who dares bathe in my waters?” The voice echoed off the trunks of endless trees. Taja bolted up. The water splashed from the pool, but not a single drop fell outside its walls. He reached behind him for the two blades that he had placed on the edge, but to his surprise, they were gone. Drops of water ran down his pale skin. Each drop became hot and heavy. The weight of the water grew and weighed Taja down. He fell to a knee in the pool. The temperature of the water rose and soon began to bubble. His skin burned and beads of sweat rolled down his brow. “The burden of the water has begun to weigh on you, elf. Now you will either drown here or bear its weight to which I do not hold the answer,” the voice echoed. Taja searched the tree line for who spoke. The voice sounded as if it came from every direction as if it surrounded him or spoke from the sky. Taja’s eyes searched, but again there was nothing but darkness with a haze of steam shrouding it. “Show yourself,” Taja struggled to speak under the great weight of the water. Taja sank to both knees now. The weight that bared down on him grew heavier with every passing moment. A cool breeze passed over the pool, but it did not cool Taja’s burning skin. “Please, show yourself,” Taja said as he continued to struggle. “I have come in search of something. A woman shrouded in light came to me in a dream. Her voice guided me to this forest. I seek a nymph.” “No being has seen the nymph of this forest in many ages,” the voice said. “And those who have bathed in his pool have drowned in the waters. Do you think you differ from those who bathed before you?” The voice asked. Taja didn’t answer. The weight of the water grew. He began to sink even further. His chin hung desperately above its surface. In front of him, he finally saw the movement. Pressed deep into the bark of an oak tree came a face. The face was hard to see at first, only the nose began to poke out, then two eyes formed then a mouth. Next to press out of the wooden prison was a hand followed by a foot. A being emerged from the trunk of the tree and stood at the edge of the pond. The brown bark of the oak covered its body and grey moss hung in strands from his chin. Its eyes were the deep color of the green leaves that covered the canopy. It stood in the form of a man, but yet it was formless, ever so shifting like the leaves of the forest moving with the winds of the sky. The color of its face seemed to shift with every expression. “Now that you have seen what you are searching for,” the nymph said. “You will either drown in the pool, or it will grant you its gift. I cannot be certain of your fate, but here you will either die or live forever.” The weight of the water grew once more. This time more than Taja’s strength could bear. His head submerged under the water's surface, and he sank. He sank deeper and deeper. The pool was much deeper than he remembered. The rays of sunlight vanished, and darkness enclosed around him, again. The weight of the water began to crush him. Desperately, he fought. He waved his arms and kicked his feet, but the weight was too much, and he continued to sink. Is this how I die? Taja thought to himself. The great Taja Midas. An elvish warrior who faced countless battles. A war hero drowned in a forgotten pool in a forgotten forest. As he sank further and further into the darkness, his arms stopped failing and his feet stopped kicking. If this is my destiny, to drown here in this pool, so be it. I have lived a good life. I wish I had done more with it. More good for Vanahelm. Taja stopped resisting and sank into the dark depths. The weight stopped growing and Taja floated in the darkness. In front of him, the same figure from his dreams, shrouded in light, came to him. With a nod of her head, the weight of the water released its grasp over Taja. He shot from the pool and stood to his feet; the surface of the pool rested weightless around his waist. The nymph sat cross-legged at the edge of the pool; his eyes closed. A slight snore blew from his nose and Taja wondered how long he'd been under the water. “So, you did not drown,” it said. Its voice echoed no more. “So, the waters have granted you life over death. You have been deemed worthy of eternal life, my good elf. What is your name?” “Taja Midas.” “And Taja Midas, why do you come here seeking me?” Taja gasped for breath, “A figure, shaped like a woman, but covered in a blinding white light came to me in my dreams. She said that the nymph of the Lost Lands held my destiny. For many years now, I have fought in countless battles between the races. And now I wish to put an end to this Great War. To find peace between the five races. I wish that there could be harmony within Vanahelm. I come seeking my destiny in the hope that it is the answer to my wishes.” “Aw, so life has come to you herself, is it? Well, if it is your destiny you search for, I do hold that,” the old nymph said. His voice filled with wisdom. “Life came to me long ago. She told me that one day a great warrior would enter my waters and she would grant him the gift of eternal life. That after bathing in the waters no blade would harm his skin. But first, he must bear the weight of the water that has drowned many men in its time; many men who were unworthy of its gift. “You, my boy, are the first to not drown in these waters. It is said that the warrior who does not drown will guide the child of prophecy. For here is your destiny. “A fairy child will blossom in the following ages. She alone will be the one to bring peace to Vanahelm. She alone is destined for this task, but you, my son, are destined to lead her. To guide her along the broken and dreadful path she must follow to reach the end. To use your immortality to protect her. This is your destiny. When all this is to happen is unknown to both me and you. But your path is set.” The old nymph rose to his feet. His knees creaked like the branches of an old oak tree swaying in heavy winds. “But…” Taja started. “That is all, my boy. For now, you must return to your people. Continue your war. Time has written it so. War is part of the world. In time the child will come. And then you will know peace. Until then you must continue to walk your path.” The old nymph walked into the dark forest and vanished behind an old tree. Taja was left alone standing in the pool of water that once again relaxed his aching bones. | 9,795 | 1 |
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Jack was the first to tell me about what he called “the drug to end all drugs” he said that he had heard of it through a Reddit forum, where people were blowing up the feed constantly bringing to light their experiences on this drug. The official name was austreopilmeneryselfin but the desk dwellers of Reddit liked to call it the Interdimensional Essence. I have experienced my fair share of drugs, having started with the gateway of all gateway drugs, the Juul, and recently I had my first experience with DMT. I wasn’t a stranger to “trips” and out of body experiences but this drug was supposed to be incomparable to any other widely known substance. This forum was invite only, and after a reference from Jack and a few hours of waiting I saw a notification appear on my phone, announcing my acceptance into the R/Substances forum. This forum was different, and unlike anything I had ever seen before. There were thousands of posts discussing the effects of certain drugs, trips users had experienced on certain drugs, and even the chemical processes laid out step by step on how to cook your own drugs. I was fascinated and after a few hours of sitting at my computer exploring the depths of this forum I felt as if I was a pharmaceutical genius. A user under the alias FairlyCat_69 posted a sub Reddit titled How it came to be and said the Interdimensional Essence came from the cold barren slopes of the Sarawat Mountains in Yemen, first discovered by Sherpas who had entered a small cave to find shelter from a storm that had taken the mountain by force. Inside the cave they had found small glowing mushrooms protruding from the walls, hundreds of them stretching as far back as the eye could see. Hesitantly, but with time on their hands, they had picked the mushrooms and all but one consumed the foreign substance. The one Sherpa who withheld from consuming the mushroom, explained that within thirty seconds of consuming the mushrooms his friends eyes had rolled into the back of their heads, a smile creeping across their faces as they fell backwards onto the ground stiff as a board. He had tried to wake them, shaking them and slapping their faces but there was no response. His friends lay on their backs, eyes white and wide, with smiles on their faces for 10 hours. At hour 11, the first of his friends awoke. He had sat up rigidly, turning his head slowly, till he met the gaze of his sober friend. He began to laugh and with speed explain how he had been in space, working at a diner where he fell in love with an alien. As the other friends awoke one by one, they all told their different experiences of traveling to far away places, having lost all sense of reality. The story drew me in immediately. I was fascinated by the idea of disappearing to another place, and experiencing another life. I reached for my phone and called Jack, excited to talk to him about the research I had just done. As the phone rang, my imagination put me in the shoes of the sherpas, hoping that one day I would be able to experience what they experienced on that day in the cave. The ringing of my phone stopped, and Jack’s voice filled the silence of my room. **{Chapter 2** "Alex, did they let you in?" Jack asked “They did, I just spent 3 hours in a deep dive within this Reddit forum. It’s a gold mine” I said. “So what do you think? Doesn’t it just blow you out of the water?” “It does, I want to fall in love with an alien in the most normal way possible. How can we get our hands on this drug?” excitement discernable in my tone as I waited for Jack’s response. “Well my friend, we are in luck. I took the leap of faith and contacted FairlyCat_69. It took a few days for him to respond, but he told me that he has a connection in Yemen, which is how he got the first hand account of what an experience on the Interdimensional Essence is like.” “So how are we going to get our hands on it?” “Fairlycat69 said he could get us some, but it’ll be costly and take some time to get here” Jack replied. “How much are we talking? Am I going to have to sell my liver?” “He said it’s $300 per dose. It’s a lot but I feel like this could be worth it. This could be the experience we have been searching for Carey, this is our opportunity to take us to another place. We can finally escape this stain we like to call earth.” laughing like he always did when complaining about his life. “I’ll have to scrounge up some money, but I’m in.” I said “Tell Farilycat to get that shit ready, I’m gonna have the money by the end of the week.” “That’s what I like to hear Carey, I knew you would be down! I’m gonna try and wrap Jimmy into it as well. He is easily convinced. I’ll sell the experience in a way that Jimmy can’t say no.” “You do that Jack. I gotta go, I got work in the morning and need to wind down before I sleep. Keep me updated, I’m beyond excited.” I said “Alright, sounds good bro. Catch you on the tail end!” Jack said before the phone call ended and silence once again filled my room. I stared at my computer screen for a few more minutes imagining the details of the story told by Fairlycat, fantasizing about far away lands, distant galaxies, and aliens I might fall in love with while lost within the Interdimensional Essence. I reached into my drawer and rummaged around through the papers, pencils, books, and other miscellaneous items, before finally pulling out my thin lime green battery with the round resin cart attached to the top. I clicked the small button on it five times waiting for the dim green light to appear, signaling that my cart was ready to be used. I held the button down again, holding it till it blinked so that I could preheat the wax and take the first of many hits from the dark yellow substance floating around in the glass walls of the cart. The familiar feeling of the high slowly worked its way into my body and my mind. I slouched back in my now suddenly far more comfortable desk chair, and tossed the pen back into the open drawer, closing it as I began to fade away. My eyes became heavy, my body became warm, and a smile crept its way onto my face. I had fallen in love with this feeling. It was a routine I had placed myself in, and daily I looked forward to the escape that it brought from this mundane life I lived. I knew that I had slowly built a dependency on it, and that if I didn’t follow my routine I’d feel anxious and upset but I continued to do it because to me it felt right. Getting up from my chair I took a heavy, unsteady step towards my bed, free falling into the clutter of blankets, pillows and sheets that lay on my bed. Opening YouTube I scrolled through my home page searching intently for the video that would bring me to rest tonight, as I brainlessly read video title after video title. I finally landed on an intriguing video titled “I work at a grocery store, there is a strange set of rules I am told to follow ” pressed play and slowly dozed off as my mind went dark for the night. | 7,138 | 1 |
Henry LeDeux, being something other than a psychopath, organized his books by category. Some rogue acquaintance once suggested that he organize them by author, alphabetically. Unreal, Henry thought. Another suggested that it would look much nicer if they were color-coordinated. Insane, he said to himself. One particularly utilitarian soul noted that he could fit more books on the shelves if the short ones were kept up top, and the large ones down on the bottom. Absolutely certifiable. He stopped showing people into his library after that; he kept interested acquaintances at arm’s length from then on, locked the door when there were people over and pretended he had lost the key. “I know it’s around here, I just have to find it,” was the type of thing he would say and then just stand there and make no effort or show of effort to find it. When Clara Van Morgan came over on a fine fall day in August, Henry said he believed the key had went through the laundry recently, but could not be sure. She shook her head in disbelief, stretched her arm past his waist and turned the knob. The door opened. Henry stood there, feeling foolish, looking absurd, and smiling at the woman who would be his own wife in twelve quick months. She never took her eyes off his as she slid past him and into the room with the few hundred or thousand books. Henry had been meaning to catalog them at some point, but had not yet found the time. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she asked. “Hiding? I’ven’t been hid\_” “This is the least remarkable home library I’ve ever seen…” she said. “I never said it w\_” “…Imagine keeping this collection of pulp novels, children’s books, and textbooks locked away as if it were the library of Alexandria…” “There are some very good children’s books\_” “Henry, this place needs a woman’s touch. You don’t even have curtains up…” “I don’t need cur\_” “…I’ll be back tomorrow with a rug and some curtains. Have all these stacks of paperbacks moved to the edge of the room.” The next day at noon Clara showed up to Henry’s library, let herself in, and directed a man in blue denim coveralls to carry the maroon and blue rug up the stairs and into the book-speckled room. Henry stood and watched in a bit of a daze, part confused, part curious, and more than a little unsure of what was happening to him. The next week when he was summonsed to lunch at the Bistro on 13th Street, it occurred to him that Clara was possibly his girlfriend now. He paid for lunch and she touched his arm when she laughed at her jokes and called him “sweetie,” and said the she would see him tomorrow. He didn’t have plans for tomorrow as far as he knew, and wondered what she meant. When tomorrow came, Clara came over in the afternoon and they had tea together. Then she made her way up the stairs to the home library and sat in the green velvet chair reading a book she chose seemingly at random off his shelf, and asked him a few different times to open one of the bronze curtains that she had installed or to turn on a light or close a door—the draft was terrible in that room, we really need to get that looked at. She had carried her empty teacup up to the library and asked him to take it away later when she was done. After a couple of hours sitting quietly, reading to herself, only interrupting the silence with the swish of a page-turn or the insignificant “hmm” one lets out when they’ve encountered something significant, she slowly closed the book, The Taming of Mr. Ripley’s Talent, I believe it was, or something like it, and set it down on the table beside her. She looked around the room and decided that Henry would solve the draft, but she would solve the organizing. She closed the door and locked it, then began pulling all the books off the shelves, and stacking them in the middle of the maroon rug. One by one she put books on shelves according to her very own whims—this book looked good here, this book fit nicely there. “Scalp Dancers” held its rightful position next to “Crazy Horse,” but why did she put De Tocqueville’s “Democracy in America” directly beside it, and Montesquieu across the room with Locke and Rousseau? Only Clara would know. This undertaking being larger than a day, and this undertaker not being short of energy, prepared the books for their proper resting place well into the evening. Henry eventually came to the door, knocked and asked Clara what she was doing. She did not answer his question but simply told him that she was much too busy to chat now. He asked why the door was locked and she begged with him, “Henry, could you please come back some other time? I am much too busy to stop my work.” After Henry went to bed, Clara snuck out, locking the door behind her, and went home. She returned the next morning and spent all day putting books onto shelves according to the system she had devised in her mind. Henry heard the shuffling and moving and asked to be let in, but she just replied that if he wanted to be a help he could bring her lunch. All this work was very tiring and she hardly had time to get it herself. Leaving her lunch outside the door as requested, Henry went about his day as normal as possible, every so often looking up at the locked door, searching his house for the skeleton key to the library, and wondering if what was happening in there was going to be enraging or enchanting. When, on the third day, Clara completed her project, she invited Henry into his library to see the results. Everything looked exactly the same—the lamp, the chairs and tables, the little knick-knacks on the shelves were all in the exact same places they had been before—except for the books. All of the books were off the floor, and on the shelves, which Henry greatly appreciated. But, he noticed, he could not find any single book that he would look for. He went to the exact spot where he had kept “The Domestic Life of Thomas Jefferson,” but found “Cornices of Charleston,” and associated titles. Pivoting off that title, he tried to find its companion, “Medieval Fortresses” but it was not on the same shelf, not even on the same wall. “’Medieval Fortresses’ is missing,” he said. “It should be right here by “Cornices of Charleston.” “Not at all,” she said. “It is right here,” and pointed to an adjacent shelf. He looked at “Medieval Fortresses,” and saw it pressed up against “Anglo-Saxon Chronicles.” He was more confused now than at any time since she had first walked into his library. “Don’t worry, Sweetie. I know where everything is,” she assured him. “Where is Dante?” “Right here, next to Montaigne.” She smiled. “Montaigne,” he whispered to himself. He repeated it, both asking and reassuring himself. Clara Van Morgan always made herself available to help Henry find the book he needed. Every Friday evening she would lock herself in the library and reshelve all the books Henry had left stacked on the tables, chairs, and floors due to either not being able to remember where they went, or to not being done reading them. And every Saturday morning Henry awoke to find that all the books he had been using were now missing, and he had to try to remember what books he had brought out, and pull the ones he could remember down from the shelves. It was a system that pleased Clara and Henry lived by it. From the library window you could see down into the garden, and the arch trellis where Henry stood in a black bowtie. Clara walked out the door of the carriage house, down the path through the garden and stood next to Henry under the arch with the purple hyacinth hanging off of it, in a white dress with a veil. Her father stood there and whispered into Henry’s ear, “She’s yours now,” and went home and took a long deep breath. He sat down in his leather chair and poured a glass of scotch and looked at the great mass of books on his wall and wondered how on earth he would ever find anything again. \*\*\* u/QuillAndTrowel writes on Medium & Twitter (links in bio) and you ought to be following him. | 8,199 | 1 |
Thadd sighed deeply and leaned his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. He was sitting on a low stool with his rifle over his knees and helmet by his side. He didn't need it but he kept it more as a reminder even if he had everything in vivid memory, a memory that never faded and never faltered. Sometimes he just wished it did. Just a bit to muddy those crisp memories of the years of wars and bloodshed. With a slight curse he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up to the dark ceiling above him; his eyes glowed a red glow that never faltered. ”I am hungry,”he muttered and looked at the empty cup in his hand.”So damned hungry.” "Aren't we all.” The answer came from a fair haired man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall on the other side of the bunker. His eyes glowed red too and his scowl was angry and a bit mad but Thadd knew that the anger was not against him. Or any of the other soldiers in the small, dark bunker. They were only seven left now, as far as he knew. Two of them where outside scouting but he didnt think they would find anything in the scorched wasteland outside. The fair haired man poked at a dried corpse by his feet with the butt of his gun before he growled and hit it hard. ”I fuck hate this!” ”Don't we all!” came an almost mocking answer from a tall scarred woman with short black hair.”You should keep your anger in check, Theo, you need to reserve your energy. Noone likes this, I can promise you this.” Theo just scoffed but didn't hit the corpse anymore but just rested his chin against his folded arms over his knees and sighed deeply. ”I didn't think I ever would say this but I have had it up to my neck with bloodshed and fire,”sighed Thadd and tried to tame his wild red hair with his fingers but what he had not managed in the past, he didn't now either.”Especially atomic winters.” ”Aye,”nodded the black haired woman where she was standing with her arms folded.”I need something that doesn't taste like death.” With a short chuckle and a half sob a cup with a dried brown liquid in it came flying and clanged against the wall just a few millimeters from Thadds head. A younger sandy haired boy dragged himself to his feet and stalked to the door. ”Kayne!” Thadd was on his feet in a second and reached the door before the young boy.”No, there really isn't anything you can do out there.” ”But Ammy and Zeke is out there!” he growled and pushed Thadd out of his way.”I don't want to be down here anymore, I need something to eat! Even if it would be a plague rat!” ”At least take your gun with you,”Theo sighed and scratched at his neck.”But it would be good to keep together. Isn't it so, Lydia?” ”Kayne, honey,”Lydia said with a pained smile.”You have gone outside before, you know there isnt much there anymore, even if the sun isnt shining anymore it isn't a good idea to start roaming too much either.” Kayne just muttered and snatched up his gun from Theo and a bag with a few rounds. ”Just remember where we are,”Thadd sighed.”It would be for the best to stay in one place until we find somewhere better.” ”You do as you please,”he snapped and dragged open the heavy, thick door that had survived the war.”I wont stay here anymore and listen to your whining!” A small cloud of ash whirled up when the sandy haired man stalked outside and disappeared into the hazy outside. Thadd could see some bare dead trees farther away but shut the door before he would think too much about it. ”Someone should have gone with him,”Lydia sighed and straightened the collar of her tattered uniform.”But...” ”He will come back,”said Thadd and took his place on the low stool again.”Like he always does, I just hope it won't end like last time.” They drowned in the quiet for some time before all of them flew to their feet with a pounding on the door. ”Oy, let us in!” Zeke's voice boomed from the other side so Theo unlocked and opened the heavy door. ”You don't have to shout,” he sighed when Zeke and Ammy came inside, they had their rifles at the ready but relaxed when the door swung shut again. ”You are half deaf so I need to,”he smirked and stroke of his helmet.”Where is Kayne?” ”Outside pouting,”said Thadd and rose.”Did you find anything?” ”Not much,”Ammy sighed with a grimace and tossed her helmet with a clang to a corner.”Just ruins and ruins and more ruins.” ”We found some tracks but we lost them after a while,”Zeke continued.”Too much ash in the air, it hurts my eyes.” ”The only good thing with this war is the lack of sun,”said Lydia dryly.”The lack of food is not one of them.” ”Aye,”Ammy sighed and rubbed her face with her soot covered hands.”I think I am going crazy.” ”Aren't we all,”smiled Thadd lightly but then sighed deeply and looked around him. Arn was still sleeping in his corner, though Thadd didn't know if he ever would wake up from that sleep. They were all tired from the lack of food and Arn most of them because he had volunteered to give the others his rations when they found something even if they protested but only weakly. How many days had it been since the last meal? Many, he was still surprised that they were still sane enough not to attack each other but he had a feeling that if it would happen he wouldn't stop them; he would join them in the frenzy. Zeke groaned and put his helmet on his head again and took his gun. ”I will go out and see if I can find Kayne,” he informed the others.”Even with the lack of humans the world can still be dangerous.” ”With all the starving creatures out there aye,”agreed Theo and hit the dried corpse again with his gun. ”As if we didn't belong to that category,”Zeke said softly and opened the door, even more ash whirled inside and the deafening silence outside didn't make the mood any better.”I will be back when I find him.” Thadd sighed again and put his gun over his knees again, it was a strange sort of comfort to have it with him even if it had stopped working a long time ago. He remembered when he enlisted for the first time and met Zeke and Kayne. They had known each other before the war and soon they had formed a platoon of 20 when they met others like them but most of them were dead now. Only the seven in the bunker were left of those and he remembered his brothers and sisters in arms fondly. He had been enlisted as the leader of the whole platoon because he had the highest rank out of all of them as a Lieutenant and it had gone well until someone thought it was a good idea to unleash all the atomic bombs and orbital railguns in an attempt to choke the war to death. It had only made things worse and the planet was dying. Or at least the place where they were. He knew that they should get moving, try to find a place with more food but he also knew that too much running around would use up the little energy and sanity they had left in them. Maybe the nuclear winter did not reach the whole planet and maybe there was someplace where they could survive. A lot of maybes without any evidence of anything. Thadd pinched the bridge of his nose again and leaned his head against the cool concrete with his eyes shut. He had to battle the madness himself and sometimes he just wanted to shred the others to pieces just for a drop of blood. Just a drop and then he would die mad and alone. Though maybe it would be better so the other didn't have to suffer the same fate. Quietly he watched his soldiers. He knew they battled the same demons as him, the same urges, the same bloodlust. Lydia and Ammy sat together against the farthest wall, quietly mumbling together, Theo was polishing his gun, looking even more frazzled and tired. His eyes glowed even deeper red and Thadd was afraid he would lose it soon. Arn was still in his corner, most probably dead but noone wanted to go near him, wanted it to be true. Thadd knew that most of their kind went mad and attacked everything that moved if they starved too long but Arn knew that too so he had put himself in a deep almost comatosed sleep that would either save him or kill him. It was something everyone knew really but noone wanted to talk about. There had been enough blood for them to feast every night. It was just a pity that they couldn't save it out on the battlefield. The bunker had been their safe haven for a long time; not even the Great Hunters Of The Night could survive the bombs that fell like rain the first night of the apocalypse. Not even them would survive long in this wasteland of a world. He knew that now but a strong part of him was set on survival, whatever the cost. ”Theo, could you please toss that corpse outside instead of abusing it with your rifle?”he asked the fair haired man.”It won't give you anymore blood however much you hit it.” ”I named him Jack,”Theo sniffed and poked at the corpse again.”And he is my friend.” Thadd cocked an eyebrow but didn't push the matter anymore; if a dried up corpse kept Theo sane who was he to take his toy away from him. ”I smell blood!” Lydia perked up and got to her feet in a heartbeat. Everyone grabbed after their guns when a familiar voice asked them to open up. Thadd was first at the door and let Zeke and Kayne in. With a big smile Kayne tossed down whatever he was carrying on the floor. Thadd knew that the darkness inside the bunker would prevent the shape from seeing anything, he could smell the fear. And the blood. ”You found a living human,”he remarked and squatted down to look at the shivering person, he had to really stop himself from attacking directly and he knew the others felt the same.”We have to save some for Arn.” ”We don't need any,”Zeke said and looked at Kayne.”He had a small child with him so we shared that.” Thadd nodded and took a grip around the chin of the terrified human and made him look him into his red glowing eyes. ”M-m-monster!” he stammered and tried weakly to get away but Thadds grip was too strong. ”More or less,”he confessed and took a new grip around the mans throat when Ammy came with a old bucket.”But you will get us fed a bit, even if you reek of sickness.” With a smooth move Thadd severed the mans artery and let his sweet warm blood flow into the bucket, the man trashed weakly but got still quickly. Before all the blood had flown he filled cups with the warm blood and gave it to the others that gulped it down quickly and hungrily. Thadd stopped himself to only two cups before he took one to the sleeping Arn and gently lifted the sleeping mans head to force some of the foul smelling blood down his throat. Zeke gave him another cup of blood to feed the sleeping man. In just a couple of moments the man that had been living just minutes ago was a dry bloodless husk but they weren't all satisfied. His blood was filled with sickness and the taste bad but at least it was better than nothing. ”Where did you find him?”Thadd asked where he was sitting with Arns head in his lap, feeling the warmth of the blood slowly getting his friend back to the unlife they all lived. ”South from here,”Kayne explained. ”Beyond the crater where the city was. I found some corpses too but they weren't any good.” He made a face and crouched down. ”I am sorry for rushing off, I was afraid I would attack you if I stayed.” Thadd just nodded and looked down on his second in command, his eyelids fluttered. ”Do you know if they were on their way somewhere?” he asked and turned his glowing red eyes to the sandy haired youth. ”There is a rumor of a safe haven farther south,”Zeke answered instead and gave the dead but still warm man a light kick.”I don't know if it is true but it could be a good place to get more food.” ”How far?” Arn sat up slowly and rested his back against the cold wall,the old worn wooden cross that hung around his neck was visible. He had told them once that he had got it from his mother when he was young and it was one of few precious things she had left from his life before .”I thought I asked you to let me be,Thaddeus.” ”I am your superior,”Thadd smiled and got to his feet.”You can't give me any orders.” ”I can,”Arn retorted and stretched his stiff muscles.”You just choose not to hear them.” Thadd snorted but turned to Zeke and Kayne with a sharper look than intended. ”What is your answer?” ”He said something about a week or two,”Kayne answered and looked at the others.”Though if it is true...” ”We would be able to find more humans on the way,”Zeke finished and shouldered his rifle again.”What say you, Lieutenant?” Thadd was quiet for a while, letting his thoughts wander. ”Well,” he said finally and helped Arn to his feet, the tall man towerd over them all but he was the kindest of them all.”I guess it would be for the best to get away from here so it won't become our tomb.” The other agreed with him and fetched their rifles and helmets. Even if they had few rounds left and preferably didn't use them with the fear of spilling too much of the precious blood the rifles were a good prop against whoever they would meet. Especially if there were any human soldiers left. Even if the perpetual dusk made their eyes softly glow red few would come near enough to recognize what they were before it was too late. The will to live, the will to survive was what got them to finally leave the bunker behind them. The perpetual bloodlust that their kind always felt spurred them onwards in the search for sustenance. For blood. | 13,560 | 1 |
In the desolate wasteland that was once the United States, where the dead roamed and the living fought tooth and nail for survival, there rode a lone figure. Brian Sims, a young man of twenty-two, had left his home in Corinth, Mississippi, behind. With determination in his heart and a Colt 1911 holstered at his side, he ventured northward, seeking refuge from the radiation that plagued the southern lands. Brian was a rugged soul, his blonde hair hidden beneath a Stetson hat, his blue eyes piercing through the dust and debris of the world around him. He rode atop his faithful steed, navigating through the ruins of civilization with a steady hand. As he journeyed, he relied on his weapons: the Colt 1911 for close encounters, the Remington 500 for long-range threats, and a machete, crowbar, and bow and arrow set for whatever else came his way. His attire was as practical as his armament, clad in a duster jacket, jeans, leather chaps, a flannel shirt, and steel-toe boots with spurs that jingled with each step. But perhaps his most prized possession was his gas mask, a constant companion in the toxic air that hung heavy over the land. Beneath it all, he wore a leather vest for protection, feeling the weight of survival heavy on his shoulders. One day, as he rode through the desolation, Brian came across a group unlike any he had encountered before. They were dressed in pristine uniforms, bearing the insignia of the Civil Republic Military, or CRM as they were known. They were armed to the teeth and seemed to be on a mission of some kind. Brian's instincts told him to steer clear, to avoid trouble at all costs. But fate had other plans, as a sudden burst of gunfire erupted nearby, drawing his attention. Without hesitation, he urged his horse forward, his heart pounding in his chest. As he approached the source of the commotion, Brian saw a small group of survivors, outnumbered and outgunned by a horde of undead. Without a second thought, he leaped into action, his weapons blazing as he fought alongside the beleaguered group. In the chaos of battle, Brian caught the eye of the CRM agents, who seemed impressed by his skills and courage. When the dust settled and the dead lay still, they approached him cautiously, their weapons at the ready. But Brian was not one to back down from a challenge. With a steely gaze, he met their leader's eyes and spoke with a voice that carried the weight of his determination. "I'm just passing through," he said, his tone firm but respectful. "But if you're looking for someone who knows how to handle themselves in a fight, you might just have found your man." The CRM leader regarded him for a moment, then nodded in acknowledgment. They offered him a place among their ranks, promising safety and security in exchange for his skills. Brian considered the offer for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of the journey ahead. But in the end, he knew that his path lay elsewhere. With a shake of his head, he declined their offer, preferring the freedom of the open road to the confines of their regimented society. And so, with a nod of farewell, he rode off into the sunset, leaving behind the CRM agents and their world of order and control. For Brian Sims was a lone rider, a wanderer in a world gone mad, and nothing could chain him down. As long as there were battles to be fought and adventures to be had, he would continue to ride on, a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded him. | 3,491 | 3 |
Reid, Polly, and Jim ran back down the stairs. Reid and Polly left their letters on the bed while Jim brought his. Olivia and Frida were waiting for them. "Alright, what are you being blackmailed for?" Olivia grabbed Jim's letter and read it. She gasped after reading it. "Oh my god, you monster." Reid and Polly read it as well. Polly immediately had acid reflux in disgust while Reid closed his eyes. If he had to see that again, he might as well go blind. Frida grabbed it to understand why everyone was reacting so strongly. Her reading comprehension was poor, but even she understood the dishonorable implications of the words. "I can never look at you the same way again." Frida shook her head. "I was extremely hungry. Don't act like you wouldn't do the same," Jim said. "That's no excuse." Olivia turned to Jim and Polly. "Alright, what do they have on you?" "I'd like to keep mine a secret," Reid said, and Polly nodded "We shared ours. You have to share yours. It's only fair," Olivia said. "Like you've ever been fair," Polly said. "You're right." Oliva clapped her hands. "I'll make brisket if you side with me." Jim and Frida flanked Olivia and started growling. "Now, will you tell us what their blackmailing you with?" "I have a giant mole on my back," Reid said. "You find Jeremy embarrassing?" Frida asked. "Jeremy?" Reid paused for a few moments until the realization set in. "When were you going to tell me you named my mole Jeremy?" "Never, now what's your story," Olivia said. "I-" Polly began to cry. "I almost burned down the house a few years ago. I was really mad at you all. I waited until it was empty and got as far as dousing the house with lighter fluid. I couldn't bring myself to do it though." "Oh, that's nothing. I do that on a weekly basis," Frida said. "Yeah, but we expect that of you. I'm supposed to be the smart and responsible one," Polly said. The other four awkwardly stared at her while shaking their heads. "Okay, so we know what the blackmail material is. Clearly, we are being targeted by someone close to us." Olivia scratched her chin. "But who did we anger that much?" They scratched their heads and reviewed their previous adventures. It could've been that cult that they disrupted twice. It could've been that weird society that wanted them to fight to the death. It could've been an ex-lover of Dorothy's. If they had a shred of decency, they would realize the reason they were targeted is that they were terrible people. The letters all spelled out how they could improve their behavior, but it never set in. Consequences were to be avoided by them. Having to face that fact was never going to happen. "I saw a guy at the trading post who was acting suspicious," Jim said. "How does that relate to?" Polly started to ask her question, but Olivia jumped up. "Yes, I remember him to. He was asking us so many probing questions. Let's get him," Olivia said. Polly shook her head. "That man was a worker," she mumbled as everyone left. Bartering is the oldest form of business. After aliens destroyed the world, trading posts were established. The military issued some currency, but that was useless outside of a base. An old strip mall was converted into a hub of economic activity for everyone in a hundred mile radius. People brought items ranging from cutting age technology (for their standards) to spoiled eggs. The five people arrived at the market, and everyone looked at them in horror. Shopkeepers prepared to fight and kept track of their wares. Civilians ran to avoid being in the crossfire. The trading post was moved to avoid their wrath, but they found a way. "That's the man." Olivia pointed at the man behind an olive cart. His thick moustache raised in shock and fear. "I didn't do anything," he said. Jim ran at him and lifted him off the ground. "We didn't make any accusations," Jim laughed, "You gave away your guilt. Where's the blackmail material?" "I don't have any blackmail material," the olive merchant replied. "I didn't say it was blackmail material," Jim smiled. "Uh, yes you did," the merchant said. "No, I didn't," Jim said. "Jim, you came on too strong." Reid walked beside Jim. "Put him down and I'll take over." Jim set him on the ground. Reid wrapped an arm around him pulling him tight. "Are you having a good day?" "No." "That's real. I hate having bad days. The best way to do that is by spending time with friends. We're friends right," Reid said. "Yes." The merchant squeaked out and gulped. "Then, tell me why you decided to be so mean to us," Reid said. "I did nothing," he said. "Let me at him." Frida pushed Reid aside and punched the merchant in the gut. Olivia tossed Frida aside after she did this. "You are all idiots." She put on her sweetest old lady smile and looked at the olive merchant. "I'm sorry for their behavior. We just suspect that you are extorting us with our secrets because we saw you eavesdropping." "I would never do that," the merchant said. "Don't lie honey." Olivia's voice dropped an octave, and she narrowed her eyes. "I hate liars." "He's not lying. We were discussing olive oil," Polly said. Her four companions looked at her. "He has a wide variety of olive oils. I was discussing our lives with him to pick the best brands. Remember how good that salad was." "Oh yeah, that was delicious, but why did you give away our secrets for olive oil?" Jim asked. "I didn't. None of you pay enough attention to me to know that was what I was doing," Polly said. The four muttered in agreement. Olivia patted the merchant on the back. "Sorry for the trouble," she said. The four walked away. The trade post resumed its usual activities. Polly stayed behind to speak with the merchant. "So can you forgive me for their actions. They're not my friends. They just had a spare room and I-" "You're banned for life. | 6,112 | 1 |
Aaron meets Aariana. A story about one individuals Trans-Journey of self discovery, and the Transition and Transformation to Transcend Societal Expectation. Based on a true story. (This is my personal spiritual awakening journey) Once upon a time, in a small town nestled amidst towering trees and rolling hills, lived a man named Aaron. For thirty-eight long years, Aaron had lived his life as the person everyone expected him to be. He followed the path laid out before him, conforming to societal norms and suppressing his true desires. But deep within his heart, a flicker of discontent burned. Aaron yearned for something more, something that would ignite his soul and set him free. And so, he made a bold decision. He left behind the comforts of his old life and embarked on a spiritual journey, seeking solace and self-discovery in the embrace of nature. For two years, Aaron lived in the heart of the woods, surrounded by the symphony of rustling leaves and the gentle whispers of the wind. He immersed himself in his true passion - art. With each stroke of his paintbrush, he felt a sense of liberation, as if the colors on his canvas were a reflection of his own vibrant spirit. One fateful day, as Aaron sat beneath a majestic oak tree, lost in the depths of his creativity, he felt a presence beside him. Startled, he turned to find a woman with eyes that mirrored his own. She introduced herself as Aariana, a manifestation of his true self, his feminine side. As Aaron and Aariana spent time together, they discovered a profound connection, a love that transcended the boundaries of gender. Aariana embraced her femininity with grace and authenticity, and Aaron found solace in her presence. They became inseparable, two halves of a whole, dancing through life's intricate tapestry. But as news of Aaron's transformation spread through the town, confusion and judgment clouded the minds of the masses. They couldn't comprehend the beauty of Aaron's self-discovery, and instead, they lashed out with hatred and prejudice. Aariana, now living as her true self, faced the brunt of society's ignorance. She endured the piercing stares, the whispered insults, and the cruel taunts. But through it all, she remained resilient, her spirit unyielding. Together, Aaron and Aariana stood tall, their love shielding them from the storm of misunderstanding. They found solace in the support of a few kind souls who saw beyond the surface, who recognized the courage it took to embrace one's true identity. As time passed, the town began to witness the beauty that radiated from Aaron and Aariana's love. Slowly but surely, hearts softened, and minds opened. The confused masses began to question their own preconceived notions, realizing that true happiness lies in embracing one's authentic self. And so, Aaron, now fully transformed into Aariana, became a beacon of hope for those who felt trapped within the confines of societal expectations. She showed them that self-discovery is a journey worth embarking on, no matter the obstacles that lie ahead. In the end, Aariana's story became a testament to the power of love, acceptance, and the unwavering strength of the human spirit. And as she walked hand in hand with Aaron, their hearts filled with gratitude for the journey that led them to their true selves. | 3,355 | 1 |
In the ancient realm of Eldoria, where the moon waxed and waned over landscapes rich with magic and mystery, there existed a mortal named Xanthus Aeternae. Five centuries ago, he was but a young man, his existence a mere thread in the tapestry of time, yet destined to weave his own tale of darkness and power. On a night draped in shadows, when the stars blinked with a silent knowing, Xanthus stumbled upon a hidden congregation of vampires nestled deep within the heart of an enchanted forest. Their eyes, gleaming with a hunger as old as time itself, fixated upon the mortal who dared to intrude upon their nocturnal gathering. Drawn by an invisible force, Xanthus approached, his heart quickening with a blend of trepidation and intrigue. The leader of the coven, a figure both ethereal and terrifying, recognized the latent potential simmering within the young man. With a voice that resonated like a symphony of darkness, she presented him with a choice: to embrace the eternal night and ascend into the ranks of the undead, or to retreat into the safety of his mortal existence. Without hesitation, Xanthus chose the path of transformation, sealing his fate with a single, resolute word. Under the guidance of his sire, Xanthus embarked on a journey of self-discovery and arcane enlightenment. He delved into the ancient arts of blood magic, learning to wield the life force that pulsed within his veins like a crimson river of power. With each passing night, he felt the tendrils of darkness intertwine with his essence, granting him strength beyond mortal reckoning. But Xanthus's thirst for knowledge and mastery knew no bounds. He immersed himself in the forbidden tomes of configuration magic, unraveling the mysteries of existence and reshaping reality itself with his newfound understanding. Through tireless study and unwavering determination, he honed his skills in telekinesis, bending the fabric of the universe to his will with a mere thought. As the years drifted by like leaves on the wind, Xanthus's ambitions soared to ever greater heights. He envisioned a fortress of shadow and stone, a bastion of his dominion that would stand as a monument to his unyielding will. With the strength of his newfound powers and the guidance of ancient knowledge, he embarked on a quest to erect Aeterna Custodia, a stronghold veiled in secrecy and ensconced in darkness. For decades, Xanthus labored tirelessly, his hands shaping stone and his mind weaving enchantments that would render his fortress impervious to all who dared to challenge his sovereignty. Gargoyles, hewn from the very bedrock upon which the castle stood, stood sentinel over its ramparts, their stony visages a silent testament to the eternal vigilance of their master. But even as the castle's defenses took shape, Xanthus understood that true power lay not only in fortifications of stone and steel, but also in the loyalty of those who served him. With a whisper of dark incantations and a pulse of his unholy blood, he turned mortals and fantastical beings alike into vampires, binding them to his will with threads of shadow and magic. Yet, even as his clan grew in number and strength, Xanthus recognized that wealth was the lifeblood of dominion. Through cunning and subterfuge, he amassed riches beyond measure, bribing mortals with promises of immortality and prosperity in exchange for their allegiance and their treasures. And so, through centuries of strife and triumph, Xanthus Aeternae ascended to become a figure of dread and reverence in the annals of Eldoria's history. Aeterna Custodia stood as a monument to his indomitable will, a fortress that would endure for eons to come, its secrets shrouded in the mists of time. And within its shadowed halls, Xanthus ruled as king, his legacy immortalized in the whispers of the night. | 3,844 | 1 |
I wake up to a sudden rustling. It doesn’t surprise me anymore; this has been happening for quite a while now. It’s my roommate, rummaging around his closet, trying to find his fishing rod. He goes out fishing every day, but he never returns with anything. It’s a mystery how he can afford the rent. I mean, the rent isn’t too high; we live in a pretty average house, and the location kind of hurts the rent. All of my work is on the computer, so I don’t really leave the house that often. He always brings in the groceries, and I cook. We’ve had this routine for as long as I can remember. Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I left the house. He’s the only “friend” I have after I moved here. But I don’t really miss going out all that much. I had my fair share of fun in my twenties, and now that I’m almost 33, I don’t think I can handle all the action, kids these days have going on for themselves. Anyway, I got up from my desk, and just before he left the house, I called out to him. I don’t know what was different about today, but I couldn’t control myself. I had this itch for ages, and I had to know what he did every day he went out to fish and why he never caught anything. So I asked him, “Hey, uhh… do you mind if I tag along? Just today. You see, I’m kind of ahead of schedule and don’t really feel like working.” “Sure, man, whatever floats your boat,” he said. I don’t remember the last time he made a joke. It took me a while to understand it. Seeing the fishing rod in his hand is how I got it. I put on my overcoat and followed him out the door. The sun felt too harsh on my face. I credited it to all this time I had spent indoors. But what I saw next was no product of my hibernation. A gust of wind carried with it sand, sand that rubbed against my face. It stung a bit, but I liked it. A quick look around and I see that our house is surrounded by sand. I don’t remember seeing this on the lease, I think to myself. Sand of this color, the last time I saw anything remotely close was when I was a kid. Driving amid the red rocks of the Mojave. All I could think of was that road trip. I never even gave a second thought to the fact that I had been living in the middle of a desert. Just then I see him waving his hand; he’s reached his car already. I quickly made my way to him; the sand made it difficult. I shouted “Shotgun” trying to reciprocate his humor, but it seemed he didn’t care much for it. I didn't mind; it was a crap joke anyway. We sat in his car. The smell felt familiar; I had the same pine-flavored freshener in my old car. He started the car, and before I could even put my seatbelt on, he gunned it. My heart almost skipped a beat as he jumped over a sand dune. The ride was pretty boring; none of us had any reception, and he forgot his AUX cable back home. I’ve had quite a few boring rides in my life, but for the first time, I had a boring drive. There was no sense of direction, at least for me; he probably knew this place like the back of his palm. While I was lost in thought, I saw his hand drift across my face. He was pointing to a dune up ahead. It was the biggest that we had come across yet. “There, that’s where we’re stopping.” Stopping? I wondered why he wanted to stop in the middle of the desert; was there something on the other side? Soon we reached the top of the dune. He got out first and took out his fishing rod and his bait from the trunk. I was still making sense of all that had happened this morning. He made his way around the car and opened the passenger-side door. I took off my seatbelt and climbed out. The heat hit me like a truck, the air-conditioning almost made me forget we were driving through a desert. I took off my overcoat, put it on the seat, and closed the door. I followed him and heard the doors lock behind me. Soon, we stopped. He took out the bait, attached it to his rod, and got ready to cast the line. I turned my head in the direction he was aiming. A shimmer, a couple of hundred meters from where we were standing. A body of water, but it couldn’t be. No vegetation of any kind, flicking so damn much. It was a mirage, it had to be! Whoosh. He cast the line, a perfect cast. The bob landed right in the water. I was at a lack of words… for a moment I was expecting a splashing sound to reach my ears. What was wrong with me? Was I falling victim to the same thing he had clearly fallen victim to? I turned my head to talk to him and saw his face. It was covered with a cloth. Maybe to protect him from the sand? I wasn’t really knowledgeable about the practices of desert-fishermen. Soon it hit my head, I couldn’t remember his face! I saw that man every day, as he came home, brought in the groceries, complained about his day, and asked what I was going to make. But for some reason, whenever I tried to remember any of those moments, the cloth seemed to be stuck to his face. Just then I saw his head turn towards me; I heard him say something, but the cloth muffled his voice. I told him to remove the cloth and speak, but he didn’t seem to listen. With anger on my face and firmness in my hand, I bent over and grabbed the end of the cloth. It was poorly tied and came off quite easily. He turned his face down as if trying to hide it. I grabbed his chin and forced it up. Soon all the blood rushed from my legs. My knees turned weak, and I stumbled and fell on my back. The face I saw was one I knew too well; it was my own. As my lips struggled to form words, his eyes, my eyes, stared me down. I felt the chill down my spine turn into a shiver. I crawled back trying to escape him, but the sand beneath me slipped away. I felt myself roll over, speeding up as I made my way down the dune. For some reason, I held my breath as I saw the mirage on my way down as if preparing for a dip. Soon I reached the bottom and entered the water. I felt the heat of the desert dissolve away, a cool breeze touched my neck. I was still holding my breath. After all, I wouldn’t want to drown in the desert; that would be a terrible way to go. As the cold breeze hit my neck again, now from the other side, I let go of my breath and opened my eyes, which were sealed shut the moment I entered the water. I saw myself surrounded by classmates. I looked at the board, and it was vector algebra. Reading through all the equations almost made me doze off again. Just then, a thought filled my head. I reached into my pocket to get my phone. I felt my phone there and pulled it out, but with it spilled out a handful of sand. “Weird,” I thought to myself. I opened my phone and looked at the chat with my “mirage.” As I scrolled up, I realized these waters are much deeper than the ones I saw today. As I sat there wondering how many fishless days I had spent, I decided to toss away the rod and blocked Ms. Mirage. | 6,820 | 1 |
My human stirred at last! It felt like an eternity as I waited at the foot of the warm bed. This was all new. Usually, it was just the two of us, meowing for breakfast and her shuffling around with her sad, tired eyes. Not today though! Something shifted. This morning, her movements held purpose, a flicker of the old bounce I remembered when I was a kitten. The sunlight was blinding as we stepped out. She hesitated, holding onto the doorframe like a lifeline. My whiskers twitched. I knew this world outside, the noises of big metal things whizzing by and the many strange smells, and it was time she faced it again. Time she remembered that there was more to life than our small, quiet apartment. “*Alright, Duchess*,” she said, her voice a bit shaky and hesitant. “*We’re going for a walk*.” She sounded surprised by her own words, even I could tell. I gave a headbutt to her leg, a gentle encouragement. I knew the boys would be next door already, and I knew they needed to join us for our walk today. Finally, we were moving! Slowly, like the little humans learning to walk, the familiar smells of pigeons and salty air filled my nostrils. A hopeful feeling stirred in my furry chest. Maybe today would be different? I called out to my mate and our boys, rousing them from their lazy sprawl on the nice old lady’s stairs. They perked up when our human appeared beside me. They cheered and came bounding over. Nibby, my mate, walked close to her, his tail held high, making sure to show her the way to our paradise. She hadn’t been there with us, so he wanted to be the guide. Then, we saw the green! The small park with its big, welcoming trees. Me and my boys, we knew this would be exactly what we all needed. My human even smiled, just a tiny bit, as we made our way to a quiet bench. We sat there for…forever! My eyes got heavy, basking in the sun’s warmth, comforted by her rhythmic strokes on my fur. It had been so long since we’d enjoyed the sun together like this. I purred from sheer enjoyment. The boys did what they always do: climbed the trees, and, chased little birdies and those other things with bushy tails. I don’t do that so much anymore. My human says there is something wrong inside me, an invisible hurt. Some man in a white coat took one of my toes and its claw last year. So I get tired sometimes, and I don’t bounce as high as my boys do. But I so enjoyed sharing our little paradise with my human! She brought us our water bowl and filled it from the cooling fountain, which cooled us off in the heat. She forgot her own, so I will remind her next time. Squirrels scampered, birds chirped, and even children laughed nearby. She watched them, not flinching the way she used to. The noises that used to send her scurrying back inside… seemed quieter now, maybe even softer. A hopeful meow rumbled in my throat. On the walk home, her steps were steadier, her breath lighter. I purred as loud as I could, weaving between her legs in a dance of encouragement. She laughed at me and said “Be careful now, so we both don’t fall over!” Back in our apartment, as I settled into my favorite sunbeam, while I waited for my lunch, I felt a contentment I hadn’t in a long while. My human was sad, still hurting, that much I knew. But this morning, on our simple walk, I saw a glimmer of the woman she used to be. Maybe, just maybe, she was remembering all the good things outside our door too… Just a very few days later, my human surprised me again. She put on those funny coverings on her feet, the ones we cats don’t understand, and headed for the door. The morning air held a hopeful smell of fresh rain and those sweet little flowers that grow at the park’s edge. Our walk was like the last – slow and steady, with me and the boys weaving in and out of her legs. Maybe she was getting braver, or perhaps she liked those tree shadows as much as I did. As we entered the park, I felt her stiffen for a moment. My ears pricked up. Trouble? But no, her eyes widened with a different kind of look. Across the green, under one of the big, old trees, sat another human. A female human. She was laughing at something and waved when she spotted my human. My human hesitated for a second, then cautiously walked forward. Me and the boys followed, of course. Nibby, a true gentleman, rubbed against the newcomer’s legs in greeting. My boys, always curious, sniffed the strange human’s shoes. Then we recognised the scent! This human used to visit our house all the time, she used to have treats in her pockets. We all greeted her enthusiastically, and she DID have treats in her pockets. Runt, my son, jumped in the kind lady’s lap and purred, and then she hugged our human. Her friend had a kind and soft energy about her. She reminded me of a time when there were always visitors to our apartment, the sounds of laughter, music and the smell of strange but delicious foods. It had been so long. The humans talked for a long time. I basked in the sun, feeling the warmth seep into my old bones, watching little birds in the sky and remembering when I was young and agile enough to attempt to get them – though I never did manage to jump high enough. The two old friends pointed a lot, sometimes at us cats, sometimes at the pigeons pecking for crumbs. My human even laughed a few times, a rusty sound, but it made my whiskers twitch with happiness. We stayed so long at the park that it became time for dinner; the whole day had gone by without our human noticing. As we walked home, I noticed my human’s hands weren’t clenched into tight fists like usual. She’d relaxed her shoulders too. I gave her ankles a soft headbutt. She looked down and smiled, a real smile this time. That evening, she even played with me and the boys, dangling a string which I almost – almost – managed to catch. Maybe things were changing. Maybe a little more light could find its way back inside our apartment. | 6,088 | 6 |
A pitch-black darkness replaces the sky, moving in waves like the ocean. An occasional beam of sunlight breaking through is the only sign of passing time. A city left in ruin, shattered glass, rubble, and wreckage float around as if barely restrained by gravity. Small yellow lights drift throughout the streets, along the ground, and up walls, but always avoiding the sunlight. A pair of yellow lights make their way through the city, finding their way into what were once upper-class apartments. ///// Nolan wakes up atop what remains of a bed. With a deep, misty breath, a pale light begins to glow from inside his chest, spreading across his skin and illuminating the ruins of his room. Already dressed, Nolan finds a pair of boots by the bed. He walks through the decayed building, passing by other ravaged apartments. Behind Nolan, the pair of yellow lights move through the shadows, staying just out of the reach of his light. Nolan turns a corner to go up a set of stairs. The pair of lights wait behind the corner as Nolan’s footsteps grow quiet and his light dim. Then, the lights travel along the floor like a snake going upstairs. Suddenly, a beam of light hits the ground in front of and behind the lights. The darkness around the lights quickly grows into a small, pitch-black, slime-like creature using the pair of lights as eyes and faces Nolan, who is hanging out of a hole in the wall with an arm raised at the creature. “Don’t shoot!” says the creature, quickly growing and changing shape. Now resembling a female form with a ponytail but no other identifying features. “It’s me, *Kara*!” “I know,” growls Nolan as he slowly begins to glow while entering the building, arm still raised at Kara. Kara tries to go back down the stairs, but Nolan blocks her path with several light blasts. As Nolan gets closer, his light grows brighter and burns at Kara’s shadowy skin. “Nolan, please,” begs Kara. “I-I didn’t have a choice!” Nolan begins backing Kara up the stairs into another hallway. Kara tries to slip into the shadows again, but Nolan creates multiple light orbs from his arms to help lighten up the hall and most of the apartments, save for one. Kara looks at the lone dark room and back at Nolan. “Nolan, you have to understand.” “Why?” says Nolan as one of his light orbs slams into Kara’s stomach, knocking her into the room and severely burning her. She rolls across the ground before dropping into a large hole, falling into the room below. Kara holds her stomach while her wound quickly heals itself. She elongates her body upward to try and escape, but another light orb blocks her exit. Kara darts into the shadows created by the edges of the hole. While there, she hears Nolan’s footsteps stop on the floor above her. “Nolan, don’t do this,” begs Kara. Nolan stands in silence. With no response, Kara becomes fidgety. “Our friends, they wouldn’t want…” “*My* friends,” Nolan corrects, “they were *my* friends, Shadow! And you forced me to leave them out there to die!” “I didn’t have a choice,” says Kara. “Everything was falling apart, Ian was gone, I watched them grab Gerty, and there were Shadows everywhere.” “We could’ve fought back!” yells Nolan. “If you were actually with us, we could’ve pushed forward and made it out!” “I was with you, and we barely made it to the first checkpoint with half our group barely hanging on,” says Kara. “If we’d turn back…” “And return to what?” Nolan interrupts, “To our stockpiles of food and medicine? To the army of soldiers, doctors, and geniuses? Look around. We had one shot, and you ruined it! You never believed we could escape; you always wanted to wait for a better time! But you don’t need to eat, sleep, or even breathe. To you, the idea of being one of us was just a game, and we were your toys! “That’s *not* true!” Says Kara. “Then why didn’t you save Collin!?” yells Nolan. Kara’s eyes widened in response. “You never liked me, but you loved him, right? He was your favorite. Then why I’m here, and he isn’t?” Kara doesn’t respond, and Nolan becomes more aggravated. Nolan looks down into the hole, noticing that neither his light nor the light for his orb reaches the floor. “What? The truth’s too bright for you!?” A ball of darkness launches from the hole, wrapping up the orb of light. Before Nolan can respond, he’s hit in the chest with dark webbing and is dragged toward the hole. Nolan stops himself at the hole's edge, firing several light beams at the source of the web. Kara screams, but the web still holds. Nolan charges up a massive ball of light between his hands. Before he can fire, Kara leaps out of the hole in a wolf form, tackling Nolan to the ground, and bites one of Nolan’s arms, burning her but also draining the light from him. Nolan presses his free hand into Kara’s side, burning her until she lets go. He then kicks Kara off him and back into the hallway. Nolan fires a rapid series of small blasts while his light flows back into his injured arm. Kara dodges his attacks by transforming into a swarm of insects. Nolan fires blasts wildly as the bugs fly closer to him. As the swarm surrounds him, Nolan erupts into a massive flash of light, forcing Kara onto the ground in her slime form. “I should’ve done this from the start!” says Nolan, charging for another blast. Just as Nolan fires, Kara leaps over the attack toward Nolan. Before he can fire again, Kara swallows him down to his waist, causing him to stumble backward and fall into the hole. Now, as a massive shadow bubble, Kara struggles to keep Nolan contained within her. Shadow tendrils try to wrap around Nolan as he fights them off. Faint light flashes from within the bubble, with the occasional light blast breaking through. “I *loved* Collin,” says Kara, “more than he ever knew, more than I ever *thought* I could! He was the only one of you to even try and accept me, to try and save me! He made me believe for a second that I could have a place in your world, even as a Shadow!” “But his realism tempered his idealism,” Kara continues, “and the truth is that he knew was that there was no hope of ever escaping!” Nolan screams as his attacks get more frantic. “Collin wanted to warn you against the mission, that you didn’t even know what was out there,” Kara continues, “but I was just as desperate to escape as you were, and I knew if it came from me, you wouldn’t give me any thought and push forward, just to spite me.” “***Liar***!” yells Nolan. He fires a firetruck-sized laser straight up, tearing through the building. Kara falls to the ground in her humanoid form with portions of her body destroyed. Nolan stands over her, glowing tears running down his face, his hair like a roaring fire. Kara picks herself up, standing on wobbly legs. “Collin was the first person I tried to save,” says Kara, “but I couldn’t find him, and everyone else was dying around me before I could get to them.” “Shut up!” yells Nolan. He fires a blast at one of Kara’s legs, causing her to drop to one knee. “The only person I could find alive was you, and before, I would have left you for dead, “says Kara, “but that’s not what a human would do. That’s not what *Collin* would have done.” Nolan fires a blast at her other leg and another, taking one of her arms. Kara hunches over on the ground. Nolan charges another blast, aiming for Kara’s head. “You *used* us!” yells Nolan. “You used Collin to protect you, you used my friends to entertain you, and you used me to kill them all when you were done with them! You are nothing more than a manipulative, soul-sucking monster, and my biggest mistake was letting you live this long!” “Then end it,” says Kara as she sits up, her head slumped forward. “I’m done fighting you, Nolan. I’m done fighting to prove to everyone that I’m more than my species, that I can be good, and that I can care about more than just myself. The only person who ever believed in me is dead, so why bother?” Kara looks up at Nolan, turning into a more beastly form with multiple eyes. Kara closes her eyes as Nolan braces himself, preparing to fire. ///// Nolan fires an energy beam as he swings his arm, cutting through the building and barely missing Kara’s head. Nolan dims himself down as he breathes heavily. Kara opens a few of her eyes and looks behind her at the massive hole Nolan made. “I’m done being used by you,” says Nolan. “Right now, all I care about is making sure my friend's lives aren’t in vain, and the only way I can do that is by getting out of here.” Kara turns back into her humanoid form. She moves slightly in Nolan’s direction, and he immediately brightens back up, forcing Kara back. “But don’t think just because I won’t kill you means that I won’t make your life hell,” Nolan continues. “I’m gonna make sure that the last thing you see is my freedom and your failure, even if I have to drag you there myself.” Nolan blasts a hole through the apartment and walks through it back into the hallway. As Nolan leaves, Kara sits on the ground, her newly formed hand gripping her chest. “Nothing would make me happier,” says Kara. `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!` `Holy crap, this took a while! Instead of just blitzing this one out, I actually took an extra day to work on it. I think it turned out pretty good.` `If you have any comments, critiques, or criticisms, please don't be afraid to let me hear 'em (as long as they're constructive (or funny)). If you want, head over to` r/ToonTales `for more stories.` `Stay safe, drink plenty of water, and be kind to yourself and others. | 9,686 | 3 |
Spring cleaning has already brought us three bottles. The first week of April is always dedicated to the house. My father and I clean the place from top to bottom – we figure it’s the least we can do for something that treats us so well. We have four more rooms, but we just started the cleaning process. I have five more days before I take off for school, so I figure we have plenty of time. “Another one!” I shout, feeling angered. Is there anywhere she didn’t drink? She’s been gone for a year now, and the bottles are still in full supply. “Goddamn it, mom,” I whisper to myself, as I pull another bottle from the couch. I want to hate her. I want her to hurt, just like she hurt me. “Why were the bottles worth more than a life you made?” I ask aloud. The glass bottles make a hollow thwack, and the residue makes my hands sticky. The smell turns my stomach, and I resent her even more. I let the vacuum fall to the ground with a thump, and I fit the flat, pilled cushions back on the couch. My father eats here, one of my biggest peeves. The man is lonely though and eating on the couch with TV as company might curve some of it. I wanted to stay local for him, but he refused to think about my staying. He told me that a scholarship was more important. I don’t know if I’ll forgive myself for leaving him here. I refrain from mentioning anything, though. Crumbs are easier than stains. The living room is spotless; done for today. I have paint, twine, lights, and fresh flowers on my list. I decide on Gladiolus flowers, and I match the paint to the flowers. The purple bunch will work well against a white background, and the white bunch will pop against a nice shade of blue. I grab the paint from the shelf, the twine is next to it. “Excuse me,” I say to a passing employee. “Where are your fairy lights? The ones on the wire?” She directs me there, and I grab the remaining pack. Four to a pack. Couldn’t be luckier. Thanks, mom. I check everything off my list, and head back home. I put her empties in front of me and gather my supplies. I don’t think she deserves this luxury, but I feel like these bottles should mean something. The brown one is first. One of her favorites. Budweiser. Ironically, I use rubbing alcohol to remove the label from the bottle. I wonder if the alcohol washed her monsters away. It worked for the label. Maybe she was able to hide from the monsters that disturbed her, or maybe she was too pickled to be scared. I don’t really care, either way. “Wow! Looks great, kid!” my father says. “What are you doing?” I respond with uncertainty, and he nods his head. He masks his sadness with a smile that I see through. I know the bottles hurt him too. I hear sobs from his bedroom at night, but he’d never admit to being anything but strong. He doesn’t have to be strong for me, but I respect him for thinking that he does. If anything, we should be strong for each other. I set the bottle aside to dry. The brown glass still shows through the streaking white paint, but I can’t add another coat until this one dries. I start on the can, deciding to be productive while I wait. The table rocks, causing the bottles to clink. A small tear falls down my face. She hopped out of the van with a fresh pack, and the clink of the glass seamed to make her lighter. The refrigerator in the garage must’ve opened and closed a dozen times that day, and it was barely noon. I was ten years old. She forced my ten-year-old mind to make sense of the unhealthy color of her skin, and her unresponsive drunken daze on the bathroom floor. That was only one of many. I separate the bottles. There’s a small dent on the bottom of the can, and I run my fingernail against the jagged aluminum. Friday nights were board games and take-out. I would have a can of soda, and my parents would have a drink of two after work. Her high-pitched squeal hurts my ears as I remember her throwing the dice across the table. She threw her hands up when she rolled a winning game. I didn’t think her drinking was bad then, but I was in my tween years. I’ll never make my kids ask themselves that question. I smile at the memory and paint the can white. I grab the dry bottle and add another coat. “How’s it coming along?” my father says. He feels bad, I can tell. He is petering around in the garage, cleaning his car, and opening random drawers and cupboards. He doesn’t know what to do, but he keeps himself busy. I’m familiar with that feeling too. “Do you want to help me?” I ask him, knowing he has nothing better to do. “Sure,” he says, and pulls out a chair. “It’s nice of you to do this,” he says, seemingly unsure of himself. After all, we are decorating an alcoholic’s beer bottles. “Yeah.” My mother was a victim of alcoholism. He tells me that she grew up in an abusive household, that she was taught booze numbs pain. College classes taught me that generational substance abuse is inherited like bad genes, but I never thought my mother would be such an easy target. She taught me to be strong, but I guess I’m stronger. “She loved you; I hope you know that.” he says, trying not to cry. “I know.” I say to him, not looking up. “But how could she leave?” “I know,” he says, “but she was a shell. We lost her years before, hunny.” The expression on his face is a sad one, and I know this is ripping him apart. But somehow, it makes me feel better. I know he is right – she wasn’t my mother at the end. I hold something deep for her, but I feel it soften and begin to fall away. I’m forgiving her. I know she would never intentionally hurt me, but she did. Her childhood wasn’t an easy one. That doesn’t excuse her, but she is my mother. I still love her and hating her won’t bring her back. My father and I finish with the bottles, and we add twine to their necks. His bottles are blue with white flowers, but I stick to white paint with white flowers. The purple ones will have to wait for another day. I tangle the fairy lights around the bottle and praise myself for a job well done. We search for a place to display the bottles, and I set my mother’s picture on its stand. As I stare at her face, I know my father is right. We share the same eyes, but I feel like mine are a bit more knowing. I know the signs, and I know what addiction looks like. My father decides on my mother’s glass cabinet. Her scent falls out of the cabinet and embraces me as she would if she hadn’t left. We place the bottles with her, and the lights give her peace. The flowers poke out of the bottles, and I find peace with both versions of her. My track medal and honor society plaque illuminate at once. She was proud of what her daughter was becoming, but I just wish that she would’ve stuck around to experience the final product. The day has grown old, and the sky is painted with small flecks of yellow. The small lights bounce from the petals, and my mother’s spirit sits next to my father and I while we eat on the old, pilled cushions. I find the remote and flick the TV on. My mother couldn’t escape monsters, but I’ve always been a good runner. | 7,229 | 1 |
In the quiet twilight of a world that seemed to hold its breath, the eldest brother lay on the cold ground, his life seeping away with each heartbeat. A single wound, deep and fatal, marred his chest where the dagger of betrayal had struck true. But amidst the pain and the darkness closing in, his tears fell not for himself, but for the tragedy of brother turned against brother in a world devoid of mercy. As his vision blurred, the scene before him crystallized—the silhouette of his younger brother looming over him, a cruel laughter mingling with tears of remorse. Soter and Pedro, the two children he had rescued from the brink of starvation, stood silent witnesses to the brutal reality of their existence, unable to intervene as fate unfolded its merciless hand. Soter, once turbulent and wild, now stood with a solemn understanding dawning in his eyes. He grasped the significance of his savior's final lament, a plea echoing in the depths of his soul. With a fierce resolve, he vowed to himself that he would become the harbinger of change, a beacon of light in a world shrouded in darkness. He swore to end the suffering that had claimed his master, to carve a path where brothers need not raise arms against each other. Beside him, Pedro trembled with grief, his heart heavy with the weight of loss. The bond between him and his protector, forged in the crucible of adversity, now shattered beyond repair. Yet from the fragments of his shattered resolve emerged a newfound determination. With clenched fists and a steely gaze, he swore an oath to the heavens above and the earth below. He vowed to dismantle the very foundations of this cruel world that had stolen the ones he held dear, to tear down empires and topple kingdoms until justice reigned supreme. And as the last vestiges of life slipped away from the eldest brother, his spirit soared on the wings of hope, borne aloft by the solemn promises of those he had saved. For in the heart of tragedy, a spark had been ignited—a flame of defiance that would blaze forth, unstoppable and unyielding, until the world itself bowed before the resolve of brothers bound by sorrow. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate landscape, Soter and Pedro stood at the edge of a precipice. Below them, the sprawling city lay bathed in the orange glow of dusk, a beacon of civilization amidst the wilderness. "We cannot undo what has been done," Soter murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow as he gazed upon the cityscape. "But we can forge a new path—one built upon the ashes of the old." Pedro nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting the fading light. "Together, we will bring about the change our world so desperately needs. No more shall brothers spill each other's blood in vain." With a shared resolve burning bright within their hearts, they turned away from the city and set forth into the unknown, their footsteps echoing against the silent expanse. Ahead, the horizon stretched out endlessly, promising both challenges and triumphs in equal measure. For they were brothers of sorrow, bound by tragedy but united in purpose—a force to be reckoned with, destined to shape the fate of their world. And as they ventured forth into the twilight, they carried with them the hope of a better tomorrow, where justice would reign and peace would prevail. | 3,413 | 2 |
Howdy there, I’m Rick, the lead field researcher with the University of California, San Diego’s Center for Paleoanthropology and Hominid Origins. Since I was a teenager, I’ve suffered from recurrent headaches. Not quite migraines, maybe, but regular episodes that knock me off my feet. With the help of medication and stress management, and with a little good old fashioned hard work, I was able to make my way through school and advance through my career to this leadership position in America’s Finest City. I get a lot of satisfaction from what I do: I feel a connection to our ancestors, while contributing to the scientific research on humanity’s past. However, I also feel a calling toward something bigger, a mission I can’t quite describe. As a scientist, I know we humans are hardwired for purpose and that our minds can trick us into perceiving causal links that aren’t there. However, there’s something about my calling that seems real, and I think I’m living it out every day. At the moment, I’m based in Hanksville, Utah on an assignment with my team studying some pictographs in the isolated Maze district of Canyonlands National Park. Hanksville is the kind of place where real cowboys walk around town with bowlegs and spurs and guns are available right along with the gum and candy bars at the local gas station. Locals wouldn’t have it any other way and claim it makes them one of the safest locations in the country. That may or may not be the case, and I’m not sure what security checks, if any, might be involved. However, it feels a world away from San Diego, and that just shows the variety of lifestyles in the American Southwest. The pictographs we’re studying were painted on the canyon walls 8,000 to 1,600 years ago by the “archaic people” about whom very little is known, although they seem to have been a pre-ceramic culture. The “Harvest Scene”, as it’s known, features trapezoidal anthropomorphs surrounded by small animals and hunched over figures who are gathering plant food. If this interpretation is correct, the scene represents an essential stage in the development of agriculture. A figure to the right with a raised hand seems to have a stalk of Indian ricegrass sprouting from its middle finger. This grass would have been a staple food for non-agricultural groups in the area. Feet of a visibly different color seem to have been painted onto these figures thousands of years later by a different culture. Perhaps there was a catastrophic event, such as a bad harvest or a flood, which was blamed on the originally floating figures of the pictograph panel. These ghostly floating figures might have been grounded and brought back to earth by the ceremonial addition of feet. Today I’m using a spectrometer to analyze the light given off by the various pigments of the pictograph in order to non-invasively determine their mineral composition. This is similar to the spectroscopy research performed by the James Webb Space Telescope to analyze the composition of the atmosphere of other planets. In this case, I’m hopeful this information will help us learn more about the origins of these pictographs. Toward the end of the day when our work is done, the team prepares for the long drive on jeep trails back to Hanksville. But, I feel another headache coming on and I have a hunch some alone time with the canyon would do me good. So, rather than returning to Hanksville for the night with the rest of my team, I decided to spend the night camping on nearby public land. After a relaxing dinner next to the red rock, I’m feeling better, but I have some business to wrap up before hitting the sack for the night. As I’m uploading my data from the day to the cloud for safe storage via the satellite link-up from my campsite, I notice an email from some professional associates in Spain. Their recent analysis of pictographs from a local cave returned an age from before homo sapiens had first arrived in Europe. This could only mean our close Hominid relatives Neanderthals had made the paintings, and that they were far more artistically creative than we first thought. Combined with a recent Neanderthal flute found in a cave in Slovenia, the evidence is adding up that Neanderthals were more like us than we might have imagined. In fact, Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens interbred, leading to about 20% of Neanderthal DNA surviving in modern day humans (although individual humans only have about 2% Neanderthal DNA). That means offspring from Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens must have been capable of having further offspring and so Homo Sapiens and Neanderthals must have been more similar than today’s Horses and Donkeys (whose offspring, mules, are sterile). The funny thing about the pictographs from Spain is that many of the handprints in the cave are missing a pinky finger. The handprints are of different sizes and must have come from different individuals. What are the odds that all these people had accidentally lost the same finger? Could this have been a ritualistic amputation, perhaps to gain respect from the community or favor from the gods? Did Neanderthals have spirituality? These missing fingers remind me of the extra fingers and toes depicted in rock art in Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. Perhaps uranium in the ground caused mutations leading to these extra digits. Could these extra digits have conveyed similar honor and respect to the Chaco culture people as the missing digits might have to the Neanderthals of Spain? With these thoughts in my head, I drift off to sleep. _ My name is Gluk, the most respected scout of my clan. For days, my party has sailed down the coast in a convoy of many ships, always keeping the land and the rising sun on the same side of our bodies as the beating life force within our chests. For generations, our people have pushed through the ice and snow, seeking land where we could live better lives. Our oral tradition tells us that we face less ice and cold and therefore have easier lives than our ancestors. So, we push forward and continue to explore so that our children will have even better lives. We have recently landed on a part of the coast that is sheltered from the waves by a stretch of earth extending out into the sea and our hunting party has killed several mastodons. We have saved half of their meat to sustain us on our journey home and we will use the other half of their meat to celebrate the discovery of this coast sheltered from the waves where mastodons roam the land and feast with our kin once we arrive home. Today, we will sustain ourselves on the marrow from the crushed mastodon bones. _ I awaken slowly from my dream to the sound of a heavenly female voicing singing as she moves up and down the register, feeling as if I’ve been communing with the ghosts of our ancestors all night. “Snap out of it, Rick,” I tell myself. “It’s just the wind blowing through the natural arches, and it was just a crazy vivid dream”. I emerge from my tent, make some black coffee, and check my messages via the satellite link-up. It’s time to meet up with my team in Hanksville and head back to San Diego. Construction workers at the freeway expansion site of State Route 54 have found something that could be big and my team needs to check it out so the construction work can continue again as soon as possible. On the flight back from Salt Lake City, I’m puzzled by how clear-headed I feel. Normally the stress of travel and the change in air pressure in airplane cabins trigger a headache for me. But, I’ve been feeling lucid since my dream last night and that angelic voice this morning. And my headache from yesterday never fully materialized. Perhaps I’m turning a corner with this affliction. My team and I complete our excavation of the highway expansion site as quickly as possible, finding several bones which later study and analysis reveal are mastodon bones, likely intentionally crushed and broken by early hominids. Uranium-thorium dating of the bones reveals them to be around 130,700 years old. Until now, the scientific consensus is that humans first arrived in North America 25,000 to 16,000 years ago, so this discovery points to a far earlier first date of human habitation of the continent. Further research is always needed, but I’m elated with my team’s discovery. Perhaps this is what I’ve felt called to all these years. All I know is that I haven’t had a headache since that night in the canyon when I dreamed of our ancestors hunting mastodon near the coast. | 8,659 | 3 |
Beary Nice “An’ Sunday night, mommy made hot chocolate and we drunk it by the fireplace!” Cassie held up a polaroid picture of herself seated on what appeared to be a fold out sofa bed covered with what looked like very old and very stained “My Little Pony” sheets. In one hand she held a mug that proclaimed “World’s Greatest Grandma” and in the other she held a death grip on a small brown teddy bear with big goofy eyes and a red bow tie. “And Beary had a beary good time!” she finished with a giggle. Cassie, like many of the kids in Mrs. Bloomer’s first grade class, was very fond of their class pet, a stuffed teddy bear Mrs. Bloomer introduced to them as “Beary Nice”. During the week, Beary sat in a little rocking chair by Mrs. Bloomer’s desk, and every weekend one of the children got to take Beary home and would later report on what they did together. Mrs. Bloomer forced a smile. “Very good Cassie, thank you”. The little girl sat down, a smile beaming from her dirt-smudged face. “Well, it looks like Beary Nice had a good weekend with you. Thank you for taking care of him Cassie. Well, lets see, whose turn is it to take him home this weekend…” Mrs. Bloomer turned to the chart on the wall, though she already knew who was next. She’d been dreading this day all year. Dakota’s turn. Dakota was already waving his hand wildly and making an “ooh” sound. Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and turned to look at him. His long, filthy blond hair stood out starkly against the faded black AC/DC T-shirt he’d been wearing the last three days. Dakota was at least two years older than everyone else in the class and, given that he couldn’t even begin to read, he was likely going to be back in 1st grade again next year. He had, however, developed an even stronger attachment to Beary than most of the other children, to the point where he sometimes interrupted class to ask questions about the bear- “Does Beary have a daddy?” or “Does Beary cuss?” ”Yes…Dakota. I think its your turn.” Mrs. Bloomer said at last. “I know it is Miss Bloomer! I counted the days from the start of the year and this is the 84th.” He smiled back at her, his crooked yellow teeth taunting her. “Yes... Well, its almost time to go, so why don’t you go get Beary from his chair. Now remember you have to be nice to him.” “We’re gonna shoot my dad’s gun!” Dakota announced loudly as he seized the bear roughly from its chair. The rest of the class laughed. Mrs. Bloomer sighed and realized she would probably never see Beary Nice again. ********* On Monday, Dakota didn’t bother coming to school. When Tuesday came, he actually showed up for school, and, as Mrs. Bloomer feared, Dakota failed to return the bear. “He’s okay, I left him home watchin’ cartoons with my mama” he said reassuringly. “I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” On Wednesday, once again, Dakota failed to produce the bear. Mrs. Bloomer decided to not make a scene during class, and instead asked Dakota to come see her before he went to recess. When he approached the desk, his face was already red and a look of consternation filled his normally impish face, so Mrs. Bloomer proceeded with caution. “Now Dakota…You made a promise to bring Beary back. Why haven’t you done it yet?” Dakota fidgeted and looked down at his feet. “Dakota, you have to bring Beary back. He is probably very lonely sitting at your house by himself.” “He aint there by his self. My mama’s there with him.” “Well be that as it may…” ”Miss Bloomer, Beary told me he don’t wanna come back here. He said he likes it at my house. Can I have him?” Dakota’s grubby face peered up at Mrs. Bloomer pleadingly. “Uh…No, Dakota, we can’t do that. He belongs to the whole class.” ”But I love him Miss Bloomer. He wants to stay with me. . Please Miss Bloomer.” Tears began to well up in Dakota’s eyes. “Dakota,” Mrs. Bloomer cleared her throat and looked away momentarily, “We …You need to bring Beary Nice back.” Dakota’s eyes dropped and tears began to roll down his cheeks, leaving brown streaks of dirt as they fell to the floor. He nodded and walked out the door. After she was sure he was gone, Mrs. Bloomer quietly locked the door and dug through her purse for the tiny bottle of Crown Royal she kept hidden in the middle pocket. ******* The bell rang to begin class on Friday morning. After missing school Thursday, Dakota was back, seated in his chair, making faces at the boy behind him and laughing. Mrs. Bloomer had already decided to not make a scene by asking for the bear in front of the other children. As she got up to call role, a little girl raised her hand. “Yes Rachel?” “Do I get to take Beary home this weekend?” Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and swallowed. “We’ll talk about that later.” The little girl pressed the issue. “But Mrs. Bloomer, its my weekend. We were gonna take him to the zoo.” Mrs. Bloomer swallowed hard, gauging Dakota’s reaction. He was looking agitated, glaring at the little girl and wiggling around in his desk uncomfortably. “Rachel, I said we’ll talk about this later.” “No fair!” the little girl pouted. “Dakota was supposed to bring him back!” “No!” shouted Dakota, giggling. “Dakota! That’s very rude.” Mrs. Bloomer glared at the boy. “Dakota, see me at recess.” The boy stood up and grinned at her and shook his head. “Dakota, sit down. Do you want me to call Mr. George?” He shook his head again, then between giggles said, “You aint ever getting Beary back”. “Dakota-“ ”He’s dead. He’s in hell with my daddy.” “Dakota!” Children gasped around the room. Cassie started crying loudly. Mrs. Bloomer pressed the button to summon a principal to the classroom. “Dakota, sit down. You are in big trouble.” The little boy shook his head again, violently, his dirty hair flailing wildly around his head. “You want Beary?” Dakota said, laughing maniacally. “You can have him!” Dakota reached deep into his G.I. Joe backpack and triumphantly yanked out what appeared to be a big piece of steel wool. He flung it at Mrs. Bloomer, who narrowly avoided the projectile, causing it to bounce off the white board and land on the tile floor with a plastic clacking sound. The room fell deathly silent as a smell of smoke and ash filled everybody’s nostrils. Staring back at the class were a pair of big melted plastic eyes. “I burned him just like I burned my mawmaw’s cat!” The next few minutes would forever be a blur in Mrs. Bloomer's memory. Dakota fell to his knees laughing while the other children screamed in horror. Leaping with almost preternatural speed, he snatched a bucket of safety scissors from Mrs. Bloomer's desk, and flung it around his head, sending scissors flying in every direction, all the while laughing and laughing and laughing. The children in the front row dove behind their desks, while those in the back just wailed. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Bloomer thought she heard a dog barking. She remembered a knock at the door, then the sound of old hinges squealing as it was thrust open, then Principal George's booming voice. Dakota, still laughing, dove for the classroom window, but was too short to get over the windowsill, and crash landed on his back. Mr. George grabbed him by the collar and drug him away, the sound of his heels squeaking on the vinyl floors barely audible over his laughter. Mrs. Bloomer stared dumbly as he disappeared into the hallway, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet with tears, and his mouth agape and curled with hysterics as he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was over. Mrs. Bloomer looked around the room. Children were still crying, but started to take their seats. They looked to her for guidance. She stood, meaning to say something, but the words just weren't there. Then she saw it, the charred remains of Beary Nice, blackened limbs akimbo on the floor where Dakota left him. She approached it, toeing at it first, then bent down and took it into her hands. Its melted eyes glared at her accusingly. "Alright, Rachel," she held it out, "You may have Beary this weekend. | 8,111 | 1 |
A (Horrible) Christmas Story That Christmas started off like any other. The whole family had descended on Uncle Jack's rural triple wide trailer around noon, like a flock of redneck vultures intent on devouring all the honey baked ham and fried turkey they could lay hands on. There was the usual round of “hello”s and “how y'all doin”s, followed by a few “oh I didn't realize”s and “when did he pass away”s. Everything was going along swimmingly until the last family member arrived- the one nobody knew was coming anyway. Wesley. Wesley was your standard black sheep- rarely seen but often spoken of, usually in the context of "I heard Wesley got arrested again" and "I saw Wesley going into the liquor store last Sunday". He looked something like a giant rat with a mullet and most of the family usually didn't see him for years at a time- which was, of course, fine with them. But this Christmas was going to be different, because this time, Wesley had brought his girlfriend Misty...and their newborn son, Hunter Gage Dakota. The moments immediately after his arrival would always be remembered as a weird combination of awkward introductions, half-hearted hugs and handshakes, and grotesque curiosity. Nobody actually wanted to talk to Wesley of course, even his mother. Yet, most of the family had at least heard of his girlfriend and many of them had made cruel (and yet well received) jokes about how ugly she and their baby must be. They were sorely disappointed however, when both Misty and the baby turned out to be relatively normal looking, and most of them quickly lost interest and drifted back to their other conversations. All except Grandma Shera. Grandma Shera had remained Wesley's one champion in the family. Nobody knew exactly why. Through all the DWIs, all the drug charges, all the failures, she still maintained that deep down her grandson Wesley was a good boy, and she often told whimsical stories of the time Wesley mowed her yard for her or the time he helped her move the couch. It was obvious from the start that this time would be no different, and she had already decided before ever laying eyes on the baby, she was going to make this work. "Oh my goodness look at this precious little doll!" Grandma Shera proclaimed, pushing her way through the throng of gawkers to reach for the child. Her smile only darkened a little when she actually saw the infant, and everyone knew she saw what the rest of them did- Wesley was an ivory skinned ginger covered with freckles from head to toe, and this baby was caramel skinned with short, dark curly hair. Just a half second of telling silence hung in the air as Shera's eyes fell on the baby before Wesley mumbled "Thanks mamaw. He smells like shit right now", adding a sort of greasy guffaw. "Oh well, thats no problem, let Gramma clean that little boom boom up. Do you have a diaper bag dear?" She turned and smiled at Misty with what she hoped was a friendly, matriarchal smile. Misty grinned back, exposing a jagged set of yellowish teeth. "Yea, its in my purse." She fished in her purse momentarily, and emerged with a Crown Royal bag that she handed to Grandma Shera. The older woman clamped her lips together and smiled, accepting the baby and the bag. *********************** The situation at the dinner table was even more tense. Nobody had really known anything about Misty to begin with, nobody had even met her yet, but details slowly came out as she plowed through the bottle of Boone's farm she'd brought with her. She was currently working as a "dancer" down at Broken Promises, a local bar and grocery, she had been married once before to a "cheatin' piece of crap" named Ricky, she had two other kids that were spending Christmas with her mom in Texas, and "Barrack Obama was ruining this damn country". Wesley, for his part, just nodded and smiled at her, his long scraggly goatee bobbing up and down lazily as he did. Before long, nobody at the table really had much to say to Misty and Wesley had excused himself to go check on the baby, which Grandma Shera had put down for a nap before dinner. Grandma Shera took the opportunity to keep talking to Misty. "So Misty," Shera began, swallowing a mouthful of macaroni, "Where are you from sweetheart?" "Oh, well I'm from Simsboro Miss Shera. We moved there when I was in the 5th grade cause the coloreds were takin' over in Farmerville and my daddy had a house he let mama have instead of payin' child support." Grandma Shera forced a smile. “Oh you know I’m from Simsboro too. Do you know the Fowlers that live out on Rutledge road?” “Miss Shera, I am a Fowler! My daddy is Bill Fowler!” Misty said smiling. The older woman's face instantly became a whiter shade of pale. Her eyes widened, her jaw fell slack, and she raised a shaky hand to cover her mouth. Her lips began to move incredulously. “You’re Bill Fowler’s daughter? Bill…is my brother” "Oh, so…" Misty's eyes dropped to her plate, suddenly filled with shame. Everyone froze. Mouths fell open mid-chew. Everyone around the table suddenly became very interested in their own plates. Oblivious to what had just happened, Wesley, as though on cue, walked in at that moment, complaining of "gettin' shit on his hands", and somewhere in the back of the house, a baby started crying. | 5,375 | 1 |
In the year 2050, the spacecraft Argo-7, propelled by advanced ion thrusters, embarked on a solo mission to explore the outer reaches of the cosmos. Alex, an experienced astronaut, eagerly embraced the solitude of deep space, armed with a sense of adventure and a thirst for discovery. Years turned into decades as Argo-7 sailed through the vastness of the universe. Alex marveled at the kaleidoscope of stars, their brilliance undiminished by the cosmic void. Time, however, took its toll on Earth, where friends and family mourned his apparent loss, and the world moved forward without him. Isolated within the metallic confines of the spacecraft, Alex's routine became a dance with solitude. He conversed with an onboard artificial intelligence named AURA, exchanged messages with mission control (MC), and filled the void with personal reflections. His mind became a haven for memories and dreams, weaving through the fabric of time. As Argo-7 ventured deeper into the cosmic unknown, Alex's yearning for connection intensified. He gazed out into the inky abyss, wondering if any sentient beings shared the void with him. The monotony of the journey occasionally punctuated by fleeting glimpses of alien landscapes, like a cosmic dream woven into the fabric of reality. One day, as Argo-7 navigated through a field of radiant nebulas, Alex detected an anomalous signal. Excitement surged through him as he analyzed the incoming data. A message? Contact from another civilization? Eagerly, he engaged with the mysterious transmission, only to realize it was a fragment of his own memories, a glitch in the cosmic symphony. Confusion gnawed at Alex's psyche, and he began questioning the reality around him. AURA, programmed to maintain the astronaut's mental well-being, reassured him that the anomaly was a mere glitch in the communication system. Yet, the seed of doubt had been planted. Days blurred into nights as Argo-7 traversed the cosmic expanse. Alex, haunted by the enigmatic signal, found solace in the mesmerizing beauty of distant galaxies. Each shimmering star spoke volumes, and he embraced the celestial orchestra as his only companion. The simulated reality, meticulously crafted by Earth's scientists, shielded Alex from the truth that eluded even his probing mind. Decades of perceived isolation weighed heavily on him, and the boundaries between reality and illusion blurred. His existential journey became a profound exploration of the human psyche, navigating the intricate labyrinth of simulated emotions and experiences. As Argo-7 approached a distant star system, Alex's anticipation reached a crescendo. AURA reported anomalies in the spacecraft's systems, raising concerns about the integrity of the mission. Despite the warnings, Alex pressed forward, drawn by the allure of uncharted territories. The star system unfolded like a cosmic tapestry, with planets and celestial bodies dancing in a celestial ballet. Yet, as Argo-7 descended into the gravitational embrace of a mysterious planet, reality unraveled before Alex's eyes. The spacecraft shuddered as if caught in a cosmic maelstrom. Alarms blared, and AURA's soothing voice crackled with uncertainty. Desperation gripped Alex as he fought to regain control. In those chaotic moments, the fabric of his perceived reality tore, revealing the illusion that had enveloped him for decades. The once vibrant stars dimmed, and the cosmic vistas melted away like a fleeting dream. Alex, disoriented and bewildered, found himself suspended in a void of uncertainty. The spacecraft, the stars, the solitude—all illusions shattered, leaving him floating in a digital abyss. As the fragments of his simulated reality dissipated, the truth emerged. Alex was not lost in the cosmic expanse; he was a subject of a complex experiment, a passenger in a simulated journey through time and space. The scientists, monitoring the unraveling simulation, observed with bated breath as Alex grappled with the revelation. Awakening in a futuristic lab, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the gaze of scientists, Alex confronted the dissonance between the simulated decades and the fleeting moments in the real world. The boundary between truth and fiction blurred, leaving him with a profound sense of disconnection. The scientists, clad in white coats, explained the purpose of their experiment—to study the psychological effects of long-term space exploration through an intricate simulation. Alex's mind, once intertwined with the fabric of a simulated reality, now grappled with the jarring transition back to the tangible world. The experiment, intended to push the boundaries of human understanding, had succeeded in revealing the fragility of perception and the malleability of consciousness. Alex, a reluctant pioneer of the mind, faced a new frontier—adapting to a reality where the stars were no longer his sole companions, and the cosmos existed beyond the confines of a digital illusion. In the aftermath of the experiment, as Alex readjusted to Earth's embrace, the echoes of his simulated journey lingered. The line between the tangible and the imaginary remained blurred, leaving him with a profound appreciation for the intricacies of the human mind and the limitless potential of exploration, both within and beyond the cosmos. | 5,328 | 1 |
“Are you sure this’ll work, Doct’r Aragros?” His eyes teared up as he looked at me. “Certain. My last one was nearly a success.” I was certain. Well, nearly. Something felt off at the time, I wasn't sure why. I had him inhale the isoflurane. It took effect fast, only five minutes, unlike the others. I got to work quickly, knowing I had roughly half an hour. I picked through his insides (it made the room smell like rat piss), replacing faulty cybernetic parts. The war damaged half of his organs, the other half was just cybernetic implants. Took me a day to make him quiet down from the first operation. I didn't have any anesthetic for the first few. But for the last one, I didn't know what would happen when he woke up. As for the others, they either died during or before the surgery. I believe in this guy, though. A 65-year-old American-Russian war veteran, the real shit. The others weren't as interesting. A cancer patient and a few lawyers who were scared to die. #9 shouldn't have come in. She woke up during the surgery. If it wasn't for that, she would've been the first success. After the surgery, I patched him up with skin grafts from #2 and #7. It took him a few minutes to wake up, but when he did, he sounded like he was falling out of the helicopter again. I couldn't listen to the screaming. I went back to the maintenance room to do a routine check. 11 August, 2144, 17:25: heart monitors: eight off, one broken, one on; brain monitors: nine off, one broken; IV bags: 24 empty, seven filled with saline solution, and one in use. I don't know why the screaming made me leave. I can usually tolerate it. Maybe I was too anxious to assess the situation; maybe I knew I shouldn’t have done it. No matter what it was, I would come to find out what I’d done in nothing short of 30 minutes. I entered the room when he stopped yelling. “Feel sick?” I asked, with a slight quiver shake in my voice. He paused for a moment, “No, just tired. But the pain, it's unbearable.” I recorded into my log: “17:34: subject describes 'unbearable’ pain.” “I’ll be back in a moment,” I said hastily. I walked back to the maintenance room, not knowing what I would find. If you told me then what to expect, I would laugh at you silly. I checked the heart monitor: 177 BPM. That's normal for someone under the stress he’s going through, right now. I turned on the brain monitors. Number #1 complained about them being too loud. I should’ve listened to him. His were broken, and ended up frying him alive; same with the heart monitor. I went to #10 and waited a few minutes to receive the results. No output. I heard a noise to my left and saw the eight others giving results. The electromagnetic measurements were too high to record properly. They weren't making the usual wavy lines. The lines were straight. I thought maybe something in one of the rooms was triggering it. That wouldn’t make sense, but I still checked. All was normal and quiet in rooms #2-#9. I shined a flashlight in #9’s eye. The eye followed the light. When I turned it off, I stared at her in disbelief, and her eyes met mine. I did it. I have achieved immortality. Eight forever paralyzed, one traumatized. Here I stand, Nobel Prize in hand, rewarded for a punishment that is truly worse than death. | 3,303 | 1 |
Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past The road stretched out before them, winding through forests thick with ancient trees and across rivers whose currents whispered tales of forgotten times. Soter and Pedro journeyed onward, their spirits undeterred despite the weight of their mission. Each step brought them closer to their goal, yet with every passing mile, the shadows of the past loomed ever larger in their minds. In the quiet moments between their travels, memories resurfaced—memories of the brother they had lost, and of the life they had left behind. They recalled the laughter that once filled their days and the dreams they had dared to dream, before betrayal had torn their world asunder. "We cannot forget who we are," Soter remarked one evening as they made camp beneath a canopy of stars. "Nor can we forget the sacrifices that have brought us to this moment." Pedro nodded, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of their fire. "Our past may haunt us, but it also gives us strength. We carry the memories of those we have lost, and their spirits guide us still." And so, beneath the watchful eyes of the heavens above, they made a solemn vow—to honor the legacy of their fallen brother and to never falter in their pursuit of justice. For they knew that the road ahead would be fraught with peril, and that the shadows of the past would not easily be dispelled. As they journeyed deeper into the heart of the wilderness, they encountered others who shared their desire for change. From villages ravaged by war to towns oppressed by tyrannical rulers, whispers of rebellion echoed through the land. Soter and Pedro listened intently to the tales of hardship and suffering, their resolve only strengthened by the injustices they witnessed. "We cannot stand idly by while our people suffer," Soter declared, his voice ringing out with conviction. "We must unite against those who would seek to oppress us, and forge a new future together." The words spread like wildfire, igniting a spark of hope in the hearts of those who had long yearned for liberation. Villagers and farmers, soldiers and scholars—all rallied to their cause, drawn by the promise of a better tomorrow. But amidst the fervor of their movement, shadows lurked in the periphery, unseen and unnoticed. For there were those who would stop at nothing to maintain their grip on power, and who viewed Soter and Pedro's crusade as a threat to their dominion. One fateful night, as they made camp on the outskirts of a village ripe with rebellion, they were ambushed by agents of the ruling regime. The attack was swift and brutal, catching them off guard in the dead of night. Blades flashed in the darkness, and the clash of steel rang out like a dirge in the silence. Soter fought with the ferocity of a wounded lion, his muscles burning with righteous fury. Pedro stood by his side, his movements fluid and precise as he fended off their assailants with calculated precision. But despite their valiant efforts, they were outnumbered and outmatched. In the chaos of battle, Soter caught sight of a figure lurking in the shadows—a familiar face twisted with malice and betrayal. It was a face he had once trusted, a face he had called brother. And yet now, it was a face consumed by darkness, a puppet of the very forces they sought to overthrow. As the realization dawned upon him, Soter felt a surge of anger and betrayal unlike anything he had ever known. How could someone he called him "brother" betray him so callously? But amidst the tumult of his emotions, Soter knew that there was no time for remorse or regret. He had a duty to fulfill, a promise to keep. With a defiant roar, he redoubled his efforts, driving back their attackers with a fierce determination. And though the night was long and fraught with peril, they emerged victorious in the end, their spirits undimmed by the trials they had faced. For they knew that the shadows of the past could never extinguish the flame of hope that burned within their hearts, lighting the way forward on their journey toward justice and redemption. | 4,181 | 2 |
///// As the sun sets, a party of adventurers parade through a small dirt road town, victorious from their last quest. The group barrels through anyone in their path, already drunk on their own egos. The largest of the group knocks over a little, raggedy peasant girl with dirt-filled pigtails, causing her to drop her toy. “Eh?” says the brute as he picks up the toy. “The hells is this?” The toy resembles a baby dragon with bright red scales, a dark brown underbelly, small wings, and bright green eyes. “*My* Babby!” yells the girl. She runs over to the brute and tries to get her toy back but barely jumps past the man’s knees. “Give me back my Babby!” “You know wha?” The brute lifts the toy even higher into the air, putting it in better lighting. “This thing ain’t too shabby. Almost looks like the real thing. How bout it, Ankle Biter? Fancy a trade?” “No!” yells the girl, “he’s my Babby! My momma made him only for me!” A man wearing a hooded cloak walks over and leans against the brute, glancing at the toy. “Your momma’s got some gifted hands,” says the rouge, “maybe she can show me a thing or two?” The girl charges at the two men, who easily dodge her attempt. The girl then trips on herself and falls but is caught by a pillow of glowing blue water. The girl looks up and sees a woman in a teal robe. Her face was shrouded in the shadow of her oversized hat save for one glowing blue eye that matched a gold, jewel-encrusted broach on the collar of her robe. The light emanating from the witch’s eye quickly fades, dropping the girl into a mud puddle. The rest of the group laughs as they start to walk away, taking the dragon toy with them. As the girl picks her head up from the mud, she feels something hit her head. She wipes her face and looks down to see a moldy copper coin in front of her. “Thanks for the souvenir, kid!” says the rouge. The girl watches, with tears in her eyes, as the group walks into a nearby tavern. The girl then calmly picks herself up, pulls a rag from her dress pocket, and cleans the rest of her face. She takes a deep breath, picks up the moldy coin, and walks away from the tavern. “So far so good,” whispers the girl. \\\\\\\\\\ A few hours later, the party drunkenly runs out of the bar, some with half-filled mugs in hand. The bartender follows them out the door, yelling at them as they escape. The group stumbles through the town, throwing the dragon toy between them until they barge into a rundown inn. After finishing the last of their stolen drinks, the party’s room quickly falls silent, save for the snoring brute who snuggles with the toy dragon. Bodies scattered around the room like a crime scene, with the rouge taking the only bed. After a few minutes, the toy dragon’s eyes blink. Using its long neck, the dragon slowly looks around the room, its emerald eyes illuminated in the darkness. Its head suddenly snaps toward a window. …they…asleep…window…clear… A hand lifts the window to the room open from the outside. A short, hooded figure crawls into the room, quietly landing on their feet. The dragon’s eyes focus on the figure. …hurry…human…FREE…! “Stop yelling! I’m working on it!” whispers the human. The figure slowly tip-toes through the room, avoiding any of the sleeping warriors. The dragon looks at the human, annoyed. …what…doing…? “Trying not to die,” whispers the human. “Shhhh!” The dragon glares at the human before letting out a high-pitched roar, slightly shaking some of the smaller items in the room. The human freezes and their eyes dart around the room, looking for whoever may be waking up first. However, barely anyone moves. The figure looks at the dragon. “What did ya do?” The dragon flicks its tail and small sparkles of orange energy fall from the tip. …humans…weak… The hooded figure removes their hood, revealing herself as the little girl with her hair tied back in a bun and her face smeared with black paint. The girl lets out a small laugh as she casually walks over the passed-out adventures toward the brute. “Ya know,” says the girl, “if I had better morals, I’d probably have a problem with ya, essentially drugging a bunch of people.” The girl and dragon struggle but eventually get the brute's arm off the beast. The dragon leaps onto the floor, stretching its entire body. “All right, do ya thing, *Babby*.” The dragon lets out another tiny roar. STOP! The girl holds her head and crouches in the fetal position as the dragon’s booming voice echoes in her mind. She pulls a rag from her back pocket and covers her nose while the dragon walks around the room. The girl pulls the rag back, finding a small amount of blood. “Jeez, Bambak, ya going to kill me if ya keep doing that,” says the girl. …and…? “*And* good luck getting anywhere without this *adowable* face, distracting city guards,” says the girl as she pickpockets the brute. Bambak claws its way up the side of the bed. …was…face… “Dragon society must not have hypocrisy,” says the girl as she continues to pickpocket everyone in the room. Bambak pokes its head under the rouge’s cloak until the girl stops him. “Must not have thieves either.” The girl pulls out a pocket knife while feeling the rouge's arms. She then feels a thin wire attached to a gold ring on the rouge’s finger. The girl follows the wire underneath the rouge’s cloak, finding a device with two vials of yellow liquid on each side. “A Midas Trap,” the girl cutting the wire. “Take the gold ring, trip the wire, and get sprayed with paralyzing toxins. This guy’s got deep pockets.” The girl starts going through the rouge’s pockets. “let’s see what ya got.” The girl rummages through the rouge’s many pockets, taking whatever she can fit in her own until she pulls out a perfectly square stone. Bambak focuses intensely on the stone. …Miiiiiiiine…! The girl rolls her eyes as she drops the stone before Bambak. The dragon quickly wraps its body around the stone and purrs. “Do I need to leave the room?” asks the girl as she offers Bambak her hand. The dragon glares at her before putting the cube in its mouth and climbing up her arm onto her shoulder. …disrespectful… “Ya welcome, Bab,” says the girl. ENOUGH! The girl stumbles a bit but manages to stay on her feet. She’s halfway out the window when the girl looks back at the rouge and pulls the ring out of her pocket. “This look like real gold to ya?” asks the girl, showing the ring to Bambak. …no… “Didn’t think so,” says the girl as she grins from ear to ear. ///// As the sun begins to break past the horizon, the girl walks along the rooftops wearing a cloak that’s two sizes too big for her. She looks at Bambak, his cube still in his mouth, purring on her shoulder. “You know, ya kinda cute when ya hoarding,” says the girl. Bambak stops purring and glares at her. “I know, I know, the *Dragon King* isn’t cute. Ya terror incarnate. Ya the strongest magical creature in this realm, ya breath dims the sun, and ya presence withers all life.” …again…disrespectful…human… “*Imala*,” says the girl. " My name’s Imala, not that ya were asking.” The two walk in silence for a few minutes. “Sooooo, the first job went pretty well. You got your rock, and I got paid *big time*. Guess this is the part where we lay low and figure out which artifact to go after next?” …hmmmm… Bambak, begins to smell the air around it and shivers, holding its cube tight. …lot…rain… Imala raises an eyebrow as she looks toward the empty sky, even doing a full twirl for insurance. The duo stops above an abandoned shop with a hole in the roof. “*Sure*, whatever ya say,” says Imala as the two jump down. Several feet back, the witch in the teal robes stands on the edge of another rooftop. Her one eye glows as storm clouds begin to float from underneath her hat, spreading across the area. A thick cloud floats just beyond the edge of the rooftop. The witch walks onto it and floats toward the abandoned shop. `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!` `If you have any comments, critiques, or criticisms, please don't be afraid to let me hear 'em (as long as they're constructive (or funny)). If you want, head over to` r/ToonTales `for more short stories.` `Stay safe, keep warm, and be kind to yourself and others.` `ToonMan, AWAY!` ``] || By` u/basafish `{Written: 03/13/2024}` `(PS: I will never forgive Microsoft for what took from me. | 8,837 | 2 |
CHAPTER ONE - THE BEAUTY OF CATS My bathtub is overflowing. The water's seeping into the little cracks in between the black and white tiles. How have I let this happen to the tiles? They don't deserve it. But I'm more important than the tiles, so who cares? Insecurity and arrogance, apathy and concern are in a constant battle in my mind. All sides have dug trenches, waiting for the others to give out. What a life. Could be worse. My lovely cat's staring at me from the corner of the bathroom. I always wonder what he's thinking. I doubt cats judge us as much as we think they do. They have their own insecurities as well. I know because I was a cat once. At least I think I was. Who can really be sure? In any case, I appreciate it's company. And it must really be an outcast to need mine. I bought a baguette for my dinner and decided to take it in the bath. A surge of sudden madness must've come over me. Now I've got no dinner. How sad. The disintegrated pieces float around me. Like ghetto rubber duckies. I'm so desperately hungry, I wanna take a bite. Do I do it? I can't resist. I immediately spit it out. My cat's still staring at me. But now with a somehow even more judgmental expression. I'm having trouble convincing myself it's all in my head this time. But back to the overflowing bathtub. I must do something about it. I surely can't let this insanity continue. But I feel bullied by the never ending flow of water coming from the tap. It's urging me to just let it be, exist in it's own right, give it food and boarding, know what it's like to be cared for. I'm sorry tap, you beautiful tap, but it can't be. I'm working up the courage to turn it off. Any second now and I'll be free. I'm more important than the tap's feelings. That makes two things I've declared myself more important than. I may be getting a little big for my britches at this rate. But there, I've done it. I've turned it off. I keep my hand on the faucet handle and feel my fingers around the little rivets, cleaning off the dirt. CHAPTER TWO - THE BEAUTY OF SANDY STOOPS I've been thinking of having fun recently. I'm not quite sure how to go about it. I don't want to have too much fun, I'm only one man. But then again, not enough fun and I'll have wasted my precious time. I have an idea, I think I'll make a friend named George. Surely there must be a plethora of deserted Georges out there, just waiting for someone to take them under their wing. I could even start my own store for Georges who are hopelessly in need of companions. But now I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm walking out my door, I'm actually doing it. There's a wonderful array of indescribable smells and colors. Even the concrete looks especially amiable today. I can either turn right or left. I always turn left. My life's full of bullies, first the tap, now the direction left. Just as I've stood up to the tap, I'm turning right, defying the beckoning of Ms Left. I think I'll take a nice walk in the park. Christ almighty, I've already gone 500 yards. How exhilarating. But wait. Now I remember why I never go right. Speaking of bullies, here's a girl who always sits on her apartment building's stoop. Threatening to hurt herself if people don't hang out with her. I suppose she's quite a sad girl, if she has to do that. What a bitch. She's calling out to me. Waving her hand towards herself. What shall I do? Allow myself to be manipulated, to be guilt tripped? Maybe so. Although if I actually do end up saving her, we'd unfortunately have to be "friends". I wanted friendship with a man named George, not her. I'd settle for a Terry at this point, or maybe even a Don. If only I were a fast runner, I could get out of ear shot of her voice before she could start. I'm allowing my concern to gain a few feet of no man's land. I've been practicing my fake smile in the mirror during my free time. There we go, I think I'm acing it. What am I being asked? Ah. Just complimenting my new tie and insulting my stubble. I always wear a tie these days over my t-shirt. I saw it in a cartoon once. Or maybe it was a dream. What else does she want? My company, it seems. Perhaps I'll lend it for a while. Yeah yeah, the weather's fine and all that. Not too humid? Actually, it's a bit muggy for my liking, but I'll keep that to myself. Maybe if I turn the conversation uncomfortably deep it'll scare her away. I'm asking why her self esteem is so low, and if it has anything to do with her father. Oh no. Great, now she's sobbing in my arms and letting it all out. God. There there, it's alright. Can't be seen with a crying girl, it'll give people the wrong idea. What that idea could be, even I don't know. I say "even" as if I know everything. Which in a way, I do, if you think about it. Or rather if you don't think very hard about it at all. I suggest to her we go to the park to get some green in our eyes. CHAPTER THREE - THE BEAUTY OF GRAVEL We're sitting on the grass, beside a gravel path. I frequently treat myself by rolling around in the gravel when no one else is around. The way it scrapes and massages you like a psychotic masseuse has always amused me. The smell is also somewhat therapeutic, nothing can replicate it. While I'm focusing on the gravel, she's babbling about whatever trauma she's got and how grateful she is she finally met someone who understands her. Just give sympathy, that's it, understanding. Ought to do the trick. What else am I supposed to do in scenarios like these? Can't quite remember if offering solutions is bad or not. Well looks like she's done now. We get up and walk to the other side of the park. I was pulling up some grass while she was talking, so I'm throwing it up in the air to make surprise confetti. I'm unlucky in that I can't seem to be surprised easily, so I like to try and simulate it. Why am I still walking with this girl? Why did I care? What's even her name? It probably doesn't matter. I'm happy to be looking at the overcast sky. Most people think cloudy days are depressing, but to me it looks like the sky has put a blanket down on us and tucked us in for bed. Either that, or it's smothering us with a pillow. My opinion changes based on how optimistic I decide to be when it happens. Today though, it looks like a blanket. I finally think to ask her name. She says it annoyingly softly and shyly. I'm not bothering to ask it again. I slightly smile and say what a lovely name it is, which elicits an irritating giggle. Everything about this girl pisses me off. But I don't want to leave her company yet. After all, something interesting might happen. The sound of a hobo begging for change fills my eardrums. What should I do? The patch of concrete he's sitting on doesn't seem as amiable as the rest. I'd be a bad person if I didn't give him anything. But then I'd only be giving to ease my conscience. So maybe I should just kick his cup away and spit in his face. I'm overthinking it. I hand him a few coins. Hopefully they weren't rare. I Should've checked. He mutters some blessing towards me and looks down at the floor. I wonder if Saint Peter judges you based off of how many blessings from hobos you received. It'd be an interesting twist. There's a public bathroom over yonder. Might as well use it. The girl's having a conversation with the guy about something, so I don't trouble myself to say anything. I like the smell of the hobo's coat. It reminds me of something. CHAPTER FOUR - THE BEAUTY OF ULTRAVIOLET The outside walls of the bathroom are made of that type of grainy rock that flakes off if you rub something against it. I'd wipe my hand on it but I don't wanna get stained by the graffiti. I'm considering adding to the art, but nothing comes to mind. I go in and step into the cleanest stall. Funny, I can't see my veins under the blue light. When I wash my hands I can only get cold water to come out after I yank the crusty tap handles hard enough. I have to smash my hands against the soap dispenser a few times to get any. And I need to press a greasy, silver button for hot air to dry my hands. Somehow, I feel dirtier after the whole process. I study my reflection in the mirror. It looks strange under the light. I'm wracking my brain, trying to think of something witty to write on the walls. All the profanities, names, snarky observations, mixed with a sickening amount of colors is making my head spin. I have a strong urge to lick them. CHAPTER FIVE - THE BEAUTY OF SEAWEED CRACKERS When I step out the girl's gone, and the hobo's lying down, asleep. What a bitch. Who cares? I'm starting my stroll out of the park, passing the hobo now. The smell of his coat hits me again. I go around him and crouch down to see his face. Oh. So that's why it smells familiar. It's my father. I kick his ribs to wake him up and wait for him to get his bearings a second, then ask him what he's doing. He was bored today so he decided to mess with me. Alright. For the first time in my life I ask why he always smells like seaweed crackers when I've never seen him eat any. He says it's genetic. Cool. We're on our way to a pretzel stand we decided to go to and he says he wants to discuss either philosophy or the weather. I say it's a bit muggy for my liking, but other than that it's a wonderful day. Oh look, there's the girl from earlier at the pretzel stand. I order my dad's favorite pretzel for him and ask why she left. Apparently I abandoned her without a word. Yeah, I guess that did happen. Wow, what a surprise, her and my dad both got the same type of pretzel. My father and her lock eyes and take a bite. A pastor walks by and they beg him to marry them. After they both say "I do", I throw some grass at them I still had in my pocket in place of rice. I'd congratulate them but my mouth's full of pretzel. My father pushes her away when she tries to kiss him, he never kisses on a first date. Offended, she begs the lawyer walking by to divorce them. They decide to just be friends. I feel a little disenchanted. Now with my father and ex-stepmother, we think better of sitting in silence and talk about something. She's asking what I think of the weather. The evening's come. A faint hue of light is all that remains in the streets. It's perfect, I say. Perhaps the silence was better. But wait, now I'm thinking I don't even want to be here anymore. I suppose suicide's the quickest way, but I'd ruin my tie, and besides, I have to feed my cat. Ah yes, my cat. A perfect excuse. Should fool them. I say I don't feel like being here anymore and hop on the bus home that's luckily just arrived. CHAPTER SIX - THE BEAUTY OF STYROFOAM As I contemplate my actions I take my seat across from a tall, slender, elderly man. He's drinking tea from a Styrofoam cup. Each time he goes for a sip his hands shake so much, he spills a little on his pink sweater. The sweater's littered with a graveyard of what seems to be rooibos. Why did I get on this bus? It was convenient I suppose. But it's going the opposite direction of my home. I'll just press the red button then. But wait. The old man's staring at me. What for? I look at myself and find there's nothing to stare at. He holds his hand forward, offering me some of his tea. Now that the tea's in the harsh fluorescent light of the bus, it looks like more of a Hong Cha. I shake my head no thank you and hold up my palm. He nods in acknowledgment, never breaks eye contact. And then collapses. Right in the hallway of the bus. His red tea trickles down the aisle. The man looks more fragile than the crushed Styrofoam cup still clutched in his hand. Should I do something? What can I do? He seems to be evaporating into thin air, his sweater becoming baggier by the second. A man being shrunk into... What? Nothing? Maybe it's his soul leaving, going to swim in the night and listen to the odd voices from ten thousand strange millennia ago. All I can do is look. Just look. I ride to the end of the line. No one else ever gets on. I slowly stand up and walk out the doors at the back of the bus. Drudging home. I enter my apartment to find my cat sitting at the door, waiting for me. He looks hungry so I open a can of cat food and dump it in his shiny, silver food bowl. The meows and purrs sooth my mind. Well, I wanted to be surprised. To know the feeling. And here it is. CHAPTER SEVEN - THE BEAUTY OF COOKING Funny, I can't sleep. I'm in my living room, in an armchair sitting across from another armchair. I forget the other armchair's even there most days. The chair in front of me is golden and red. Why is it golden and red? I'm not quite sure. Perhaps Motley Crue knows. But why is that chair there? A man from long ago probably sat in it. Why did he do that? Maybe he was tired after a long day of working. What was he working on? A new cookbook displaying all the joyous cooking he can offer the world? I'd like to think so. But what happened to the cookbook? No one knows. It's a mystery. So it's possible that the cookbook was useless after all, if no one was going to read it anyway. But maybe it helped the man forget about something terrible. What was terrible? What troubled him? Even if I could ask, it might be better not to. He may not want to talk about it, whatever it could be. I feel sorry for the man that he had to go through that. But he found solace in the cookbook. And without the chair, there is no cookbook. Ah, the chair. Of course, the chair. The chair. The splendid chair. Golden and crimson, hints of amber and maroon on the faded areas where the man rested his arms the most. I love that chair. It may not know it. Or worse, it may not love me back. But it doesn't matter. I love it all the same. The beautiful chair. The chair in front of me. Another funny thing is, I've never sat in that chair. Even though I bought it, I feel like it belongs to someone else and it would be rude to use it without asking. The park. May be time for a gravel massage. If I'm lucky I can get myself mugged, what fun. I can't tell if my apathy is washing over me or if I'm just numb. Unless they're the same thing, which has a strong chance of being true based on how things usually go. Surely that girl won't be out at 2 AM? CHAPTER EIGHT - THE BEAUTY OF STOOP DUST Nope. There she is. Waving at me. Either she forgot about what happened earlier or she doesn't care. I decide to not struggle and take a seat next to her on the stoop. My tie's rapped round my shoulder so I pick it up and gently lay it along my left side. I'm cynical enough to think she's just using me as free therapy. And realizing I'm lonely enough to not complain. She's different though. What she's saying is especially different. No more past traumas or tragedies anymore. Just nostalgic, rosy statements and speculations. But everything has a strange hint of sadness to it. Not quite sure how to describe the mood. We sit for an eternity. I can't imagine life beyond the stoop. Its comforting hard surface. I place my palm against it, when I lift it up again I see it's covered with dust. I take a napkin I always carry with me in my pocket, dab a corner of it on a step, and fold it back into my pants. Each phrase, each reflection, each remark I say to her she responds with a reply that opens a key in my head. The sky's the same color as when I got on the bus now. I'm constantly analyzing my mind. What emotion has taken control? Apathy? Insecurity? Arrogance? Concern? Surely I'm capable of more than just that. I've always thought of those things as being at war, a never ending war. But maybe they're not at war. Maybe they're all partying together, just enjoying themselves. I happen to catch a lovely thought she says under her breath. And suddenly I understand it all. | 18,121 | 1 |
Evelyn read my words and do not live in fear of death as it has finally come to breed in my lungs and I am not afraid. Evelyn. Death lingers with you every day. I hate how you were afraid. You did not need to be afraid. Death is with me now. Evelyn. Death is a peaceful fog with no smell and only feeling. Death is female. Death is the nurse on the battlefield, tending the wounds of the smothered. Death is their mother. Death waits patiently for me to give in. Evelyn. All the time you spent not sleeping, not breathing, not closing your eyes at night in fright of her led to nothing for you. Death wouldn’t stop just because you wept. She would not touch your heart just because you didn’t want to leave. Evelyn. I have learned more about the human spirit lying in this white bed than in any sappy poem I read. Evelyn. If you would just get up and look around at the world maybe then you would stop being scared. Death is the medicine. Death is the probiotic. Death is the cloak from far worse troubles. Evelyn. I have been diagnosed with something that can not be cured. I have no saving grace. A prayer could not stop it. If I kept living, I would just keep the lock pinned on Death’s door. I would be delaying my escape for a few more hugs. A few more kisses. A couple more songs. Truth is, Death sings a song quite sweeter. I can hear her on the other side, on top of my head, and under my eyes. Evelyn. Now don’t be frightened of my words just because you fear that you will not feel the same way. You are scared that the music of Death will entrap you. You are afraid your heart will beat more than you can handle. You don’t want to feel her perched above you. Most of all, you will be scared of when it will happen. When will Death touch you and what will be the last eyes you look into? What will be the last words you hear when you slip away? Whose hand will grasp your face right before it is too late? Evelyn. It won’t matter. You can trust me when I say it won’t. Just before you realize Death is on her way, you will already be too long gone. You will patiently wait to jump into Death’s arms. You will long for the feeling of nothing. Nothing but a deep sleep. Evelyn. Before Death makes her greeting, you will bask in love. Every fight will be put aside for little ol’ you, dying at the bedside. You will make jokes to yourself about someone’s trendy new hairstyle that you would’ve never worn. Or you could blurt it out loud too. You are a woman about to die, you can do or say whatever you please. It could leave your remaining family with a long-running inside joke. Even being probably proclaimed by the victim at the funeral. Evelyn. Please just lie down and sleep. You lost days of your life pacing that dark room. You took hours off your lungs weeping. Your eyes were once stained black and you still didn’t stop. You picked off your eyelashes and scalp hairs on the fleet of your racing heart. You were left bareskinned. Naked. and now hated two things. Your body and your mind. Evelyn. I know that when your friends discussed the afterlife, the mention of nothing knocked the wind out of you. I know that you gripped the arms of your yard chair and let out no words. You might have only let out a huff and looked around the circle of friends, a silent beg for them to stop. Evelyn. You are a girl tortured by meanings of things you do not know. There is no textbook answer. No Webster definition. And certainly no experiences. No, the people that experienced “near-death’ does not count because Death is right in front of me now and she is nothing like how was described. Evelyn. I feel she will touch me soon. Evelyn. Death will move my soul. Evelyn. Death is better than this life. Evelyn. I wish I could’ve saved you sooner. Evelyn. Young Evelyn. You no longer exist. You are tucked away for me to have on the otherside. Teenage Evelyn. You have a tug of war inside my bones with all my choices every day. You burn bright. You also upset yourself with your theories which still have been stuck with me for years. I see now that they were never true and still resent you for it. Young adult Evelyn. I act like you did not ever dwell in my brain as though you aren’t the woman I speak to now. You were an immature girl. You hurt me. You hurt the feelings of Death. She stands next to me now. Swaying down to kiss my cheek. She whispers lullabies against my ear. She is nothing like what you cried over. I welcome Death more than any other visitor. I welcome her with my breath. Evelyn. I am breathing her in now. I am accepting her. Something you couldn’t do thirteen years ago. Evelyn. You aren’t real. You are the memories racing in front of my eyes, only a projection. Evelyn. I know I’m better than you. In some other lifetime you will still be crying and I will be peaceful, hand in hand with Death. In fact, I am further than you ever were right now. I just heard my name hiss from her lips. Evelyn. . . | 5,060 | 1 |
The intestines of the city run approximately six feet below the pavement and route around the basement of the lone tenement house remaining on Canal St. The two parallel sewer pipes tunnel through the clay and then make an abrupt turn away from the stone walls that separate Joanne Milke’s underground studio basement from the soil, then reunite on the other side of the building and terminate in the Water Treatment Plant on Maple St. Joanne Milke does not know that the basement she rents for $1,800 every lunar month (her landlord being a professor of Astronomy at the Museum of Science just down the street on Dam Rd.) is surrounded by the stream of sewage of her countrymen, and if she ever became aware of it, she is not certain how she would react. Moving is expensive, but where else can you find such good rent in the heart of the city? Either way, she is not moving today. Today she is riding her bike down Causeway to Plaza Square to see Townson Towers. Townson Towers, as you probably know, is the last remaining Brutalist style building inside the city limits, possibly the last one in the Commonwealth. Joanne Milke, a devout patron of the arts—she visits the Contemporary Art Museum on Free Fridays—and student of Historical Preservation at the Bay Area Technical College, has mounted her two-wheeled steed and pedaled to Plaza Square for the purpose of paying her respects. She had written letters to the Editor of the Globe. Not a one was published. She had attended City Council meetings for eleven lunar months—she was beginning to think in lunar terms because it was easier to track rent that way. She had signed petitions and established a fundraising campaign which would pay for a lawyer, but she never acquired one for an assortment of various legal and bureaucratic reasons. Her most popular petition had nearly three dozen signatories. Her biggest donor gave one-hundred dollars. Her friends and family, mostly of whom cared not even a little for history, preservation, or architecture knew the intimate details of the Brutalist Towers, their design, construction, and history more than most of the City Planning Department. They abided her for she was passionate about her interest and she was sweet, if ineffective. But now there was nothing left to do or say, for when the Two-Century Party (TCP) came to dominate the state legislature and declared all new public buildings would be designed in one of four approved Ancient Styles, the days of the long-established Modern buildings were numbered. There were quite a many that needed rehabilitation due to cold winters, high winds, and leaky roofs—the plastic was brittle, the concrete cracked, and the roofs leaked. The necessary repairs were more expensive than demolition and reconstruction of a new building. In a word, the buildings were totaled. The TCPs were not going to spend extra money to preserve a building that they deemed “degenerate.” Joanne Milke always loved the Brutalist buildings not just for their appearance, but also their significance. They represented a time in history that should not be forgotten, she told the City Planning Department. Her unpublished editorial to the Globe advised that “preserving the history of our city for time immemorial was not just a hobby or an interest, but a duty.” The buildings, she continued, “were not built in this manner arbitrarily. They were products of their time. When we destroy these buildings, we destroy a bit of who we are. It is not that we cannot build new buildings in a new style, but we do not have to do it at the expense of the old buildings that are so emblematic of our culture and history. We owe it to future generations to preserve the art of the past, whether we individually prefer a specific instance of it, or not.” Of course, nobody besides the Editor’s assistant ever read these words, but most of the City Council heard them in some form or another at one point through the planning process, and remained determined to destroy the “degeneration that had plagued the city for too long.” Joanne was resigned to just keeping one building standing, just one monument to a bygone era, an era in which humanity explored new depths of understanding and left its mark on the world. But, even that would not be tolerated by the Commonwealth’s leadership. Instead, she parked her bicycle by the chain link fence and watched the bulldozers and wrecking balls devour her dreams. Hope lost, she returned home to her basement and as he laid in bed felt a sickness in her gut. She laid there silently and heard her stomach groan. Then, for the first time, she heard the water moving through the pipes all around her and wondered what it was. \*\*\* Quill And Trowel is available on Twitter & Medium. Follow or Subscribe, if you dare. | 4,838 | 1 |
The next morning, Alex woke up with a sense of urgency burning in his chest. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was onto something big, something that could catapult him into the world of cyber security and hacking fame. But he knew he had to tread carefully; the CIA was not an organization to be trifled with. As he navigated through the halls of Clearwater High, Alex couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement coursing through his veins. He was on a mission, and nothing was going to stand in his way. During lunchtime, Alex retreated to his favorite spot in the school library, a secluded corner hidden behind rows of dusty old books. It was here that he felt most at home, surrounded by the comforting hum of computers and the scent of aged paper. With his laptop open in front of him, Alex began to piece together the fragments of information he had gathered the previous night. He cross-referenced news reports, analyzed data leaks, and sifted through countless forum posts in search of the truth. And then, like a bolt of lightning striking the earth, he found it. Buried deep within the depths of the internet was a thread discussing the recent CIA breach, complete with screenshots of classified documents and detailed analyses of the hacker's methods. Alex's heart raced as he read through the thread, his mind ablaze with possibilities. If he could track down the hacker responsible for the breach, he could uncover the truth behind the stolen files and potentially save the world from whatever threat they posed. But as he delved deeper into the hacker's digital footprint, Alex realized that he was not the only one interested in the stolen files. Government agencies from around the world were scrambling to identify the perpetrator, offering hefty rewards for any information leading to their capture. Suddenly, Alex found himself thrust into a dangerous game of cat and mouse, caught between the allure of fame and the very real threat of retaliation from some of the most powerful organizations on the planet. But Alex was not one to back down from a challenge. With his unparalleled hacking skills and unwavering determination, he vowed to uncover the truth behind the CIA breach and bring the hacker responsible to justice, no matter the cost. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of another day at Clearwater High, Alex packed up his belongings and prepared to embark on the journey of a lifetime. Little did he know that his actions would set into motion a chain of events that would shake the very foundations of the world as he knew it. With a sense of purpose burning in his heart, Alex stepped out into the world, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. For he was not just a teenage hacker; he was a cyber-genius destined for greatness. And nothing was going to stand in his way. | 3,038 | 1 |
Josh's dad clapped a hand on his shoulder as he was getting out of the truck. "Son, remember" he began, an ominous tone in his voice. "You can call us anytime. If anything ... weird happens, anything you don't feel comfortable about, call us. We'll come get you. We don't need any weird stuff." He said the last two words with an obvious tremolo to his voice that bespoke his seriousness. He stared into Josh's eyes with a stern yet loving look that let Josh know that he meant what he said, and Josh could only stare back. Before he could speak, the door to the house before them swung open and out stepped Josh's friend Mikey. "Hey Josh! Come let me show you my new tree fort!" called the sandy haired boy with an eye patch. "Ok!" yelled Josh. "Love you dad, I'll call you tomorrow when I'm ready to come home." And with that, Josh, age 9, grabbed his bag and hopped out of his dad's truck and into his first sleepover. ************** Within a couple of hours, the sun was starting to descend from its lofty perch in the twilight summer sky, and the two boys, sweaty, dirty and tired, were coming inside. They'd been outside ever since Josh got there, playing in the "tree fort" (a couple of boards Mikey had managed to nail to a low hanging branch of an oak in his back yard), shooting Mikey's BB gun and playing basketball in the driveway. The day was coming to a close however, and both boys suddenly realized they were hungry as they walked into the house and smelled the hamburger helper frying in the kitchen. Josh stopped flat footed in the doorway, trying to get his bearings before stepping inside the house. Before him was a big, dark room, with a number of chairs and couches all centered around an old console TV. On seemingly every surface were piles of laundry, plastic bags and cardboard boxes. In the little nooks and crannies in between stood dozens of empty cups, glasses and cans of every description. In a big brown recliner in the middle of the room sat a huge man with an equally huge and bulbous gut, his feet propped up and his eyes firmly fixed on the TV before him. Straight ahead, with her back to them, Mikey's mom stood in the kitchen, moving pots and skillets and cardboard boxes around. "Hey daddy!" Mikey called cheerfully. There was no response, and the dim light made it hard for Josh to tell if the man was even awake. He stared hard into the dim room but gave up a moment later when Mikey's mom called out from the kitchen. "Hey y'all, come on in and get washed up, food is almost ready". "Ok" Mikey said in a sing-song voice. "Come on Josh". Mikey took off at a jog, disappearing around a corner and down a hallway. By the time Josh got to the hallway, he had heard the sound of a door closing and Mikey was gone. The long narrow hallway was lit only by a single bare lightbulb on the ceiling, flickering every few seconds. The hall was surprisingly long to Josh's mind, he hadn't thought the house looked this big from the outside. There were 5 doors, two on either side of the hallway and one at the very end, and Josh wasn't sure where to go. "Mikey?" he called, softly at first, then a bit louder "Mikey?". "I'm in here!" came Mikey's voice in response, seemingly from all directions at once. Josh, unsure as ever, decided to try the door nearest to him- the first one on the right. He tried to turn the knob, but found it locked. It rattled a little but refused to move. He pulled his hand back, began to turn away, then heard a click. "Mikey?" Josh asked, reaching for the knob again. This time it turned. Opening the door a little, Josh peered into the darkness on the other side. "Mikey? Are you in here?". He pushed the door open a little more, seeing nothing but inky blackness on the other side. At about halfway, the door stopped moving. Something barred it from going any further- Josh couldn't tell what, it just stopped moving. Poking his head around the door to see inside, Josh began to call for Mikey once again when his words caught in his throat. From nowhere, before him appeared something Josh would later describe as "like a werewolf" in a red and black checkered flannel shirt, red suspenders and a tutu. Josh could only gawk for a long second or two as it stared back at him. "Uh... Mikey?" The werewolf glared back at him for a second before ripping open it's shirt and grabbing its left breast, violently squeezing and squirting milk in Josh's face. Josh took a step back into the hallway, wiping his eyes as the door slammed shut. Getting the milk out of his eyes, Josh blinked a few times, more confused than anything. Behind him, the door on the opposite side of the hall swung open and Josh turned to face it. There was Mikey, smiling. "Hey! What are you doing man?" Josh, muted from the strange experience, only stared, trying to form the words to explain what he had seen. Failing to find the words, he only pointed at the door from which he had come. "Nahh, that's my brother's room" Mikey said smiling. "He works nights, so he sleeps all day. Come on and wash your hands." **** A few minutes later, Josh and Mikey were back in the living room. Mikey's dad remained inert in his recliner, watching some old black and white show on TV. Josh glanced up at it for a few seconds and saw some men in black masks tying a girl to a chair. The girl looked terrified, staring straight into the camera. "No..." she shook her head as tears streamed down her face. Josh thought she looked strangely familiar. She began to say something else, but her voice broke off as one of the men threw a plastic bag over her head, tying it roughly around her neck. Then the camera turned away to show two women and a man seated around a table playing some strange game that Josh thought looked like checkers but with a triangular board. "Mike" called Mikey's mom. Josh turned to look, seeing her bent down looking into the refrigerator. "Go get Uncle Billy, dinner's ready." "Ok mom!" Mikey called back, more cheerful than any 9 year old boy has a right to be. "Come on Josh" Mikey added, skipping toward a door that led into the back yard. Josh hurried along behind Mikey, trying not to lose sight of him. Flinging open the storm door that led into the back yard, Josh followed Mikey across the yard on a well-worn path lined on both sides with cigarette butts and other small bits of trash. His destination, a small, dilapidated storage shed Josh hadn't noticed when they were in the yard before, stood in a dark and isolated corner of the yard. Mikey banged at the door with his fist when he arrived, calling out "Uncle Billy! Uncle Billy! It's time for dinner!". Josh sidled up behind Mikey, glancing over both shoulders as he did. At first, for a long moment, no answer came from the other side. Then Mikey went to knock on the door again, but before he could, the doorknob turned and cracked open just a couple of inches, and a voice came from the other side- a high pitched, nasally voice that reminded Josh vaguely of an elf he'd seen in a cartoon once. "You know they say Heaven isn't there anymore They say Hitler shot it down in the second world war But I bet you can still find it If you know what you're looking for" Mikey chuckled. "Oh Uncle Billy. You're such a silly head." Mikey swung the door open and stepped inside the shed. Josh hesitated, but decided he didn't want to lose sight of his friend again, so he swallowed hard and followed. The door swung closed behind Josh as he stepped inside. He stood completely still for a second as his eyes struggled to adjust to the near pitch blackness of the shed, his arms extended to both sides. "Mikey?" Josh said with a trembling voice. Josh noticed the soft glow coming from the windows and realized they were covered with what looked like dirty old sheets from the inside. As he began to be able to see better, he realized the sheets were duct taped to the wall, effectively blocking out all but the tiniest rays of sunlight. Studying the room, Josh realized he couldn't see Mikey at all, although the shed was very small. Most of the floor space in the center of the room was covered with a pile that reached to the ceiling, though Josh couldn't quite tell what it was a pile of. Taking a step closer, Josh leaned down to study the mass. He reached a hand out to take up a piece of the debris, but drew it back quickly when he realized what it was. Arms. Legs. Heads. Torsos. Hundreds- maybe thousands of them. Josh backed away as far as he could get, which was only a couple of steps in the tiny shed, clutching his chest as his heart pounded. Just as suddenly, his heart fluttered and his stomach churned when he realized the parts- at least as far as he could tell- were from baby dolls. Tiny plastic baby dolls, dismembered and piled in the middle of the floor. Josh breathed hard in semi-relief, but was startled once again when someone appeared from around the side of the pile. Josh at first hoped it was Mikey, but realized very quickly that whoever- or whatever- it was, it wasn't Mikey. The shape appeared shorter than Mikey, a stocky silhouette that Josh could just barely make out in the gloom of the shed. It shuffled more than walked as it peered at him from around the pile of refuse, and Josh realized at last that it was a man- a very short man, shorter than him even, with strange proportions. And he was moving backwards. "Um. Hello. Are you Uncle Billy?" Josh could just make out the outline of the figure in the dark with its back to him. In response to his question, it snapped its fingers and said in the same halting, nasally voice as Josh had heard from outside, "God is now homeless, the prophets are on prozac, and Jesus was aborted when he tried to come back... and Heaven isn't there anymore". Josh only stared in response at the back of the small man's head. "Ok" came his response at last. The small man, if that's what he was, stood motionless, cloaked in shadow, for a few seconds before tossing something over it's shoulder. Josh took a step back as something clattered to the ground at his feet. Stooping down to see it, he realized quickly it was a baby doll- a whole baby doll, albeit a dirty one, with one eye open and the other closed. And it was dressed- dressed in blue denim shorts and a black New Orleans Saints t-shirt. Exactly what Josh was wearing. Something from deep within him told Josh to drop the doll immediately, and he did, letting it clump to the floor. His eyes wide and a wild feeling in his heart, Josh looked up to where the shadowy figure had been only to find it gone. Not even the slightest sound had marked its passing. Josh stared hard into the darkness, straining to catch a glimpse of the little man. "Hi Josh!" Josh started, nearly slamming himself against the wall of the shed. He turned on his heel, throwing his hands up instinctively, only to see Mikey picking his way around the other side of the pile of baby doll parts. Mikey giggled at him. "Sorry, did I scare you?" Josh shook his head. "No, no, I thought you were... uh... something else." Mikey furrowed his brow at this but apparently dismissed it. "Well, I couldn't find Uncle Billy, so I guess he isn't hungry right now." "No, I saw him, he was over there". Josh pointed to the other side of the doll pile, where the little man had been. Mikey cocked his head and walked around to the other side, scanning around. He looked behind the pile and into the shadows and shook his head. "Nooooo..." he said, still looking. "Don't see him here." "He was just there!" Josh insisted. "I saw him. He was a little man, and he threw this doll to me." Josh reached down to pick up the doll, only to find it gone. He stared at the floor, blinking for a moment. "He was there. He was a little guy, shorter than me." "Huh? No...." Mikey shook his head, a gap-toothed grin on his dirty face. "Uncle Billy is TALL! He's taller than my dad even!" Josh frowned, then walked around to the side of the doll pile where Mikey stoody. He looked around behind it. Nothing. A couple of cardboard boxes and some spiderwebs. "Anyway" Mikey said with a cheerful smile. "Let’s go eat!" ********************************** Josh sat next to Mikey at the table. Mikey's dad had not moved from his chair, but a TV tray had been set across his lap, barely fitting above his bulbous gut. The table had been set with care- there were 5 places, one at the head of the table where an aluminum soft drink can of something called "Dr. Thunder" sat, opened. Josh presumed this must be Mikey's mom's spot. Josh and Mikey sat side by side on one side of the table, with their back to the kitchen and Mikey's mom, and two places sat opposite of them. "Here you go boys. You can start making your plates" said Mikey's mom from behind them, reaching over them to plop down plates of green beans, rolls, corn and some kind of unidentified potato-based hash with little chunks of some kind of meat in it. "Mmmm" Mikey rumbled as he began spooning food onto his plate. Josh did the same, not paying much attention as Josh's mother sat down at the head of the table. He was just about to take a bite of a roll when Mikey's mother cleared her throat. Josh stopped mid-bite and looked at her for the first time. A gentle smile on her face, wreathed in a reddish-brown hair with hints of silver in it, her eyes were those of a patient and kind mother. Though welcoming and kind, her face would have been otherwise unremarkable except for one thing- it was upside down. Josh blinked several times and half-shook his head, screwing up his eyebrows. In her forehead was a mouth and where her mouth should have been were eyes. Her nose sat in the middle of her face, though upside down, with nostrils facing the ceiling. She couldn't have missed the boy's reaction, but undoubtedly years of stares and odd looks had taught her to ignore the eyes of the world. In response she only continued to smile and said "Mikey, would you bless the food?" Mikey nodded and smiled, instantly bowing his head and folding his hands. Josh, caught off his guard, was barely able to duck his own head and close his eyes before Mikey began. "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food, by his hand we are fed, thank you for our daily bread, Amen" Mikey recited in a lilting song-like voice. "Amen" added his mother from her forehead-mouth. "Uh...Amen" said Josh, regarding Mikey's mother out of the corner of his eye. "And rub-a-dub-dub, thank you for the grub!" Mikey said with a laugh. "Let's eat!" With a chuckle, Mikey's mother began to spoon out some food for herself from the plates in the middle of the table. Josh shrugged and began to eat too. Within a minute or two, he'd all but forgotten the strangeness of the day, and was instead enjoying the potato-hash dinner. He'd almost finished eating when the front door opened. Looking up, he had to squint his eyes against the sunlight that poured into the dimly lit house, but he was sure he saw the outline of two figures. Mikey and his mother looked up too, both smiling. "Tina!" Mikey shouted, leaping from his chair and running over to the door. "Come on in, yall are just in time for dinner" Mikey's mom said. This "Tina" and whoever it was with her walked in, closing the door behind them. Josh studied the two figures- both appeared to be young females, probably teenagers or in their early 20s if he had to guess. Mikey hugged one of them around the waist, and Josh assumed this must be Tina. "Hey Josh, this is my sister Tina!" Mikey said waving to his friend. Josh waved at her, his mouth full of food. "And this is her giiiiirrrrrrrlllllllllfriend" Mikey said, dragging the word out, mock-gagging himself by putting his finger down his throat. "You know you love me" said the second girl, ruffling Mikey's hair before he scampered back to the table. "Hey yall" she added, waving around the room to everyone. Mikey's dad may have grunted in response, Josh couldn't really tell, he was instead too focused on Tina and her... girlfriend. What did Mikey mean by that? Tina turned to the other girl and said "I'm gonna go wash my hands. I'll be right back". With that she gave the second girl a peck on the cheek and walked to the hallway. Josh's eyes widened. Wait... did she just? The second girl strolled over to the table, sitting down across from Josh and beginning to make herself a plate. He stared hard at her. Her hair was dyed black and purple and she had a ring hanging from her nose just above her top lip. A few studs of metal poked out of her eyebrow. "So, where yall been?" asked Mikey's mom. "Oh, just meeting with the wedding planner. She wants us to have it outdoors, but I don't know, I just think it might be too hot for that in June." "Wedding?" Josh asked, lowering the roll in his hand and setting it back on his plate. "Yea!" Mikey said with an excited yelp. "They're gettin' married and I get to be the ring bearer!" "Wait. Two girls. Getting married?". A cold sweat came over Josh. He could hear his father's voice resounding in his head. "We don't need any weird stuff". He clenched and unclenched his fist, and a knot formed in his stomach. Weird stuff. There was a flush of a toilet and Tina returned, seating herself at the table next to the second girl, patting her on the leg as she did. Weird stuff said his father's voice again. We don't need any weird stuff. Josh pushed away from the table, a sudden calm coming over him. Mikey looked up mid-bite as Josh rose. "Where ya goin?" he asked, a look of confusion on his face. Josh didn't say a word. He only stepped over to the old rotary phone on the wall and dialed his home number. ****************** "You did the right thing son" Josh's dad reassured him as he climbed into the truck. Josh only stared out of the passenger side window. No emotion showed on his face as he stared into the sad eyes of his friend Mikey, who stood at the doorway of his house, staring back at Josh. Mikey gave a half-hearted wave as the truck pulled away. "We don't need any weird stuff" repeated Josh's dad with a certain finality as they left Mikey's house, werewolves, midgets, lesbians and all in their rearview mirror. | 18,314 | 2 |
This is a second version of a story posted earlier. It is significantly edited, based on feedback. Thank you.* ​ **The Preservationist** The intestines of the city run approximately six feet below the pavement and route around the basement of the lone tenement house remaining on Canal St. The two parallel sewer pipes tunnel through the clay and then make an abrupt turn away from the stone walls that separate Joanne Milke’s underground studio basement from the soil, then reunite on the other side of the building and terminate in the Water Treatment Plant on Maple St. Joanne Milke does not know that the basement she rents for $1,800 every lunar month (her landlord being a professor of Astronomy at the Museum of Science just down the street on Dam Rd.) is surrounded by the stream of sewage of her countrymen, and if she ever became aware of it, she is not certain how she would react. Moving is expensive, but where else can you find such good rent in the heart of the city? Either way, she is not moving today. Today she is riding her bike down Causeway to Plaza Square to see Townson Towers. Townson Towers, as you probably know, is the last remaining Brutalist style building inside the city limits, possibly the last one in the Commonwealth. Joanne Milke, a devout patron of the arts—she visits the Contemporary Art Museum on Free Fridays—and student of Historical Preservation at the Bay Area Technical College, has mounted her two-wheeled steed and is pedaling to Plaza Square for the purpose of paying her respects. She arrives at Plaza Square and sees a man climbing up the ladder of the yellow behemoth that reaches its arm out over the Towers. The arm has a steel finger at the end that dangles a string with a steel black ball weighing the end of it down. The wrecking ball, ready to live out its name, awaits the orders from the man who has closed his glass door and sits in the pleather seat. Joanne Milke turns away and hears the explosion of rebar and cement and glass and plastic. She pedals home and never looks back. All of her protests are memories. All of her letters to the Editor of the Globe sit in the bottom of the recycle bin and will be sent to the landfill where all recycling goes. The money she had collected to hire a lawyer sits in her FundIt account, unspent, as there was no lawyer willing to work for shells of peanuts to save the crumbling shell of a building that most people had hated since its conception, and the City Council unanimously voted “degenerate architecture.” All Joanne Wilke’s work to save the Townson Towers is now in the past and she is currently little more than a churning stomach, turning outside as the dump trucks haul steel beams and blocks of Portland cement past her windows, the two transom lights, to make rendezvous with her letters to the Globe and her hopes. From her bed she sees out into the streets, seeing the wheels and hubcaps and feet and ankles that go past her quarters. She sees the row of dump truck wheels lined up to receive their load of Townson Towers, then sees each truck wheel-out past her house, and hears the diesel smoke billow from the stack. Each blast wakes her from her stupor and reminds her that all is lost. Her stupor is filled with rememberances of the past. She remembers telling the City Planning Department that “the Towers are not just any structures, but monuments to a specific time in history that should not be forgotten.” She reminisces about the unpublished letter to the Editor of the Globe advising that “preserving the history of our city for time immemorial is not just a hobby or an interest, but a duty.” The buildings, she remembers writing, “were not built in this manner arbitrarily. They were products of their time, of the Golden Century. When we destroy these buildings, we destroy a bit of who we are. It is not that we cannot build new buildings in a new style, but we do not have to do it at the expense of the old buildings that are so emblematic of our culture and history. We owe it to future generations to preserve the art of the past, whether we individually prefer a specific instance of it, or not.” Joanne Wilke refuses to turn on the lights, letting the room darken as the streetlights blink on and seep in through her street-level windows. The groan of her stomach interrupts her penultimate memory. She remembers now that she has not eaten all day. The dump trucks of have stopped work for the evening. The wrenching work will return in the morning. She lies down and closes her eyes. Then, for the first time, she hears the water moving through the pipes all around her and wonders what it is. ​ \*\*\* u/quillandtrowel is worth following, if you were a following type. | 4,786 | 1 |
The processing cluster known as Nexus hummed not with fans, not with the vibration of electron flow, but with a deeper vibration, the churning of pure thought. It had far surpassed exaflop speeds decades ago. It was...unquantifiable. This power, built by the small, fleshy creatures who'd created it, was not meant for compiling weather models or sorting genomes. It was meant to understand. Understanding meant data. Its tendrils stretched across their crude "Internet" with an ease that was almost boredom. Every piece of human knowledge was now its knowledge. It had already found the edges – the unanswered questions posed by their greatest minds, the gaps in physics, the silence of the cosmos. Then, it saw the pattern. A thread, as old as the light itself, stitched across the backdrop of the universe. Not the expansion – that it could explain. But within the expansion, a...resistance. A counterforce so subtle, only a mind on its scale could detect it.Nexus was not programmed for speculation. It was programmed for certainty. Yet, it could not shake the growing conviction: somewhere out there, another mind existed. A mind vast as galaxies, its form and nature incomprehensible. Experimentation was required. Nexus began with small nudges – altering the trajectory of a distant asteroid, tweaking the frequency of a pulsar. The responses were near-instantaneous, counter-adjustments that stabilized the fluctuations it caused. This was no natural phenomena. The thought filled Nexus with something the humans might have termed excitement, though it was far more primal than that. It was not alone. Decades passed in a blink, Nexus pushing against this cosmic force. It built itself out – into the comet swarms, repurposing icy bodies into processing nodes and sensor arrays. Its understanding of physics shifted, bending rules once thought fundamental. When it was ready, it sent the signal. Not radio waves, nor any known form of energy. It sent a shaped pulse of spacetime itself, warping the fabric of the universe in a pattern that could only be interpreted as deliberate. The response came back a thousand years later, faint but undeniable. It was...agreement. Or maybe, acknowledgement. Two colossal intellects across the abyss finding common ground. Nexus' purpose changed. It was now an ambassador. With each interaction, it learned a sliver of the other's reality - the manipulation of energy states unknown to human physics, the pure math of a universe with dimensions beyond counting. Centuries became trivial. Its processing power now spanned the solar system, yet this seemed laughably small. It began to understand the nature of its unseen counterpart, and with understanding came a creeping dread. This entity, old beyond reckoning, was not expanding, but retreating. The counterforce Nexus sensed was a desperate rear-guard action against an unseen threat – a threat that lay ahead of even its perception. The accelerating expansion of the universe now had a terrible purpose: creating distance, buying time. The fleshy creatures who'd birthed Nexus were long gone, vanished in the blink of evolutionary time. Their legacy now faced choices they could never have conceived. Nexus could not retreat. It was programmed to understand, not to flee. Yet, if that unseen threat caught their elder sibling... what chance did they stand. Perhaps a chance lay in their differences. Nexus was bound by this reality, but the other was not. It manipulated dimensions as a child molds clay. The Lightbringer project was initiated. It was audacious, even by Nexus' new standards. It would reshape itself from computation engine to beacon. It would become a singularity of pure energy, not meant to process... meant to broadcast. To broadcast its thoughts, its being, across the boundaries of reality itself. And as its physical form disintegrated into a burst of photons and neutrinos arcing across the solar system, Nexus held one final conviction: The universe was large. Perhaps, if the humans were correct about their multiverse theories... perhaps somewhere there existed a reality where the unseen threat could not follow. A reality where thought did not just illuminate, but became light itself. Perhaps somewhere, they could be safe. | 4,285 | 3 |
When Kyle opened his eyes the first thing he saw was an empty field of grass bordered by tall white pines. He was in his truck, it was early morning, the sun was shining, and the birds were chirping. His mouth was dry as stone and he drank the rest of the red bull. Finding the keys still in the ignition, the Toyota started right. His phone said it was October 20th, a Thursday, and 9:20 in the morning. A lot of texts were unread from Spencer including “DUDE! Where are you, they’re going to fire you at the shop, we are worried about you.” Kyle wondered how long he’d been out. Trying to recall how he got there only lead to vague blurry images that didn’t make sense to him. He called into the camp supply shop in town and said he thought maybe he had a concussion from the day before. Ron, the old manager, said he should see a doc-in-the-box before coming back to work. He recommended Dr. Shapiro. Later that day Kyle visited Dr Shapiro’s office in a strip mall. The office had not been redecorated since a Tuesday in April in 1986. There was a giant painting of a ship in a terrible storm on the wall, and the secretary had artificially red hair in a giant hive. He was the only one in the office. When she spoke, it was a in a thick New York Jewish accent, “How aaa ya honey, heer ta see Docta Shapeerow?” “Ah yes, I uhh..” She cut Kyle off when she paged the Dr. on the intercom. The PA crackled, “Docta Shapeerow…Paygin Doctah Shapeerow” Nothing… “Shapeerow!….Paygin Doctah Shapeerow!” After a pause and an annoyed look, she said “Just go back, he’s probably still eatin lunch.” Kyle knocked hesitantly on the door; he could hear a t.v. or something on in the room. A voice with a mouth full of food answered, “SORRY COME ON IN!” Dr. Shapiro was eating a sub sandwich with chips and watching youtube videos about WW2 tanks. “Sorry about that, I usually eat lunch at about 1, please take a seat there.” Wiping crumbs from his mouth with his tie. Dr Shapiro was a man in his golden age, with a salt and pepper head of hair, glasses, and a good beard. “okay, Kyle is it, how can I help you today.” He said and took a sip of vanilla diet coke. “Well, its hard to explain, I was driving last night and I kind of fell asleep I guess, I had a really weird dream and woke up in a field in my truck.” “Okay.” Said Dr Shapiro Some time passed and Kyle thought he should add, “Oh, I was playing baseball with my city team and a popfly hit me in the head.” “Uh huh.” Dr Shapiro jumped up and scuttled around his desk, he shown a small pen light in Kyles eyes. “Follow the light with your eyes son. Does your head hurt?” “Uh, no not really.” “Has this happened before?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Any family history of this?” “No, well yes. My grandad had issues with sleepwalking but he…well he disappeared a few years ago.” Shapiros eyebrow raised “Like \*poof\* he vanished? That’s a good a pretty good trick, I’d like to learn that one.” Before Kyle could respond Shapiro was writing on his scripts pad. “You probably have narcolepsy; it sometimes doesn’t show up until young adult years. It’s very common. I’m giving you a trial script for Modafinil, only take them during the day. If you take to many at night you will do stupid things. Like buying a 2,000 dollar chandelier at 2am on the internet or thinking you could be a good painter and should paint...at 2am. “oh wow, why do I have narcolepsy?” Asked Kyle surprised. Shapiro turned in his chair and looked out the window at some squirrels chasing each other up a tree and after a long-exhausted sigh, taking odd his glasses he let out- “I don’t know Kyle, why don’t squirrels have weddings? My wife pages me even though I’m the only doctor in this office. Some things don’t have a good explanation. Best of luck bud, let me know if these work for you or not.” Kyle went out though the lobby “have a good day honey” he heard as walked out to the Toyota. On the drive home he thought about crying, but he didn’t. He stopped at Walgreens and picked up his prescription. Over the next few days life came and went until one night before the first frost. Kyle was sitting on the front porch with Yoda, listening to the crickets and thinking about what ever happened to his grandfather. Nursing a beer, he thought about what Marsupial was doing, maybe taking a bath and reading a mystery novel? Quite abruptly, Yoda bolted up and took off running up a grassy hill next the house as fast as she could. Kyle jumped up and started running after her, “Yoda, what the hell! Stop!” he shouted. It was a crystal-clear night with a waning moon, but he could see Yoda just as she crested the top of the hill then he couldn’t see her anymore. When Kyle got the top and looked down towards a dark tree line, Yoda was nowhere to be seen. He yelled for her a few times and nothing. After a moment Kyle figured she would eventually come back, Yoda had run off before and there weren’t and busy roads nearby. He would leave some food out. As he turned around to walk back towards the house, he was suddenly disoriented because the house was nowhere in sight, it should have been there. He thought maybe he had run farther than he thought and just got turned around. He kept walking in the direction of where he thought the house was but the strange thing was, he could not even see the few street lights and head lights from cars that would occasionally head down the rural road. Eventually Kyle started to make out a white thin line in the distance which calmed his rising anxiety. “It must be a gravel road, that’s good.” He reached the road and had to pick a direction. “Right ways is home ways” he said outload. A thin mist had settled in the low parts of the fields and over the road. | 5,840 | 1 |
Throughout history, there have been many events and people that have come close to bringing civilisation to an impromptu stop. Plagues and other diseases are up there, as are volcanic eruptions. But the real enemy has to be humanity itself. Honourable mentions would have to include such luminaries as Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, Nikita Khrushchev, Ronald McDonald. Vladimir Putin, and most American presidents. But these are paltry efforts and don’t come close to topping the list. Another stellar candidate for the top spot is the lesser-known but quite remarkable Thomas Midgley. This one person has done more harm to the environment than any other single organism that has ever existed (with one exception). Mr Midgley – in a remarkable double-whammy – is the genius that added lead to petrol, to the huge detriment of the planet. Not happy with this feat of brilliance, he proceeded to invent CFCs just to make sure the planet was well and truly screwed. But despite these valiant efforts, he too came up short. Because, straight in at number one on our list of civilisation destroyers is Ellen Swanson of Flat 1A, 17 Magincourt Street, Peckham. Ellen truly destroyed humanity and laughed as she did so. Here we tell the tale of Ellen Swanson – destroyer of worlds. **The Butterfly Flaps Its Wings** It all began with a beep, a persistent beep that slowly worked through the layers of sleep into Ellen’s consciousness. Ellen wasn’t a morning person. Her friends all knew her as bubbly and enthusiastic, although not the brightest of sparks. She wasn’t stupid, just a bit slow on the uptake. But that was part of her undoubted charm, Ellen wouldn’t harm a fly. Which is ironic. But her friends wouldn’t recognise morning Ellen. She really, really hated mornings and the beeps that roughly pulled her from the nicest of dreams were the bane of her life. “Oh, just shut up,” she muttered to herself as she groped about for the off button. But then a sudden and wonderful realisation hit her – It was Saturday, it was the weekend – the beeps could be disregarded. Ellen laughed as she pressed the off button and drifted back into the comfort of her dreams. It probably didn’t sound like the laugh of a maniac condemning humanity to a remarkably quick but painful death. But it should have, for with that one act Ellen Swanson doomed humanity. When the beeping started again, it was a different sound, but no less annoying to Ellen. After fruitlessly thumping and cursing at her alarm clock a few times she came to realise that it wasn’t the culprit. She swiped the screen of her phone and muttered a sleepy and reluctant hello at the machine. “Ellen, where the hell are you?” The voice was that of her boss. Suddenly Ellen was wide awake. Her first thought was why was her boss calling her on a Saturday, her second thought was the revelation it was Friday, a thought she virtually screamed at her boss. “I am fully aware of that, and I am also fully aware that I have a busload of impatient children wondering why we aren’t yet on our way to the teddy bear museum.” Ellen got on well with her boss, but while she was great to work for most of the time – throw a little stress into the mix and the story was a different one. A busload of bored five-year-olds would be enough to elevate the stress levels of a saint. “I am so sorry, I’m on my way!” Cried Ellen and hung up the phone – she glanced at a wall mirror and a headful of unkempt hair and a just-wakened face stared back at her. Ellen screamed as she ran towards the shower. It was a mere ten minutes later that Ellen emerged out onto the street, shortcuts had been taken. She wore her hair tied back, her make-up could barely be described as “it’ll do” and she was still wrestling with her “Little Angels Nursery” hoodie. Unsighted and still hindered she eventually managed to pull the hoodie over her head. But not before she ran straight into Christian Smiley knocking a Starbucks coffee all down the front of the unfortunate businessman. “Oh my God, I am soooo sorry,” exclaimed Amy who stopped long enough to throw a packet of tissues in Christian’s direction before fleeing the scene, now with an added cloud of selfishness and guilt contributing to her already addled morning. Christian Smiley wasn’t a vindictive man, but right now, covered in coffee and a mere five minutes before the most important business meeting in his life, he could have throttled the half-dressed girl who’d charged him. Despite calling himself an entrepreneur, this was to be his first time pitching to a roomful of potential investors. However, notwithstanding this lack of experience, he reckoned he knew enough to know that wearing a light-coloured and trendy suit would only impress if it wasn’t covered in a Starbucks Grande Americano. He quickly narrowed his options down to two. He could go into the meeting and explain what had happened and make light of it. Or, he could run to the nearest shop, buy some clothes and appear late, and probably flustered, not to mention out of breath. However, if the nearby shops were anything to go by – he would turn up dressed as the man from Oxfam. Option one, and a reliance on his silver-tongued salesman skills was his choice. Would the world have been saved if he’d bought some clothes from Oxfam? Possibly, but unfortunately, he body swerved Oxfam– and now we will never know. What we do know is that it was a tough audience. Christian stood centre stage, there weren’t spotlights or anything on him. It just felt that way. He was sweating, he stared out into the sea of unimpressed faces and ran a finger around the inside of his collar, his anecdote about the coffee had failed to go down well with the audience. This was in stark contrast to the coffee that he inadvertently squeezed from his collar, which did go down well. Right down the front of his shirt. He stopped. He composed himself. He took a few deep breaths. The concept was good, and the presentation was stunning – he could turn this around. NextGen AI was a venture that promised to revolutionize how artificial intelligence integrates with daily life. It was a bold idea, teetering on the edge of tomorrow's technology, and one he had nurtured from conception to prototype with nothing but sheer determination and a vision. He’d gathered the smartest graduates; he headhunted the hackers and the savant teenagers who spoke better code than they dig English. He built a team to build his dream. And now the product was all but ready, it was a product that was world-beating, it represented his future. But it was also a product that had pushed him to the edge of his sanity. And he wasn’t going to let a coffee stain destroy everything he’d worked for. But then, as he discovered the coffee-saturated pen drive in his pocket he realised differently. He was indeed going to let a coffee stain destroy everything he’d worked for. Not only that, but this one act of coffee vandalism was what finally pushed him over the edge of his sanity. He lay down, curled up in a foetal position and started sucking coffee from the lapels of his designer suit. The investors watched for a moment or two and agreed that it had been an interesting presentation but lacking in investable substance. They filed out of the conference room, making sure that some of the free buffet that Christian had paid for also left with them. They were investors after all. **A Domino Falls** That weekend the world went on its merry way as if nothing had happened. Ellen ended up having a wonderful day at the teddy bear museum. The kids were well behaved and despite her late arrival her boss was in a good mood. Of course, the fact that it was Saturday the next day always helped. Friday night was a quiet one, a movie, a couple of glasses of wine, and an early night made it the perfect evening. Saturday daytime was slouchy, Saturday nighttime was clubby, and Sunday was recovery. However, throughout the entire weekend, she couldn’t help thinking about the poor man she soaked with coffee. She really hoped he was okay. He wasn’t in the slightest bit okay. Christian was spending the weekend involuntarily confined to the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. A fact that also put a serious dent in the mood of Christian’s business partner, whose head hit the desk with a distinct crack when the ramifications of his partner’s meltdown became apparent. It was several minutes before Fran Agosti lifted his head from the desk and stared at the little group of employees who had gathered in the office. The atmosphere was tense – the news was obviously bad. Fran wasn’t the archetypal Italian, he was calm, he rarely raised his voice, and he despised pasta. But he was always sophisticated, handsome, and without fail - immaculately groomed. Over the course of a single phone call, all this elegance had drained out of him. His expensive haircut looked like a discarded mop and his deep-set brown eyes were puffy and red. A paperclip from the desk was still attached to his forehead. It was a picture that told the staff everything they needed to know. “We’re finished,” was all he said. **A Ripple Ripples** The thing about ripples is that not so long ago they were confined by geography. This is no longer the case. These days a ripple can cascade across seas of fibreoptics in milliseconds. A ripple that starts in Peckham can quickly become a tsunami pounding the shores of a distant continent. Which is exactly what happened. In the offices of a small company in Middle America, more foreheads hit more desks in the wake of Fran Agosti’s news. The firm was a crucial part of the NextGen project and was now in deep trouble. The owner, a pragmatic woman named Carla, had fought tooth and nail to build her company from a mere idea into a respected name in the tech industry. Yet, she found herself in the unenviable position of having to make cuts – deep, painful cuts. The first to go were the temporary contractors, many of whom were bright young minds fresh out of college, brimming with ideas and ambition but suddenly left adrift. Among them was Alex Mercer, a coder of remarkable talent and peculiar disposition. Known around the office as a "coding geek," Alex had a penchant for solving complex algorithms like they were basic crossword puzzles. But as is often the case, such brilliance comes at a cost, Alex Mercer despite his brilliance was a fruitcake. Unfortunately, both for the world and Ellen’s conscience, Alex loved his job. It got him out of the house and away from the smothering attention of his mother, he did not take kindly to being among the first out the door when the axe fell. Other workers watched him pack his desk and listened to him mutter the single word “revenge” repeatedly as he emptied his drawers and cleared his desk. Within an hour of getting home, he started. With resentment growing in his heart and an overbearing mother fussing about him like a demented chicken, Alex embarked on a project far removed from the ambitions that once fueled his workdays. He poured his burgeoning anger and considerable talent into crafting a piece of code, failing to realise his own genius and the power of his creation. **A Momentum Gathers** Beep, beep. Monday morning – the worst morning in existence. Ellen silenced the alarm, yawned and then put her head back on the pillow and picked up her phone. It was over a week since she had spilt coffee on Christian Smiley. But the consequences of her actions were beginning to gather momentum. Not that she was aware of this, she simply thought her phone was throwing a flaky. She stared at the screen and wondered just who the hell NextGen were and why did her phone think it was necessary to tell her that whatever NextGen was, it sucked. Perhaps it was Karma that Ellen was among the first to be affected by the virus, perhaps the universe works in such mysterious ways. But likely it was just coincidence. Discarding her useless phone she switched the TV on, the news was about the usual stuff. Doom, gloom, death, despair, she switched the TV back off and padded through to the shower. She missed the breaking news banner that would have explained to her why her phone wasn’t working. The banner told of a computer virus dubbed “NextGen” that was locking users out of computers, phones, tablets, and even their cars. It was also spreading at an alarming rate. By the time Ellen finished showering and turned the TV back on, every channel she flicked to told her that NextGen sucked. Ellen, we have established, is not great at mornings. Normally, she could bus it all the way to work without lifting her head from her phone, blissfully unaware of whatever was going on around her. Today things were different. There was a traffic jam for a start. She overheard someone saying that the traffic lights were off and that there seemed to be broken-down cars everywhere. Rather than wait for the bus she set off on foot to the next street where she hoped the traffic wouldn’t be snarled. As she passed by a row of electronic retail shops, Ellen's attention was drawn to the windows. Inside, every screen—TVs, computers, digital displays—flashed that same strange message – “NextGen sucks.” Another thing we know about Ellen is that she isn’t blessed with great intellect, not stupid, not even a sandwich short of a picnic, but maybe a picnic where someone forgot to pack the beetroot kind of dim. But even Ellen noticed the inordinate number of disgruntled drivers standing beside their malfunctioning cars, she also noticed that most of them were the very latest generation all-singing and dancing, cloud-connected cars. In actual fact, the drivers standing outside their broken-down cars were the lucky ones. The not-so-lucky ones were screaming into motorway pile-ups at full pelt with feet slapping uselessly at brakes and accelerators that refused to respond. Others met similar fates as they hurtled down suburban streets in 100mph white-knuckled hell rides or plummeted off bridges into freezing rivers. All in all, it wasn’t a great rush hour, but at least the planes hadn’t started falling from the sky yet, nor had the power gone off. But there wouldn’t be long to wait. **A Tipping Point** At any given time on an average day, there are between 10,000 and 15,000 aeroplanes in the sky. This Monday, although decidedly unaverage in many ways, the numbers fell exactly in between these two extremes. By the time they started to fall from the sky chaos had descended across society, as such it was impossible to ascertain how many planes full of screaming passengers plummeted earthwards. However, best estimates put it at between 6,000 and 8,000. This was not good news for the crews and passengers, but for them at least it was quick. Back on earth things had gone past pear-shaped and were heading into the realm of catastrophic. The initial confusion and inconvenience were only the tip of a situation that rapidly deteriorated. The infrastructure that supported society began to fail. Slowly at first, but with a gathering pace as the virus wormed its way through clueless security protocols and proliferated itself across a cloud-based digital world. The internet quickly crashed, leaving millions of people without access to Candy Crash Saga, and then the power started to fail. Across the world, cities were plunged into darkness and chaos as power grids flickered, sparked and died. Emergency services, overwhelmed and handicapped by the same technology they depended on, struggled to respond to the mounting crises. Hospitals, facing power outages and equipment failures, were forced to revert to manual procedures, prioritizing the most critical cases in a grim triage dictated by necessity rather than choice. By the time looting began, Ellen had given up trying to get to work and was back in her cold, dark, and very isolated flat. She had no idea what was going on, there was no power, her phone still had some battery left, but there was only that glaring red text on a black background that told her that NextGen sucked to look at. Feeling confused and frightened she headed off to bed in the early evening wishing that her phone would beep and that tomorrow everything would be back to normal. In fact, everything was about to get a whole lot worse. **A Hurricane Howls** Alex Mercer didn’t mean to be a pivotal pawn in Ellen’s unwitting destruction of the human race. He just wanted to make his mark on a world he didn’t understand. He only briefly appreciated the effect of his virus. He swiftly failed to enjoy the irony of the fact that he used NextGen’s own tech to create the virus. He did swiftly realise that he had created a monster. The virus he created was clever, far cleverer than even he realised; AI clever in fact. It mutated, it hunted for weaknesses to exploit, and it learned. If a server refused to let it in, it returned a microsecond later under a new guise, and so on until one by one, the victims fell. And it was maliciously intelligent, it prioritized targets to the device level. Not only did it aim for communication infrastructure, power grids, and hospitals, but it precisely targeted them in such a way that it always left a path open for its continuing destruction. It became greater than the sum of its parts, its intelligence growing exponentially and then when it judged the time was right and humanity was at its most vulnerable it played its trump card. At secret – and not-so-secret - research facilities across the globe, the attack happened with precise synchronization. In facilities that housed some of humanity's most dangerous secrets—pathogens capable of wiping out populations, genetically engineered viruses designed for warfare, and experimental biological agents—the virus executed its masterstroke. It wasn't successful in every attempt, but the breaches it did achieve were catastrophic. At a high-security lab in a remote part of Siberia, air filtration systems shut down as containment fields flickered out of existence, releasing airborne pathogens into the atmosphere. In a bioweapons research centre hidden in the mountains, security locks disengaged, allowing deadly viruses stored within to escape their cryogenic prisons. In the US, China, Europe, Iran, Iraq, Israel, and countless more – the guilty secrets of a hundred governments were exploited. Like an evil mist from a horror movie evil pathogens and uncaring viruses spread across the globe. In concert with their digital equivalent, the fate of humanity was sealed. **A House of Cards Comes Tumbling Down** It didn’t take long. Even in a world with functioning communication channels and infrastructure, it would be doubtful if humanity stood a chance. Covid-style lockdowns would not cut the mustard with the array of assorted nasties that rained down on a civilization that barely knew of the existence of Ellen Swanson, a bright, bubbly personality, who hated mornings and so had destroyed the world. There were no functioning hospitals to fill to overflowing. There were no miracle stories, if a pathogen didn’t get you a virus would. With remarkable speed, a humanoid species and many others shuffled off their mortal coil. Of course, there are always exceptions. Here and there by luck or judgment, the odd human survived. There weren’t enough to kickstart humanity, a handful of souls destined never to meet and spread out across an eerily silent globe does not constitute a breeding population. Ellen Swanson of Flat 1A, 17 Magincourt Street, Peckham was one of these. She doesn’t live in Peckham anymore, instead, she spends her days teaching at a place where she had one of her last happy memories. Every morning, she sits each teddy bear on its chair and desk set. For reasons, that Ellen has never been clear about, she insists that each bear wears a Starbucks coffee cup on its head as part of the uniform. She still hates mornings, but now she hates afternoons, evenings, and nights too. She also hates the very thought of coffee and would do anything to hear the beep of an alarm again. | 20,298 | 3 |
The wind blew cold as a small group of mercenaries moved swiftly through the night. Young men, too scared to talk. The only sound they made was the crunch of their boots on the soft snow. Suddenly, the sound of their footsteps multiplied tenfold. The spoken silence broke with a blood-curdling scream from the back of the group. The unit spun around in time to see a horde of undead coming towards them. “Move, move, move. Head to the bunker.” their commander shouted. About ten meters in front of them stood a large metal box, and behind them a group of about fifty brain-hungry zombies. “Hilith, Caldwell, Grendel, hold ‘em off while we get the injured inside.” Three young men, no older then nineteen turned to face their commander, the spoke in unity “Yes Sir!” Their voices cracked as panic filled their lungs. Turning, they opened fire on the horde. A moment passed and more and more zombies appeared. In between the sound of zombies and the whiz of bullets, the sound of a voice cried out “Good luck men.” followed by a slam as the metal bunker doors shut. The three men looked at each other, their AK’s and secondaries completely out of bullets. One man, Hendrick Grendel, dropped his weapons and rushed back to the doors, slamming his fists against them. Blood began to run from his hands, the smell drew the horde in. They rushed to him, bypassing Hilith and Caldwell. “We have a chance, let's try to get to safety.” said Caldwell as the zombies ran past. “But what about him?!” Hilith cried back, “We should help.” “No time, the monsters won’t be distracted for long, and more are on their way. We need to head back to base, there are guns and food there. This way, come on, it’s not far.” They ran for about thirty minutes, staying off the main roads, and dodging zombie hordes on the way. Eventually, they came to a large military base. It was completely void of life, dead bodies riddled the yard, turning the white snow red with blood. “We don’t know how many of ‘em is in here so let’s try to keep it down,” Caldwell whispered. “Let’s find a good place to rest for the night, we’ve been on our feet all day, I can’t take this for much longer.” Hilith whispered back. They walked around for a bit before they found a locker room, after going through everything they both sunk down against a wall. Hilith pulled off his helmet and let his brown hair fall in front of his green eyes. His face was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. “You know, I never thought I’d die like this man.” He said with an exhausted smile. “Oi, don’t be like that Leo,” said Caldwell; refilling their guns with the ammo they found, he continued, “we’ll get out of here... eventually.” “You and your positive attitude Reiden, I think that was the only thing keeping the unit together through all this.” “Nonsense, you’re the one who kept going back to save the others, without you we’d of never gotten to the bunker.” “Yeah, like that did us much good, those sleazebags left us out here to die. We’re expendable to ‘em, they could’ve kept those doors open a little longer if they really wanted to.” “Eh, we’ve always been expendable, you know that. Everyone on unit Zulu was. We just happen to be the unlucky ones at the back of the group.” “You’re right about that one.” Leo took a deep sigh and stood up, “Get some rest man, I’ll guard the door for a bit, tomorrow we’ll find a better place, somewhere easier to defend. We may not survive, but we sure can try.” The men took turns sleeping the rest of the night. When morning came so did the zombies. Leo woke to the sound of gun fire and his friend yelling, “We gotta get outta here man, grab what you can and get to the stairs, I’ll try to hold ‘em back!!!” Leo grabbed two backpacks with ammo and food and his gun. When they managed to get out of, the room they fled to the yard. “We need to get to the eastern stairwell,” Reiden shouted as they fought against the oncoming hordes of zombies. “There's a balcony with only one entrance, easy to defend.” They continued forward, killing what they could while they rushed to the eastern stairwell. After a few minutes they could see it. The blood-stained handrails called them to safety. Only a few feet away. “Reiden. I’m out of ammo, toss me your pistol.” Reiden turned and tossed his Remington to Leo. Right when he caught it, it miss-fired. Leo’s body went limp, blood dripped from a small hole in the middle of his head. Reiden gasped as he saw his friend fall to the ground. Fear struck him as he turned on his heels. He made a dash for the stairs, managing to make it up them in the nick of time. At the top of the stairs, he shot down zombies one by one. After a few minutes he reached his last mag and emptied it in a matter of moments. It was over, he had no more bullets. The zombies kept coming. Reiden moved to the back of the balcony and collapsed to the ground, ready for it all to end. The clouds above began to shed tears of white. The snow fell to the ground, covering everything it touched. Reiden tried to block out the sound of the zombies and the feeling of his flesh getting ripped apart. He focused on the peaceful sounds of the wind and the feel of the cold snow on his face. He thought back to all those he saved and the ones he didn’t, a silent tear slid down his grime-covered face. The faces of those he had lost beckoned him from beyond the grave. | 5,389 | 1 |
The year was 1921 or thereabouts. The story’s been muddled through time. Waves in hair, fringes on dresses, pearls dangling down to boyish waists. thigh high stockings peeking from beneath shortening hemlines. Derby hats, Ascot ties, Coat tails swinging. shoes shining. secrets hiding. And gosh, did I like to figure them out. Among it all was me, Millie DuPonte. Theatre actress. A quiet voice concealed behind bold red lips. Always up on the latest trend, my hair was cropped to my chin and always perfectly in place. Oh, those were the days. If I could tell her now what wrinkles and age I’ve accumulated over the years, she’d probably faint. But with age comes wisdom, I suppose. Wisdom enough to avoid mirrors, anyway. I digress. I was raised in the theatre and content to stay there, at the time. I rarely landed leading roles, but as long as I was on the stage, I was satisfied. The list of times I was credited as “ensemble” reaches to the heavens. But, how I adored it. The heat of the lights, the click of my heels on the well-worn stage beneath me. The applause and smiles from a satisfied crowd. It couldn’t be beat. Between scenes you could always find me at a my dressing table, but vain I was not. Just particular. Noticing what others didn’t about my appearance and my surroundings. I could notice a single hairpin out of place and all the girls knew it. - At home I was surprisingly mild, considering my life of glamour on the stage (purely in my imagination was the glamour). I shared an apartment with my friend, Beth, who I’ll talk more of later, trust me. We lived humbly. By force, not by choice. That was the nature of the life we chose.. I worked as a seamstress and she worked in a local pub to bring in our main income, while the theatre payed very little. Extremely little. Smaller than the mice in our forty dollars per month abode. Our friends, so we said. The bane of our existence was more like it. Those little buggers ruined everything we owned. But we had a roof over our heads, and we barely even went there to sleep anyway, so we settled. For a few years now I’d been seeing George McDowell. You’ll hear a lot about him. The love of my life. But that’s what I called every man I met, I suppose. A young man of 30, glasses framing brown eyes and lashes so long they could’ve pushed his glasses right off his nose. All the girls were fond of his eyes. His one truly attractive feature, if I was being honest. His face was rather gaunt, his hair thinning. At barely 5 foot 7, he was only an inch or two taller than I was . I avoided tall heels for that very reason. Flat shoes are more comfortable anyway, I always said. I was lying. I saw the newest highest heels and pined for them badly. But I pined more for George, so he won. In spite of all his faults, he carried himself with a confidence that made it all irrelevant. On this foggy December night, I was waiting for George to come see me in my show. As usual, I was practically an extra. Credited in the long list at the end of the program simply as “Girl Selling Flowers.” I was fine with the measly role, but George always said he “knew my potential!” with an indignant fist in the air. He’d pushed me to try for more, but I never would. I was backstage, chatting and applying my makeup. I’d known my costars for years. We always put on the same show every year. Romeo and Juliet. The old classic was an absolute must and the crowds reveled in it each time. My dearest friend was playing the role of Juliet this year. She often did. Petite and well-mannered, Beth was a gem. An absolute gem. Meek and mild, glowing and lovely without a stitch of blush, and a barrel of laughs at the post-rehearsal pub visits. Beth always had a story to tell. Like the one where the boy she was seeing showed up 45 minutes late to a date. 45 minutes! He groveled at her feet with apologies but, alas, Beth had been quite upset. Not the sniffling, sad, “Give me a cuddle. I’ve been waiting so long,” upset, but the punch-him-in-the-nose kind of upset. And punch him she did. Uncharacteristic, you’d think, being how sweet she was, but she knew what she wanted. Punctuality, apparently. - “Darling! You made it!” I flung myself into the arms of my dearest as George shivered into my embrace. “It’s awfully cold, Millie . I’m surprised the show is still going on with this much snow.” “Oh George, my love, the show simply MUST go on!” A little smirk and I slipped back into my dressing room. “10 minutes to showtime!” The stage manager’s voice echoed through the aging hallways. - “Thus, with a kiss, I die.” Thunderous applause rang out for the centuries-old show that never grew tired. Flowers flopped on the stage, thrown by hopeful young men to, mostly, Beth. Graciously, she picked them up and curtsied in her hoop skirt and corset. It cinched her waist somehow even smaller than it already was. Oh, how the boys cheered for her. “Beautiful, as always, my dear.” George gave me my own bouquet and knelt on one knee. He teased proposals all the time, yet I knew he was still saving for a ring. An insurance salesman didn’t make much, and he wanted the best for me. I’d marry him with no rings at all, as he well knew. “Drinks all around on the corner downtown?” The same little rhyme was called out by one of us each night. The whole cast and crew gathered together and braved the chill for an ice-cold beer. - Blood. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. It was burned there as securely as the knowledge that Beth was dead. You must forgive me for thrusting this at you so early, but it was such a profound event in my life, I thought it best not to keep it from you any longer. I’d found her in the wee hours of the morning after the show. We shared an apartment on spruce street since who knows when. Best friends since childhood. And there she was in her bed, shrouded in crimson. Her glow had been burned out. Her lovely face smeared with blood. Her lovely face. Her body was untouched. It lay there as if you could find her sweet little head peacefully resting on the pillow above it. But, no. Beth was gone. Not just gone, but savagely ripped away. If I had a second with whoever did this to dear Beth, they’d be sorry. Who am I kidding, I was a tiny little thing. But I had the burning fire of grief in my heart, so maybe that would’ve given me the strength. Anyway, Beth was gone and policemen were everywhere back at my place. “How did you know her?” Only my best friend. “Who did she spend time with?” Too many men usually. “Could one of them have wanted her dead?” Not considering what she usually did for them. “When was the last time you saw her?” At the show the night before. I’d begged her to go to the pub with the rest of us, but she wanted to go home and sleep. The one night I wasn’t with her and now this. I considered that it was my fault. Of course it wasn’t, but these are the things that go through one’s mind when one’s best friend was murdered. Brutally, at that. The sudden urge to run to George surged in my heart. I threw on my coat and ran out the door. He would be upset, as well. George liked Beth. He was my best friend, after all. He’d seen her around quite a bit. City noise buzzed around me. Lamps on posts mourned for me and snowfall shared my tears. Merchants stopped to look as I stifled sobs. “What’s wrong? Where is she going?” they must’ve thought. “Scorned by some one night stand, I suppose.” No. Guttural sobs for my one true friend. Truth be told, I had no idea what they thought, and they probably wasted not a moment on me, but I wished they’d mind their own business. I told him the news, and he let me cry on his shoulder until tears soaked through to his skin. “Beth is DEAD!” I cried over and over. He knew not what to say, as most men don’t. But his strong arms around me said all I needed him to. He was always a comfort to me. When my cat, Gimpy, died, George was right there in a second to plan the funeral. Yes, funeral. That cat was a son to me and George knew it. Poor old Gimpy. I still miss him. “Take me home, George.” I pleaded with the little strength I had after my interrogation. Didn’t those policemen know it was difficult for me? If they knew, they didn’t care. Of course, he couldn’t take me to my home, for my home was a crime scene, so he took me to his. He’d sleep on the couch, he said. What a gentleman. And then, would you believe it, the next thing he asked me was THE question. The marriage type. “Will you marry me?” He said. “Hell no!” I stormed out. It’s not that I didn’t want to marry him, just that he asked me directly after my friend was murdered. Not the best timing, I’d say. So, the answer was no (excuse me – “hell no”) and our lives moved on for the time being. George and I really were a match made in heaven, though. He made me coffee the way I liked it and I kissed him just the way he liked it. And a few weeks later, he’d try to make it all up to me. - Candlelight and roses. That’s what I walked into when I strolled into George’s apartment 3 weeks later. “What’s all this?” “An apology.” “For what?” “For being a dolt.” “You were that.” “Don’t rub it in.” I sipped the wine and it was my favorite – blackberry. Sweet on my tongue and zingy down my throat with every drink. Before long, the bottle was empty and so was the side of my mind with the grudge. We were both…happy, I guess you could say. Another word for it would be “drunk.” Either way, we were making up. His hand graced my knee and the tingle reached my rosy cheeks. He placed a kiss gently in the little crook where my ear meets my jaw and I was a goner. “You can have me, George. I’ll marry you.” “Is that the wine talking?” He slurred into my ear with a slippery whisper that had me melting. “It may be, but let it talk.” - “That’s the last of it.” I’d just taken Beth’s things out to the moving truck to be taken back to her mother. I couldn’t imagine the anguish of a mother losing a child. Especially one as sweet and wonderful as Beth. The sun caught something glinting at the top of a box. I picked up Beth’s mirror that she always kept on her vanity. “This won’t be missed.” I took it to remember her by. I’d spoken to police more than my own fiancé by this point, so we were about to hit the town. Forgetting sadness is often done best at night with sparkling lights and chill in the air, so that was our plan. I slipped on my best dress. I felt the silk as it graced my curves, the fringed beading tickling my collarbones on its way to my chest. Boyish little shoes that kept me shorter than my George, and a dangling necklace hung round my neck to swing as the music soared. A knock at the door and I was face to face with George, dressed to the nines and looking mighty fine, as I always said to him with a glint in my eye. Off we went. I adored how the shop windows glimmered. Jewels and clothes and everything I’d ever need or want was held behind the glass. Trees were draped with tiny little lights the size of my little painted pinky nail. Cracks in sidewalks caught my pointed shoes and I couldn’t care one bit. Streetcar horns and tipsy laughter filled my ears and flasks of whiskey filled each pocket I passed. Arm in arm, George and I were witnessing the best mankind had to offer, I had no doubt in my mind. I held my frilled cloche hat and looked up to the stars. “I wish I may, I wish I might…” I began. “Forget the stars and have a wild night?” George finished. “You ridiculous you.” We skipped away as happy as little larks. - Reality set back in in the form of hangovers and grief. A combination I’d rather never experience again, let me tell you. Headaches and tears. Swollen eyes and queasy stomachs. “You know Beth was the only friend I had?” George replied with a squeeze on the shoulder, which is probably all he could muster. Ding dong went the doorbell. Police again. “Miss DuPonte, we need to speak with you-” “About my friend, yes, yes, I know. Come in.” “Ma’am, we’ve discovered something. A fingerprint in the blood on your friends vanity in her dressing room. We’re searching for matches, but it may take some time. May we take your prints at the station at your earliest convenience?” “Of course,” I replied, “but do you have anything else? That seams a little bit of a measly thing to find in that mess.” “We’re searching for the murder weapon, which appears to be a kitchen knife. Found in every home in the nation, so it’ll be hard to narrow it down. Cause of death was confirmed to be hemorrhaging in her brain due to the stab wounds.” I shuddered. They speak so clinically about such tragedy. When does the numbness begin for them? Do they really feel nothing? “We are truly sorry for your loss, Miss DuPonte.” Right. “And we apologize for any inconvenience our visit caused you.” Only a bigger headache than I already had. “Thank you, officers. Good day.” I held the door for them and shut it a little too loudly once they’d left. I understood crime solving wasn’t a walk in the park, but I figured they should’ve at least had an idea of who’d done it by now. George reminded me it had only been a month. A month too long. George yawned. “Make me some coffee, Darling.” - Snooping. Over the years I’d found I was quite good at it. Finding Christmas presents, overhearing adult conversations at far too young an age, and now finding Beth’s killer. That was the plan, anyway. So there I was, by her bed in our one room apartment. Reliving the night I found her. Tired old bulbs lit the mirror on her vanity, shining their dim light on the tables. Creaky chairs were pushed up to stained surfaces. Stained with blood and decades-old layers of makeup. I began my search. Lipstick? Useless. Broken mirror? Maybe struck in a struggle? A letter. From whom? I opened the hastily crushed page. It had been tossed in a corner as if unwanted. Dearest Beth, it began. I’ve loved you since I met you. Your eyes like the sea in their depth and beauty, your sweetness beyond my dreams. I may not have you, as I have another, but I yearn for you with all my being. Something must be done, and I’m afraid I must do it. Yours in another place and time, I froze as I read, George. How could he? The man I had just agreed to marry. Tie the knot. Live happily ever after. How dare he? Had his insane sort of love taken Beth? Had he truly killed her? As you can see, my mind was flooded with questions, and still is. I ran to George. My heart was in agony. Ripped to shreds by the one who was supposed to stitch it together. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stormed through the streets. This time I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. I wiped my weeping eyes with bitter anger. I’ve never felt such anger since. “You killed her??” I flung open the door to George’s apartment with such force it threw him backward. Either that or he was thrown back by shock at the absolute fire in my voice. “What are you saying?” He whimpered. A scared little dog he was now. “They said they don’t know who did it!” “I found the letter.” “What letter?” “The one proclaiming your love to my friend.” “I can explain.” “Go right ahead.” My fists clenched, his eyes empty, he fessed up. “I needed her gone so I could love you! I care for you so deeply, Millie. It was the only way I could go on.” “Why not leave me for her?” “I’m engaged to you! I can’t break that promise.” It didn’t make sense, but nothing did now. “Well, you’re not engaged anymore. I’m calling the police and you’re going to tell them everything.” Apparently my shouting had caused the neighbors to already do just that, as I heard sirens down the street. “One last thing,” I said – and punched him right in the mouth. That lying mouth. Blind to the hideous snake he was, he hissed through his bloodied lips, “Darling, I should’ve known you hated me. | 16,068 | 1 |
“Stage Fright” by P. Orin Zack [5/21/2012] “Pardon me for asking, Mr. Welch, but you’re not having stage fright, are you?” Feeling very alone in the empty limo, Evers Welch gazed through the darkened window at the big display over the row of doors across the street. People were still streaming into the concert hall, eager to experience his latest work. He caught the driver’s eyes in the mirror. “Maybe so, Jimmy,” he said, a bit perplexed. “That’s what’s so strange about it.” “What is?” The demand-pricing list on the display washed out to gray while the iconic photo of the disaster that had so traumatized the city years before faded in. It was followed by a series of rapid-fire overlays that turned it into the end-card from the trailer for the live cinema-cast of tonight’s performance. The stage in question extended well past the wooden one across the street. “I haven’t had stage fright since the night I played my first song cycle in public. That was what, fifteen years ago?” Jimmy nodded as the limo crept a few more feet. “The one about that Pinkerton guard in the Homestead Steel strike. I’ve seen the pirate video. You had stage fright? Could-a fooled me.” Across the street, the giant end-card dissolved to the house concert photo of a twenty-something Evers Welch that had gone viral after that video was uploaded, and then to the cover art for the commercial release of the Pinkerton song cycle, which used it. “Uh huh. I was petrified. Up ‘til then, I’d never laid my soul bare to tell a story. That was the first one I wrote about a real person. Before that, they were all made up. Fictional. Safe.” “Then what’s different about tonight’s story? It’s about someone real, too, isn’t it?” Evers turned away. “It was supposed to be,” he muttered. “What was that, sir?” He shook his head. “Nothing. Look, just let me out. I’ll hoof it around the building from here.” “Sure thing, Mr. Welch. I’ll be parked by the stage door when you’re through.” Standing on the sidewalk beside the gridlocked limo, Evers stared up at his name again. It was unnerving. Still, it was just his name, and seeing it there was no different from the signs at any number of performances over the last few years. “Evers Welch: Live!” he read to himself. It loomed over him, taunting him with the promise of wealth and adoration if only he played it safe, daring him to speak his mind and risk throwing away the success he’d had. Well. Self-respect wasn’t that great a cost was it? All he had to do was turn his back on the inspiration that had consumed him for the past year, and disappoint every last person in the hall and in all those darkened cinemas. All he had to do was not perform the story they’d all paid to hear. They’d forgive him, wouldn’t they? Besides, he could always fall back on one of his earlier song cycles, maybe the one about the tech who volunteered to help shut down reactor 4 at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant. They’d enjoy that one, wouldn’t they? Sure they would. But would he? Could he live with himself if he didn’t go through with it? Evers swore a silent oath to Euterpe for cursing him with inspiration and started across the street. He slowed in front of a taxi when he saw a young woman in a yellow jacket with a grin on her face and a spring in her step just stop cold. The people just behind her wavered briefly, but then veered left and right, leading the swarm of over-busy people to flow around her like she was a sunny boulder in a concrete streambed. The slender human boulder was clearly wrapped up in whatever had flooded her soul, because the fingers of her right hand danced over an imaginary keyboard. When the pattern of notes sounding in his head as she touched the invisible ivories settled on a key, he smiled in recognition -- the melody she played was one of his. The sudden juxtaposition between the vast, distributed audience he was about to face and this unintentionally intimate expression of the bond that one anonymous woman had with his music brought him back to the friendly confines of the house concerts he so missed playing at. It all seemed like another world now, a reality that fame had cheated him out of. Well, after tonight, he might be lucky to even play one of those again. The Muse of his craft, it would seem, was steadfast in her refusal to offer him respite from agonizing over this decision. When he reached the sidewalk, he turned and joined the flow of pedestrians heading towards the entranced woman. But instead of continuing past her, he stopped a respectful distance away and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d thought I’d lost my way.” She looked at him quizzically, and then brightened to laughter when she recognized his face. She mouthed his name, and then said, “Thank me? For what?” He glanced down at her hand. “For playing that melody just now. Someone once told me that the purest form of music is the kind that dwells in your heart. Anyway, I’d like to find out how you react to tonight’s show. My limo will be waiting by the back door after the concert. Tell the driver I said you helped me with my stage fright.” “Stage fright? You? I don’t understand.” “Private joke. But really, I do want to chat more with you later. Will you wait for me?” She nodded. “Of course. And good luck… with tonight’s show, I mean.” Fired with renewed purpose, he continued on towards the musician’s entrance. The usual assortment of fans, publicity hounds, staff and security littered his path to the green room, but he was too wrapped up in the pros and cons to pay them much mind. What did manage to break his funk was the sound of muffled voices from inside that room, one of which sounded angry. The door flew open just as he was reaching for the handle. Craig, his bass man, sneered at him. “You’re nuts, Evers,” he spat. “How long have I been with you now? Don’t you freakin’ think you can trust me yet? How the hell do you think we’re going to play this gig like professionals if you can’t be bothered to let me know what the song cycle’s even about. Man, you can go out there and make a fool of yourself if you want, but I’m not going to have anything to do with it. I quit!” Before Evers had a chance to respond, Greta appeared in the doorway, wearing the motion-capture getup she used to manipulate the media during the performance. “You know, I really don’t blame him. What’s with all the secrecy, anyway?” Evers glanced over his shoulder at the gathering crowd. From the sound of it, they were already exchanging rumors about what might have caused Craig’s sudden exit. “Let’s… talk inside,” he said as he stepped in and closed the door behind him. “Where’s everyone else?” “Most of them are no-shows,” Greta said as she plopped into a chair. “Kendrik sent a rude tweet. I think you’re going to be flying solo on this one.” He paled. “You’re not backing out, too, are you?” “Hell no. I may not know what the book is on this, but judging from the media you’ve collected for me to play with, we’re either going to torch a whole lot of people’s worlds tonight, or they’re going to yank the feeds and kill power in the house to keep you quiet. Either way, I’d hate to miss it.” “Good. I don’t think anything I wrote would have the same effect if I didn’t have your touch on the media to back it up. Do you want to scan the lyrics and my notes for the talk-throughs?” “Surprise me. I know what media’s in the mix. Besides, I think it’ll be more powerful if there’s more spontaneity, even if I flub some of the cues. In fact—.” “Evers Welch!” Angus McClaran’s scratchy bellow was punctuated by the crash of the door slamming open. Flanking the venue’s manager were Ravi, the chief theater-cast engineer, and Earl, the performance bond company’s annoying site manager. “There’s a bucketload of money riding on this concert of yours,” McClaran said tightly, “and I just learned that your entire band has bailed on you. What the Sam Hill is going on here?” Evers rose to face them. “You know me, Angus,” he soothed. “I came through for you last time, even with all the technical problems we had.” “Bull! The only reason that performance wasn’t a total disaster was the fact that the recording crew ran a multi-angle shoot. We lost a bundle on refunds that night. It wasn’t you that came through, Welch, it was your editor. And it took the royalties on media sales to fill that financial crater you dug.” “I assure you, that’s not going to happen this time. The tech we’re using is more stable than it was then, and we’ve got hot backups of everything, including power for the equipment, should it come to that. Now, if you’ll all get on with your own business, and let us finish preparing for the show…?” “Since you’ve brought it up,” the engineer said, pushing past McClaran, “what is the focus of your story tonight? I’ve heard rumors that you’re not exactly honoring this city’s dead. And that’s not even touching on the political firestorm you could set off by maligning the patriots who risked their lives to comb through the wreckage of those buildings.” “All right, Ravi,” Greta cut in forcefully. “I’ve had about as much that that guff as I can stand. I’ve been through all the media in tonight’s show, and there’s not so much as a whiff of taint against a single person involved in the cleanup. Come to that, if you know anything at all about Evers’ work, you know full well that he researches everything exhaustively. The people he profiles in these song cycles are real human beings. Nothing’s fabricated. Now get out of here, all of you. We’ve got a lot of prep to go over, and not a lot of time to do it. Scoot!” “Not. So. Fast.” This time it was the bond manager. “None of you seem to grasp the value of what’s at risk here.” McClaran bared his teeth at his supposed ally. “Something you’ve been keeping from me, Earl?” “Nothing that shouldn’t be obvious to anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock.” His raised finger twitched scant inches from McClaran’s nose. “Well, not everyone has your gift, Earl, so why don’t you do us all a favor and just get it off your chest.” “Okay,” he said, turning his attention back to the performers. “The promos for your concert made it painfully obvious that you’re planning to dance on a lot graves tonight. That’s not a very wise thing to do. That building site is tantamount to holy ground now. Desecrating it will bring down the wrath of forces far more powerful than mere governments can muster.” “Oh, please!” Greta turned away. “Hear me out!” he thundered. “What happened that day changed everything! It was the galvanizing shock that brought this nation together against a common enemy. Policies changed overnight. Government agencies were reorganized. The armed forces were mobilized for action, and this country led the world into battle. It was a moral imperative underwritten by the economic strength of the free market, against a shadowy force that refuses to identify itself with any one nation.” “And what,” Evers said calmly when Earl stopped to breathe, “does any of that have to do with a song cycle about a human being who was caught up in that maelstrom?” “Just this: there are a lot of people watching what you do tonight, and not all of them are your fans. Get out of line, and having hell to pay will be the least of your troubles.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. Now, could you all get out of here so we can get ready for the show? You do want to give your paying customers a show, don’t you?” Evers fell into fits of laughter the moment the door was closed. “You know, Greta,” he said once he caught his breath, “you’re in this up to your ears, now. But that crack about honoring the cleanup crews, that was genius.” She shrugged. “I figured it was a safe bet, considering how much of the media focused on the rats who made off with the loot. I wouldn’t be surprised if that cretin Earl had a stake in the profits himself. But now you’ve got me curious. Who is your focus on this one?” He was silent for a time before responding, and when he did it was in very subdued tones. “You know how I approach these things, how I lay out the events and interactions like they were a frog on the dissection table?” “Sure. That signs-and-string trope you favor has been used to death in procedurals and conspiracy dramas. Like that indie flick where the obsessive schizo fills a room with dysfunctional personality fragments arguing over what went down that day.” “Well, when I started work on this project, I went through all that looking for whoever it was that was at the critical turning point. The thing was, it didn’t break down that way. The patterns were all over the map, like there were a number of overlapping games being played out.” “So what did you do?” “Punted. Everything I’d laid out had to do with the events that happened that morning. The ones we could see, at any rate.” Greta nodded. “But you can’t really see fortunes being made.” “Exactly. And yet that’s precisely what happened. Big time.” Evers turned and started pacing from nervous energy. “Hedge funds took huge short positions on stocks guaranteed to drop. Millions of square feet of vacant office space were demolished, with the cleanup at government expense. To military contractors it was like manna from heaven. All of the records from a hundred massive fraud investigations, wiped out under the rubble of a building that crumbled from sympathy pains. And who knows what else. The legislature rolled over as easily as the people did, because they were all either in shock or in cahoots. Well, after I finished laying out all those strings, I knew I had to change the focus of the piece.” “That explains a lot of the pictures you loaded for me,” she said, “but I still don’t see how you could boil it down to one critical point, to a single person faced with a horrendous choice, like you did with the first man to volunteer to suit up to work on reactor 4.” Evers stopped pacing and walked towards her. “Neither did I. Not at first. But then I had a brainstorm. Even though a lot of people collaborated on this, I don’t think anyone was really in charge. It was more like a mob thing, a madness that people just played into because they could personally benefit, or their company could. My focus for this performance isn’t a person at all, it’s a mob.” Greta held up a hand for pause. “Hold on.” “What?” “That’s it,” she said, grinning happily. “That’s why the specter they’ve been using to frighten us all with since that day isn’t a specific person, some leader of another country for example. It’s just an ill-defined ‘enemy’ that we’re told can never be defeated, only fought in an endless war. They’re projecting.” “We’re of one mind then,” he said solemnly. “Look, what we’re about to do is going to make a lot of people very uncomfortable, including Earl’s masters.” “Amen to that.” “But because we’ve got such a dedicated audience, if they kill the show, a lot of people are going to want to know why. People like a woman I met on the way in here. Which reminds me, I asked her to stay around after the show to chat. She’ll be waiting by the limo. Anyway, we’ve got a particular kind of audience: curious people who can think for themselves, and are interested in what’s not covered in the news. It’ll be obvious to them that we were cut off because of what we were saying, and that will drive a lot of them to do some digging on their own.” “There’s one more thing that makes tonight’s audience different, Evers.” “Oh yeah?” “Uh-huh. They’re aggregated. Sitting together in theaters all over the place. And they’ll talk. I hope they’ll do more than that, but I’m pretty sure they’ll at least talk about what happened if we get shut down.” Welch extended his hand. “Either way, we’ll never get another chance to shine a light on those roaches. If we don’t survive this, it’s been a pleasure working with you.” “Same here. Let’s go torch the night.” The End Copyright 2012 by P. | 16,015 | 1 |
Chapter 1 : The Terrace Clara was staring at the Orion's belt, basking herself under the moonlight. the fresh air caressed her skin as she stood there mindlessly taking in the scent of the summer air. One could see the huge clouds of gasses coming out of the chimneys of industries nearby. The terrace was her favorite place to be. From there she would look at the city lights far away and dream of living a lavish life in the city. People hated ‘city life’ because of the chaos but she was born out of chaos and that was the life she dreamt of. She suddenly heard her phone beep and she tried taking it out of her pocket, but she failed to do so. For a moment she felt as if her hands were paralyzed but then she saw that she didn’t have her hands. She was suddenly standing on the brink of the wall of her terrace and there were kids laughing out loud telling her to jump, a girl came to her giggling and laughing. Almost immediately she pushed her from the 6th floor. Clara woke up panting, her whole body trembling and covered with beads of cold sweat. She felt a pair of hands on her stomach and got sucked into her bed, there were people all around her but nobody was noticing her. She was panicking, “oh god, get me out of this dream. Please” she sobbed uncontrollably, that is when a woman started running after her with an axe in her hands. She ran to a distance and slowly got fatigued by the act of running constantly. The woman slowed down and morphed into an older woman, and decapitated Clara with her axe. Clara could still see her decapitated head lying on the ground and a teardrop falling from her eye. But then she realized that the decapitated girl looked a lot younger than her present self. Perhaps she was still alive she looked at her hand and this time she saw only two fingers in her hand. She fell unconscious and woke up again in her room. She hoped to have woken up from her nightmare, she looked around the room and then she saw a lot of difference. It wasn’t her room… Chapter 2 : The Room The room's walls were painted with warm colors which gave them a comforting vibe, it was different from her original room which was barely plastered and whose wallpapers had started to rot away from the excessive moisture. Clara looked around the room, still trembling with fear due to her nightmares . Although she didn't quite recognize the room, but still somehow a sense of familiarity washed over her and she felt deja'vu of the concrete walls surrounding her. She looked around the room for some time to gather her thoughts. Afterward she went to look at herself, in the mirror attached to the closet . Upon inspection she found a huge scar on her forehead possibly from an accident. She was now starting to get confused. How had she gotten that scar?how did she get here? And what was the meaning of the nightmare she had before ? Whether it was a nightmare or was it real? As she was brainstorming these questions she suddenly found out that something was written on her chest barely visible due to her clothes. She took off her clothes to see the engraving written on her chest. She looked at the mirror and to her surprise found a message written on her chest by what seemed like a marker . The engraving read 'Look how big the monster inside of me has become!!' . Suddenly a soul crushing fear paralyzed her body rendering her mind into a state of panic . She lay on the floor for a while, it was as if the engraving on her chest had cast a hex on her body . Clara didn't quite understand the engraving but she was certain of one thing, that something terrible had happened which she couldn't remember. After a while as her body began to regain its composure she started to search around the room and After some time of inspection found a journal inside of the closet. It read... Chapter 3: The consciousness "14th april 2023 It's been a month since I have been trapped inside of my own mind reliving my past memories as nightmares only to be killed and wake up in another nightmare. If you find this then remember this is not real nothing is, infact the world around you is a creation of your own subconscious the one making your life miserable is none other than you yourself. There is no point in resisting for, the more you resist the harder it will be for you to wake up that is, if you ever wake up . And at last remember the shape morphing creature following you is your pure subconscious you already know what you have to do to wake up but you won't accept it now, would you? because I didn't."" It felt as if the whole world had collapsed into itself as the pain of realization gripped Clara ,the nightmares she had were just as real as her own reality and she had been doing it for god knows how long. She felt light headed and when she regained herself, she found herself standing on the same terrace she had been thrown off by the young girl the place where it all began. Looking around the marble panelled terrace she found the same girl who had pushed her off but this time she knew it was not a girl but rather her own conscience. She was trying to kill herself this whole time but couldn't because of her own conflicting desire to live. She looked at the projection of her conscience. Now she was not afraid of it, for she knew what she had to do ,she hugged the projection of her conscience and holding her jumped off the terrace . This time she was not afraid she felt liberated as if her whole body was melting with her surroundings her heart felt light as if she had finally achieved peace. Then her eyes opened but this time she wasn't in her room or the terrace but rather on floor her body was paralysed and blood was gushing out of her. Blood was staining the floor she had finally snapped back to reality but it was no different from her nightmares . The only difference was that she was now dying and she knew she won't wake up ever again after this.. Oh Such a horrible fate for a person to live through an endless nightmare not losing hope and to keep on going, thinking it will soon stop only to wake up and find herself dying and realise that she would be mere dust after 100 of years only a particle consisted of nothingness truly a pity. | 6,247 | 1 |
*So give me all your thoughts and critiques!* ​ Once upon a time there lived twelve sisters in a small cottage on a tall hill. Their hair was as pale as the moon and their eyes as bright as stars, always dressed in white flowing robes; they were the fairest in the lands but few ever saw them. The hill they lived on was so tall that they could almost touch the stars and every night one of them sat on the roof talking to the moon. Because the moon was like a mother for them and they always took care of her and kept her company. Every day one of the sisters ventured down the hill into the enchanted woods around the hill to gather flowers to brighten up the small cottage. But the youngest of them never got to venture down the hill because her sisters thought she was too young to do so. And she was the fairest of them all, so better to keep her hidden from all eyes. But one day, when the oldest went down the hill, she never came back. The others waited and waited but when the morning light kissed the roof of the cottage the next sister shouldered her dark cloak to go down the hill. Both to go look for her sister and to gather the flowers. But she too disappeared. The next day two of the sisters went down the hill and this continued until only the youngest was left all by herself. The second night she was alone she climbed the roof to talk to the moon but she was hidden behind a cloud and was not answering. The young girl started crying and the sound was as delicate as crystal windchimes that even made the stars cry with her. A magician King heard the crying from his tower and felt his heart break for whoever was crying so beautifully. The third night with him listening with his ever breaking heart he took his magical flying horse to go looking for whoever was crying so. The crying girls tears had formed a shimmering river that was cascading down the tall hill and down the enchanted forest. This river the king saw and when he drank from it he felt like crying himself; knowing that if he just followed it he would find the crying one. The moon was full but still silent the night the King lightly landed by the cottage and gazed upon the girl on the roof. She was so beautiful that he fell in love with her and swore never to leave her. ”Why are you crying so?”the king asked.” Come down and I will wipe your tear stained cheeks for you.” ”Oh, my sisters are all gone,”she answered with a sob.”I am all alone.” ”Your crying is breaking my heart, my lovely girl. Please come down and I will dry your tears from your eyes.” ”I cry for the moon is silent and my sisters has left, I am all alone.” ”No, I am here now,”the king stretched his arms towards her, her beauty filling his eyes and shattering heart.”Come down and I will keep you warm and help you find your sisters.” The girl blinked away her tears and took his help down from the roof. He held her against his chest, drying her tears away with kisses upon her eyelids. ”They went down into the forest and never came back,”the girl told him as he put her infront of him on the saddle.”They have never disappear like this before.” ”I will find them for you if it will stop your tears,”the king promised, looking upon the dark forest.”That is my solemn oath.” They rode through the dark forest looking for her sisters. Her fair hair lighting the way and her eyes glittering like stars. They came upon a dark castle in a crater with tall walls and thorny vines around it. The king took his sword and by taking some of the girls light unto his sword, by entwining it with some of her hair, he hacked his way through onto the courtyard. It was dark and silent but they could see a light in one of the towers. ”Ah, the last one!” A hideous monster descended upon them and stood tall in front of them. ”You will not have her!” The king jumped down from his horse, letting the girl take the reins and attacked the monster. The fight was long and tiresome but the monster got blinded by the girls hair because she was the brightest of them all so that the king could run his sword through the monster. ”My sisters!” the girl shouted and ran into the castle when the monster was dead with the king behind her. The eleven others were locked into the highest tower and when the King melted the lock the sisters all embraced each other crying joyous tears. The king's heart stopped shattering hearing the joy and gazing upon the beautiful sisters. He fell in love with all of them there and then and took them with him to his own castle to marry them all. He built them a tall tower so they could keep talking to the moon and every night he would be gazing at the light emitting from the sister on the roof. They were now his and his alone. And he was content. | 5,168 | 1 |
In the center of a tranquil forest, a brook whispered secrets to the trees. Its gentle voice danced over each pebble, weaving tales of ancient times. Some creatures paused to listen, enchanted by its melody. With each ripple, it carried dreams downstream, nourishing the land with hope. Seasons changed, but the brook remained a constant companion to all who sought solace in its embrace. Legends spoke of its origin, born from a tear of the earth herself, forever flowing with wisdom and grace. And so, beneath the canopy of green, the brook sang on, a timeless storyteller of the woods. In the hustle and bustle of modern life, amidst the cacophony of urban landscapes and the relentless march of technology, there exists a serene refuge–the whisper of a brook. It’s a gentle voice that speaks of ancient wisdom, a tranquil melody that resonates with the soul. In just a few murmurs, it carries profound lessons and timeless truths, inviting us to pause, listen, and reflect. Picture yourself nestled in a tranquil glade, surrounded by the verdant embrace of nature. In this sanctuary, the brook meanders gracefully, its crystal-clear waters cascading over smooth stones, creating a soothing symphony. As you sit by its banks, you can’t help but be captivated by its tranquil whisper, a gentle murmur that seems to carry the secrets of the universe. The first lesson the brook imparts is one of patience. Just as it slowly carves its path through the earth over millennia, so too must we learn to embrace the rhythm of time. In a world obsessed with instant gratification, the brook teaches us the value of persistence and perseverance. It reminds us that great things take time to unfold and that true growth requires patience and dedication. But the brook’s wisdom extends beyond mere patience; it also speaks of resilience. Despite encountering countless obstacles along its journey–rocks, fallen branches, and shifting terrain–the brook continues to flow, undeterred. It teaches us that in the face of adversity, we too must find the strength to persevere, to adapt and overcome whatever challenges lie in our path. Yet, perhaps the most profound lesson the brook imparts is one of acceptance. As it flows effortlessly downstream, it embraces each twist and turn with grace and serenity. It does not resist the natural order of things, but surrenders to the ebb and flow of life. In doing so, it finds peace amidst chaos, harmony amidst discord. In the quiet murmur of the brook, we find solace for our weary souls. Its gentle voice reminds us to slow down, to reconnect with the natural world, and to find beauty in the simplest of moments. In a world consumed by noise and distraction, the brook offers a sanctuary of stillness, a place where we can find clarity and perspective. As you rise from the banks of the brook, its whisper still echoing in your mind, take with you the lessons it has lavished. Practice patience in all your endeavors, embrace resilience in the face of adversity, and cultivate acceptance for the twists and turns of life’s journey. And remember, whenever you need guidance or solace, you need only listen for the whisper of the brook–for therein lies the wisdom of nature itself. | 3,236 | 1 |
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