text
stringlengths 11
53.7k
| charcount
int64 701
54.3k
| score
int64 0
210
|
|---|---|---|
Prologue\~ Ashley was sitting outside on her old, rusting swing set, listening to music in her new Bluetooth earbuds she had recently acquired for Christmas. The late afternoon sun was casting an almost orange glow on the yard around her. She sang along to My Chemical Romance's, "I don't Love you" while petting her cat as he purred in her lap. She could hear the roar of cars thundering past on the small, two-lane highway in front of her house. "Ashley!" She heard her parents yell through her earbuds. They must have needed something, she crossed her fingers and prayed that they weren't going to tell her to do dishes. She groaned before setting the cat on the ground and getting out of the still swing. She slowly walked around her house to the side door before walking in. "You called for me?" She asked, marching into the living room to where her parents were watching TV. Her mom turned away from the show that was on and blinked at Ashley, confused. "Nobody called for you." She said. "Oh." Ashley sighed, slightly scared. She must be hearing things. That terrible realization made her heart sink as she made her way back outside like nothing ever happened.\~\~\~ ​ Ashley was in the living room with her family watching "The Simpsons'," Something they did every night at nine o'clock before she and her siblings went to sleep. A car insurance commercial came on and Ashley checked her phone while she drowned out the Geico's Australian lizard babbling about saving fifteen dollars. "Hey Ashley," her Dad said, interrupting the goodnight messages she was sending to her boyfriend, "will you take the trash can out to the road so it can be picked up?" She sighed before slowly getting to her feet. She really really hated the idea of taking the trash to the road so late. Why couldn’t he do it? His laziness made her stomach churn as she meandered to her bedroom to get a pair of slippers. It took her a minute to find a pair of shoes to slide on, one of her house shoes had been kicked under her bed, she grabbed it and slid them on before heading outside. She stepped out onto her porch and turned to close the door behind her. The streetlight was actually working for once, but it only illuminated a small portion of the yard and road, the rest was still bathed in darkness. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadowy figure standing still in the street. Tall and faceless. The entity emanated a terrifying aura, one of malice and peril. Realizing what she was seeing, she quickly turned towards the road. No cars were coming and the orange light from the street lamp allowed her to see all the way into her grandparents yard across the small highway. But there was nothing there. She felt her heart drop to her stomach and the world fall out from underneath her feet as fear gripped her. She froze, desperately wanting to go back inside but she couldn't. Her parents wouldn't believe her this time, this has happened too many times before. She stood by the door for what felt like an eternity, talking herself into continuing her task. “This happens all the time,” Ashley told herself, “ there's nothing to be afraid of.” She got out her phone and turned on her flashlight. She could see perfectly fine but it made her feel a little safer for some reason. She knew her mind was just playing tricks on her because she was alone and vulnerable, she knew there was nothing really there, but she couldn’t convince her mind and body to believe her. She dashed down the stairs and around the white jeep in the driveway before reaching the garbage can on the other side by the Grandpa Greybeard tree. She grabbed the handle and titled it towards her, turning towards the street and walking quickly down the gravel. Ashley felt the hairs stand up all over her body and her spine tingle as she got the terrible sensation she was being watched from the shed behind her house. She could suddenly feel every nerve in her body and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She always felt like she was being watched when she was outside at night but she could never shake the feeling she was in danger. And it only gets worse when she tries going back inside. Once Ashely reached the end of her driveway, she turned the trashcan towards the road. She hated how eerily silent it was. No cars had passed still and the house's guard dog was sleeping in its doghouse. It was completely quiet, the only thing she could hear was her own jagged breathing. Her unidentified fear intensified. She tried calmly walking up the driveway back into her house but couldn't resist the urge to run. Her skin tingled with adrenaline and it felt like she had to move faster, immediately. She was now being chased. Ashley broke into a sprint and ran as fast as she could, but it wasn't fast enough. Her whole backside had deep, piercing pins and needles. Whatever was chasing her was right behind her. If she didn't run any faster, it was going to catch up to her. But she couldn't. Fear and agony gripped her chest as she raced for the porch, the searing pain of her terror making it almost impossible to breathe. She stumbled as she darted up the stairs, but her dread was so immense, the trip didn't deter her speed. She practically ran into the door as she twisted the nob and jumped inside the safe haven of her house and family. She placed her hands on her knees in her kitchen as she fought to catch her breath. "Are you okay?" Her mom asked, looking slightly concerned. She leaned forward on the couch to peer over at Ashley, uncrossing her feet and placing one leg on the floor. "I'm fine," Ashley gasped between breaths, "I was just running." Nobody asked why she was running while taking out the trash and she didn't want to tell them anyways. They'd say she was losing her mind. And she had to admit to herself, she probably was. | 5,858 | 1 |
At first glance, the street looked like a normal High Street. The usual mix of shops, coffee shops, and offices were frequented by the usual mix of people. It was just a bustling street in a bustling town going about its business. The old man hobbled along the busy road. And as had been the case for the past two hundred years, nobody spared him a glance. He reached a shop doorway that very few even noticed. Which was probably just as well. The little shop had a building society on one side of it and on the other was an upmarket wine bar. Both these shouted their presence with flashy posters full of smiling people happy with their financial situation and chalked boards offering organic soups and wholegrain bread as a lunchtime option for the pedestrians thronging the street. The grimy little shop sat in between these bastions of every high street as if it had been squeezed in as an afterthought. A sign weathered by the passing of centuries swung and creaked above the doorway despite the stillness of the air. For those who paid attention to such matters, the faded text read – The Blood Shop. But nobody ever paid attention. From a chain around his neck, the old man took a rusty old key and unlocked the ancient door that led into the last remaining blood shop in the country. It was a ritual he had observed for centuries, but he knew in his bones it was a ritual that was all but over and that saddened him. The blood trade was dying and while vampires still flourished, the modern world with its blood substitutes and vamping devices had all but killed the business. He had laughed when he first heard of the concept, nobody would take to it he’d reckoned. I mean, haemoglobin without blood was tasteless, bitter, and soulless. It lacked the rich dark tones of a good coffin-aged vintage. Even “cooking blood,” sold by the gallon had more character and bite to it. But he’d been wrong. The youngsters were first to embrace it, suddenly it was trendy to be seen vamping in public, they would gather in vamping clubs and swap flavours. Raspberry Ripple, blood orange, Virgin Island, sweet and salty, even alien blood were ones he’d heard of. Then came the “Humans have feelings too” campaign and suddenly the entire zeitgeist had changed. He was no longer someone other vampires respected, he was seen as an outlier, a relic of a less enlightened age. Nobody wanted blood anymore, customers were as rare as the blood of a hundred-year-old virgin. In the dim light of the shop, the old man stood alone, surrounded by shelves that once overflowed with the finest selections of blood from around the globe. Now, they gathered dust, untouched and unappreciated. Each bottle represented a story, a history, a life that had once pulsed with vigour. He could recall the story behind each one, the unique taste and essence that made every vintage special. Yet, these tales meant little in a world that no longer valued the depth and complexity of traditional blood. He always laughed at how wrong the humans had got it. Good blood wasn’t extracted from a young and innocent virgin. No, this was merely virgin blood, ten-a-penny stuff, that any corner blood shop would stock. He was a connoisseur, dealing in only the finest of blood. The best blood was extra-virgin, twice aged. First, it had to be aged within the body, a body that remained a virgin long past its due time. The overflow of frustration and hormones enriched the blood with a depth and character that couldn’t be replicated. After extraction, the blood was then aged in oak coffins dug from graveyards and still infused with the essence of their occupants. This was true blood, this was his domain. But now, thanks to raspberry ripple and synthetic skin the trade was dead. And the characters! The shop had been more than just somewhere for true blood lovers to get their fix. It was a social club, a place of business, a sanctuary for those who appreciated the finer things in life. Now, it was little more than a mausoleum. He shuffled in behind the counter and sat himself in the same leather armchair that had been there since the shop opened. He opened a dusty sales ledger that sat on the ancient counter and peered at it through half-moon glasses. It had been a fortnight since he’d last seen a customer, a young vampire shopping for blood as a treat for a dying ancestor. He hadn’t cared about the back story, or that the blood he bought had been aged for decades and stored at exactly thirty-seven degrees Celsius, or that it was a brand favoured by the Dracula family. He’d merely shrugged and asked if he took contactless. The ledger was a testament to a dwindling business. Each page took longer to fill than the preceding one, until now when almost a year had passed between entries before the young vampire had come through the door. Perhaps it would be another year, or longer before …. The tinkle of the bell above the door startled him. He looked up from the ledger to see a stranger entering the shop. The man was the epitome of elegance, a tailored suit of the finest material and a blood-red lining spoke of taste and breeding. A briefcase made from the finest leather was carried in one hand. Smiling and exuding confidence the stranger strode over to the counter. “Good morning to you my fine sir,” said the stranger in a rich, cultured voice. He looked around for a second, “and this shop is just as delightful as I’ve been told it was. You are the proprietor, I presume?” The old man adjusted his glasses and peered at the stranger for a moment. This was more like it, this was like a throwback to the old days, the man encompassed elegance, grace, and a love of the finer things in life. “I am indeed the proprietor, and you are?” The stranger extended an immaculately manicured hand, “I do beg your pardon, how rude of me, my name is Julian, and I believe we have a shared passion for the finer things in life. Now, I have heard rumours that tell of an unsurpassed extra-virgin blood to be had in this fine establishment, please tell me that this is true.” “Oh, fine sir, you don’t know how much your words gladden my heart.” He scuttled out from behind the counter with the energy of a man a hundred years younger. “Come, come,” he said beckoning the stranger to join him at a bank of humidors that filled an entire wall of the shop. “Let me show you the finest collection of vintage blood outside of Transylvania.” The stranger smiled at him again. The old man dismissed the feeling that there was something hidden behind the smile, a touch of condescendence perhaps, or arrogance. He could ignore all that for a taste of the old days. He unlocked one of the little cabinets and with great care, he took a little glass jar. It held a liquid that teetered on the edge of dark red and black, the jar was sealed with a flesh-coloured covering tied around the top with hessian twine. He held the jar up between the two men – “This is the finest blood for sale in the whole country, one for the true connoisseur, it was extracted from a sixty-year-old virgin just seconds before they thought their virginity was finally coming to an end. It is renowned for its complexity, it is rich with pheromones, it tastes of deep-seated fear and disappointment, it is tinged with excitement, it is rounded with regret. It is wondrous.” Julian regarded the little jar, he tapped the lid – “And the membrane, genuine or pig skin?” “Everything is genuine in here sir,” said the old man. “All our skins are removed before death and infused with the terror of the donor for several hours before they are cured with care and matched with the perfect blood for their texture and flavour.” “The tales of your knowledge are not exaggerated then,” said Julian. The old man peered at Julian. A niggling doubt was forming, in his heyday perhaps his reputation went before him. But not now, not for decades. He had become an irrelevance, a shambling old man that nobody noticed, an artefact of a grander time. “I am not so sure I have a reputation anymore,” he said. “Oh, such modesty,” said Julian with a smile. “Everyone in the trade knows of you and your shop.” “Trade, ha!” The old man laughed sardonically. “What trade? There is no trade anymore, everyone vamps now, clinically extracted haemoglobin flavoured with fruit essences and drawn through a synthetic artificially flavoured skin, that’s today’s trade.” Julian smiled, “My friend, you are sadly mistaken, the blood trade has never been healthier. Now, let me tell you why I am here.” “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I am afraid it is you who is mistaken I am the last of my kind as is this shop and…” But Julian wasn’t listening, he’d turned and walked over to the counter and placed his briefcase on it. “Now, you see, just like vinyl records made a comeback, so did real blood. But the market had changed, the modern vampire loves a bit of pizazz with their blood, a fusion of the finest quality blood and the excitement of a vibrant scene that isn’t afraid to innovate.” “I see,” said the old man even though he didn’t. “Do you?” asked Julian. “Then perhaps you are not as irrelevant as I was led to believe. Am I to assume then, that you have heard of Blood Boutique, the chain I work for? We have over thirty megastores dotted throughout the country and another opening up in the new mall on the outskirts of this very town. I have the privilege of being the chief procurement officer for the entire chain.” The old man slumped into his chair, “I see” he said again, but quieter this time as if speaking to himself. “And it is in this role that sees me visiting your store.” The old man struggled back up from his chair, “What do you want? My stock? My expertise?” Julian laughed, “Good gracious no, your stock and expertise are as outdated as your business sense. Nobody wants this foosty old stuff, modern palates demand freshness and zing, character like this must be introduced at the extraction stage. I’m afraid your stock is past its sell-by date, as is your expertise.” Shakily, the old man clasped the edge of the worn counter with both of his hands. “Well, what do you want, then?” Julian sprung open the clasps of his briefcase and took out a slim brushed steel contraption about the size and shape of a spectacle case. He flipped it open to reveal a flesh-coloured interior. He lifted it to his mouth, sank his fangs into it, and slurped. “Vamp?” he asked the old man, “This is one of my favourites, sweet strawberry and white chocolate fondant. Helps to keep the wolf from the door.” The old man’s face couldn’t hide the disgust he felt, “I’d rather not, and please just tell me your business or leave. I have no time for you and your devices.” “Please forgive me,” said Julian. “I had no intention of upsetting you, I will be brief. Now, as you know the blood trade has always been a cutthroat business and in today's world, this is more the case than ever before. Blood Boutique faces strong competition, Pulse Pantry, Blood ’r’ Us, Vintage Veins, and Nocturnal Nectars, to name a few are all vying for market share. Staying ahead of the game means innovating, building brand loyalty, and catering to the needs of the modern consumer. To survive you need to embrace modern trends, multichannel selling, click-and-collect, loyalty cards, and fantastic customer service are all required.” The old man stared blankly at the stranger, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Julian smiled, “I didn’t for a minute believe you would. But let me tell you the most important thing of all - and this you will understand. None of this means anything if you can’t back it up with products the public wants, and making sure that Blood Boutique has these is my job.” “Then I can help you no more,” said the old man. “You have already shown your disdain for me and my products, I thank you for your time, but if you don’t mind showing yourself to the door, our business is concluded I believe.” “Oh, contraire,” replied Julian, and he took a device that looked rather like a handheld vacuum cleaner from his briefcase. “I assume you don’t know what this is?” he asked as he attached a rubber membrane about the size of a beachball to the device. “I do not,” confirmed the old man, “nor do I have any want to.” But Julian told him anyway. He baffled him with tales of modern extraction techniques, how the application of a little electricity during the extraction added the spark and fizz that the modern vampire wanted. He told him about how the device added all the flavourings, preservatives, and gelling agents that took years to occur naturally. “With this device, the body-to-fang journey takes no more than an hour, you won’t believe how much this one device has streamlined the supply chain,” he said as he set some dials on the machine. The old man had seen Julian’s demeanour change as he spoke, it was a demeanour he recognised, the blood lust was rising. Fear began to grip the old man. “What do you want from me?” he asked again. Julian looked up from the device. “You are, I understand, two-hundred and thirty-five years old, am I correct?” “That is none of your business” “I will take that as a yes, and my research also indicates that during your long life you never married, indeed never had a lady friend at all. Not once.” “Again, none of your business,” the fear was audible in the old man’s voice. “Ah, fear,” said Julian, “ the one thing that modern science can’t yet replicate in the extraction process. He reached over and pushed the nozzle of the device against the old man’s neck, the device also sounded like a vacuum cleaner as it sucked the blood and life force from the frightened old man. If you watched closely as Julian left the shop it looked almost like the wine bar and building society widened to fill the gap where the shop used to sit. But nobody was looking, nobody ever did. | 14,084 | 2 |
Their first day working in the orchard dragged on and on, to the point that Madeline started to wonder if it would ever end. The sun traced an unbelievably slow arc across the sky, offering little warmth to her stiff and aching fingers as she gripped, lifted and twisted. Gripped, lifted, and twisted. Over and over and over as her bucket slowly filled with apples. Though she loved that she got to spend the whole day with Billie, they hardly said two words to each other the whole time. She was too out of breath to talk and she didn’t want to risk getting into trouble by taking additional rests. When it was finally time to head back, she was so bone-achingly tired she would almost have been happy to skip dinner entirely and head straight to bed, but she knew that no matter how tempting that pillow and duvet looked, a hearty meal in her stomach would go a long way to making her feel better. She spent most of the walk back fantasising about what the meal might be. It wasn’t until they were almost there that she noticed the queue forming outside the building their dormitory was in. “Do you know what’s going on?” she whispered to Billie. They shrugged before tapping one of the more experienced workers waiting in front of them on the shoulder. The woman turned around, her brow pinched in confusion. “Sorry to bother you,” Billie said. “We were just wondering if you knew what’s going on?” “Oh.” The woman looked them up and down. “Newbies, right?” They both nodded. “Sometimes they search us as we’re heading back in after work — gotta make sure we aren’t smuggling any tools back in with us that could be used as a weapon or extra food from the fields or whatever.” Madeline’s heart plummeted, but she tried to keep her face blank. They thought they’d been so clever hiding their walkies on them all day, not leaving them to be found in the dorm. Now it was going to ruin everything! “Thanks,” Billie said levelly. “Don’t mention it.” The woman turned back around, leaving Madeline free to panic. “We’re screwed!” she hissed to Billie. “Being caught with the walkies fastened to us makes us look way more guilty than if they’d just been found in the dorm. What were we thinking? What are we going to do?” “We were thinking that this was the best option that we had,” Billie replied, their voice annoyingly calm. “And we’re not going to do anything apart from stay calm, after all, there’s not much we can do now apart from wait and see what happens.” Madeline nodded, but it did nothing to ease the panic gripping her chest. It was all very well saying you were going to stay calm but doing it was something else entirely. With each step they took towards the front of the queue, the grip on Madeline’s chest tightened. She craned her neck to try and see what awaited them in more detail. There were two guards in front of the door to the building, patting down the workers. They both seemed to be moving quite quickly. That was good, wasn’t it? They couldn’t be being that thorough. But one did seem to be being quite rough, grabbing and squeezing and shoving those he searched into place. She saw one young man stumble, his leg half swept out from under him by the force of the searching hand. The guard smiled a sneering smile down at him. Madeline recognised the type. She’d met plenty of them before the Poiloog’s came. And a few after too. There would always be others who abused whatever little power they had. When they finally got to the front, she was trembling with the effort of holding herself together. The seemingly gentler of the two guards beckoned to her, and some of her panic eased. She clenched her fists as she took a step towards him — the same young man who seemed to be looking after her and the rest of her dorm. Despite her best efforts, she flinched back as he reached out to pat her down “Easy now,” he said, smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve just gotta check you aren’t taking anything back that you shouldn’t be.” “Sorry,” Madeline squeaked. “It’s just, I’m not used to being touched, you know. At least not in a non-violent way.” He smiled in sympathy. “The world out there is a dangerous place. But you’re safe in here now. Okay?” “Okay,” she replied with a nod, trying not to glance at the other guard who was currently enthusiastically searching the older woman from in front of her in the queue. She just about managed to force herself to stay still as the young man’s hands grazed over her. His touch was very gentle, not really patting all the way down to her skin underneath. Was he like this with everyone? Or was he trying to be kind because she’d been scared? Still, she screamed internally as he moved to her abdomen brushing against the walkie wrapped to her there. All she could do was hope that under the many layers of fabric, it just felt like a part of her. His hands dropped back to his sides, and she let out a sigh of relief. “You’re all good to go,” he said. “Thanks,” she muttered before dashing inside. As she hurried along the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder, praying that Billie would have a similar experience. But when she reached the dormitory, any worries or doubts about the decision they’d made fled her mind. The place had clearly been searched — and thoroughly. Bedding was on the floor, mattresses tossed, every chest was open and the contents were strewn around. She arrived just in time to see one of her bunkmates being dragged away by guards. Craning to get a better look, she recognised Sarah. The woman’s face was stained with tears, but she wasn’t shouting or screaming or pleading for herself. She was pleading with her siblings — Joanna and Ben — to let her go, and to leave it be. Though Madeline barely knew them all, her heart broke for them. To have made it this far sticking together to only be torn apart now… Of course, Joanna and Ben were completely ignoring Sarah’s wishes, pleading with the guards to let her go. But it was no use. The two of them were pushed roughly back before the door slammed shut behind the guards and their prisoner. A heavy silence descended on the dormitory. Until a presence behind Madeline made her start. She whipped around to see Billie standing there. Without thinking, she threw her arms around them and hugged them tight, breathing in their presence. A moment later, they returned the embrace, whispering in her ear, “What did I miss?” “I’m not sure exactly,” Madeline replied. “I’m just really glad that you’re still here. | 6,681 | 4 |
A Fateful Encounter The fresh crisp smell of the spring is in the air, the bronze rays of the sunset piercing through the skyscrapers. It’s 7:30 on a wednesday the first week of the spring outside of one the biggest comedy clubs in new york city. A man appears 28 years old dressed in formal casual wear with dark brown hair and a very distinctly shaped Ray Ban’s. The man ( Rakan ) prides himself on being an above average man in anything he does including his looks and clothes. The man ( Rakan ) was well groomed with a full dark colored beard and was wearing his favorite jewelry piece, a silver ring with a pearl white stone that was gifted to him by his father and a brown leather watch that he bought to go with the ring. On his arm walking beside him is a very beautiful redheaded freckled woman in an eye-catching dark shade green dress. After standing in line the man ( Rakan ) and his beautiful date make their way inside the comedy club and they are greeted by a man in his mid 30’s, he asks to check their tickets they oblige and the two men trade back and forth a few witty lines and then the man ( Rakan ) and his date are shown to the seats and they are placed in the front row feet away from the stage. The man and his date sat down and ordered their food and drinks and a few minutes later the room went dark, the spotlight came on and the host made his way to the stage and the show started. This was a special night for many different reasons for multiple different people. For the man ( Rakan ) and the woman this was their first date, the comedy club had been closed for months because of renovations and this was the reopening night, and as part of the show the comedy club decided to feature a couple beginner comedians to allow them to gain a bit of experience. 30 min into the show after the first two beginner comedians were done with their sets which the man ( Rakan ) and his date did not enjoy. A tomboyish looking woman in her early 20s with pitch black dark curly hair makes her way up to the stage. The man ( Rakan ) takes a sip from his drink and looks up at the woman on stage and their eyes meet, all of the sudden for a few moments everything in that room ceased to exist. The noise from the crowd, the feedback from the microphone It felt like they were the only ones present in that room. Almost as if when their eyes met they were both transported into an alternate dimension. The man ( Rakan ) is frozen for a few seconds still yet to swallow the sip from his drink, the woman was caught off guard by his presence in the crowd. The man is immediately thrown back to his memory of their last meeting 4 years prior. This meeting takes place in a small bike shop just outside of downtown D.C, it was a sunny warm day around noon on a Monday just a few weeks before summer ended. The shop door opens and the door alert in a robotic voice shouts “ Front door open “, The man gets up from his chair to greet the customer and he lays his eyes on Rose. He greeted her with the biggest smile his facial muscles could allow, he was enamored by her looks and personality even though he has only interacted with her less than 10 minutes on two previous occasions. Unbeknownst to him this third encounter was going to be completely different from their two past encounters, as soon as she reaches the register where he stands she extends her arms and gives him a real bro-ish handshake which throws him off. They exchange pleasantries and in an awkward manner while looking him in his eyes she says “ *Have you had breakfast Yet?*” he answers “ *No, I usually Skip breakfast*”. While Rose might have been a bit awkward she was oozing with confidence and she spoke with conviction, she then says “ *well I'm new in town i just moved here a few weeks ago*” he replies sarcastically “*Oh! And are you enjoying our town so far*”. Rose exhales and says “*Not yet i don't have any friends here yet*” then she smiles and looks him in the eyes and says “*which is why i came here hoping you and I can grab a bite*”. Rakan is a hopeless romantic so he kept trying to avoid eye contact because he believes it to be the most intimate expression of his romantic feelings, but for Rose it seemed like the only thing she was interested in looking at was his eyes. So while trying to avoid eye contact Rakan responds “*I’d love to but …..*” Before he can finish she adds “*it's my treat*” Rakan says “*I’d love to but I'm at work at the moment i can’t just leave*” Rose says “*it’s only a few blocks away*” Rakan give in and says “*let’s compromise how about we order delivery and eat here*”. Rose agrees and Rakan grabs her a chair to sit down and they start getting to know each other, after 30 min passed the food arrived so they ate and chatted for around 2-3 hours. Rose receives a text message from her boss asking her to come in to work a couple hours early and she sends a text back agreeing. She looks up from her chair to Rakan who is standing two feet away from her and says “*i have to be at work in 30 min*”, while he was disappointed their time is gonna end he replied “*damn that’s so soon are u sure you’ll be able to make it*” with a grin in her face she replies “*I'm too nice with it even if I'm late i won't be in trouble*” Rakan confused by the meaning of that statement chuckles and says “*as long as your confident about it … LOL*”. Rose gets up from her chair and stands face to face with Rakan and starts saying her goodbyes to him. Rose starts to walk towards the door but then suddenly she turns back and starts to walk towards him, Rakan stands in his place confused as she leans in and asks him for a kiss. Without hesitation he replies with “*Sure*” and leans in closer to her, as their faces get closer to each other he noticed she was feeling shy so he asks “*are u nervous*” she looks away and says “*yeah*” he smiles and tells her “*take a deep breath there is nothing to worry about*”. Rakan reaches out his right hand and tucks her curly hair behind her left ear and then puts his index finger under her chin and pulls her in closer for the kiss. | 6,358 | 2 |
“I promise, we are going to be ok. We will survive.” In the background, explosions are heard. It drowns out the voices of those outside, the screaming of the neighbors, the barking of dogs, the loud hum of planes flying overhead. The boy, just 8, with his younger brother, just 4, had been stuck, locked in their closet, remaining quiet for hours. Sulfur filled the air, not enough to choke. He looked around the small little closet, his parents' closet. It was his parents' closet, not anymore. The ground shakes, another explosion, another batch of lives lost, and another prayer sent to God, if there was a God. His parents always seemed to think so, having the cross planted throughout the house. Where was God now? Was this just his punishment? Was he dead? He pondered these questions Another bomb drops, closer this time. Shrapnel from the bomb crashes into the house, breaking any remaining window that survived the initial onslaught. The only place left safe was the closet. He held his breath, and shielded his brother. He thought he hated his brother, always stealing the attention, always hogging the toys. Always bothering him at all hours, now all he could think was to protect him, just as mom and dad protected them. Two crashes. Not bombs, full car collisions, like when his father had the accident just off Main Street. It was a different sound, and oddly comforting compared to the bombs and screams. He looked at his hand, dirty, red, and battered. His nail on his pointer finger, gone. He saw his brother once more, cowering in fear, and crying. Only his sobs mad him feel human. Screaming, it was all screaming. Some screamed for their mothers, some for their daughters. Men screamed for their wives and wives screamed for their men. It was as if they had gotten lost in a storm. Children crying, not just in fear, but in pain. Pain for the loss of their parents, pain for the loss of their lives, and the lives of others. Worst of all, the screaming airplanes, those Angels of Death, overhead, still dropping those agonizing weapons of war. Fire. Spreading hard and fast. A kamikaze. A world of flame. He was lucky. His home was one of the few which did catch fire. He doesn’t know if the bombs did it, or the people outside in a rage of fear. It was hot, uncomfortably hot, like a mid-summer day. Reminded him of camping in the woods, the green contrasted the blue sky, but no more. Now red, fire red, and black smoke litter the skies above his home. Silence. Killer silence. When all had been done, the silence filled the air more than any other sound before. In the distance, he heard wailing, crying, and hollering. His brother, since fallen asleep, finally had stopped crying. He opened the door to the closet, and was meet with his parents room, the ceiling still intact, but he could not say the same for his parents. Blood. On the walls, the bed, and the two, now decaying, sout ridden corpse that lay on the bed. He did not cry, it would only wake his brother. Beside them, a .22 Rifle, with two empty casings, with two shots left, one round chambered. As he looked out the now destroyed window, he was meet with that all to familiar smell. Sulfur, and waste. Black. It was night, maybe midnight, he couldn’t tell, the clocks didn’t work anymore. Around him he saw his neighbors houses gone, or destroyed. Tommy’s house, his best friend, had collapsed. Tommy didn’t make it, he already knew that. The road was littered with pot holes, some caused by careless drivers, others not. There was water gathering in them. Not clean, he said. He knew what laid in those pools. Shattered. All the dishes were destroyed. The kitchen had collapsed, the doors flung off their hinges, and the pipes uprooted from the foundation. He could navigate it, not without risk. The floor had caved, leaving nothing but a void, the basement, all his toys, his video games, his memories, all gone. Bodies. He had to hide the bodies. His brother couldn’t see them “They must of ran.” he would say. “Maybe we should find them” he would say. He grabbed his father, the man who taught him how to change a tire, and would take him to the hockey game every saturday, and hid him in the pantry. His mother, the woman who taught him to sew, and showed him the world, he put along side his father. Now, forever, together and at peace. Morning. The morning sun rose. He was readying to leave. This was no home no more. This was now a grave, not just for their parents, but for their town, their city, their nation. As he readied, his brother came out. “Where is mom and dad?” he asked. His brother, just 4, looked at him with curious eyes, and a sad expression. Two boys, wandering to unknown familiar lands. Hand and hand they traveled. Their fate, unknown. Their destiny, uncertain, and their lives changed forever. Just as those who died that day will never see another sunrise, they will never see another home. Wandering on the road, as nomads, forever more. | 5,059 | 2 |
Stone. Mankind has hurled it as a weapon and wielded it as a tool for progress. We have shaped it to fit our will and we have in turn been shaped by it. For 2.5 million years, it reigned unchallenged across the lands of the earth. STONE AGE taught them to wield it as a weapon of victory and development. He gave them the wheel, they gave him purpose. For centuries upon centuries, they bowed in awe of his wisdom and power. Bronze. A gleaming alloy of copper and tin. A practical technology and a catalyst for human progress. Bronze marked the dawning of a new era and set the stage for millennia of growth and change. Bronze was a wakeup call to stone. Bronze ignited a molten darkness in STONE AGE. As his people turned to each other for learning, he felt increasingly obsolete. His weakness manifest as rage and desperation. His power was threatened but he would not sit by as his throne of rock crumbled to dust. While STONE AGE had once represented the possibilities of human ingenuity, he came to resent all new knowledge and all change as he was replaced by newer technologies and newer schools of thought. STONE AGE lashed out at those who built upon his foundations of information. He regretted the day that he shared his knowledge with the ungrateful humans. He now sought to crush them. In the Bronze Age and the ages to follow, heroes have risen to fight against ignorance while overcoming tremendous barriers. Each of these heroes began as a blip on the timeline and a single drop in the ocean of humankind. Each of these heroes defied complacency and channeled their boredom into education and innovation. Masters like Leonardo da Vinci and William Shakespeare began as helpless babies. They followed curiosity around new corners in the uncertain labyrinth of life. They broke free from their limitations by casting aside their mental shackles. They and countless others rid themselves of the weight and the “wait” that keep us comfortable and keep us in check. Throughout history, individuals have used dozens of letters in thousands of languages to sow knowledge in the fields of science, technology, engineering, art, and math. And every year, the younger generations reap the harvest and maintain the shared wonder. What defines mortality? Certainly some in this generation will defy its bounds to join the ranks of the STEAM PUNKS. A STEAM PUNK is an individual who began without a name. For years, they toiled in a quiet room to develop their passion. By reading, by creating, by thinking, they pressed against the constraints of knowledge. They prodded at its boundary to pierce its stubborn shell. They faced obstacles from outside their own walls and from within. They replayed the echoes of every doubt. They forged ahead until the doubts began to doubt themselves. These ordinary individuals became elevated to heroism by finally ridding their minds of the persistent SEEDS OF DOUBT: CAN’T, WON’T & OUGHTA NOT. These doubts were expelled from the minds of the newly-minted STEAM PUNKS like foul vapors and lethal poisons. Uninhibited by these burdens, the Punks offered fascinating new insights to be shared by all of humanity, and they contributed new understanding to be built upon by the future. But the SEEDS OF DOUBT would not so easily disappear. STONE AGE took note of the powers of these doubts; he began to cultivate them to do his bidding. He now seeks to unleash a plague of fear and doubt using his sidekicks, his henchmen, his prodigies: CANT, WONT, and OUGHTA NOT How do you become a “super hero” in the drive for progress? You must make the seeds of doubt unwelcome in your mind. Say goodbye to each repetition and echo of "you can't," "you won't," and "you oughta not." This in itself is a constant battle in the war for progress. Each time these doubts creep back into your mind, you must prove them wrong by continuing onward. These seeds of doubt and fear keep us from questioning the stars in the sky. They keep us from wondering about the core of the earth below our feet. They keep us fed with gruel from a conveyor to stave off the hunger of curiosity. They string us along on life support so we think we cannot leave them. But we must. ...What now? We would like to cordially welcome you to the Silicon Age. In this nascent era, education and collaboration lead the way to innovation and optimization. Digital circuits are the fingerprints of this movement. Each day, programmers write a new code of law to govern what is possible. As you have been reading this tale, new curiosities have taken hold, bold breakthroughs have been made, future heroes have been born! Don’t wait for the future to knock at your door. Go forth and kick open the doorway to progress. Stare at the horizon and imagine the potential that awaits you there. Proceed to progress! Now is your time to become timeless. | 4,854 | 1 |
I swirled my drink at the bar. It had been a long day on the job. Despite my best efforts, crime was still at an all-time high. Even though our horizons were broadened by the advancement of space travel, humans still didn’t know how to behave themselves. Aliens could be criminals too, but there was less of a sadistic nature to their crimes. Humans have proven themselves to be the most hateful beings in the galaxy. I covered a lot of different crimes in my sector. Especially considering that Earth’s Extra Terrestrial Police Department, EETPD for short, was short staffed. No one wanted to be a cop anymore with the opportunity to be a spaceman. With the large reaches of space my jurisdiction only reached as far as Earth. With that name you would think that I deal a lot with aliens. Surprisingly I don’t. I’ve had only a handful of cases that had an alien or aliens involved. Humans were the most prevailing criminal I would encounter. This only proved more and more that the human race was the worst thing you could be. That was a sad thought. Still, I would try to not let that get me down or think that humans are unredeemable. Yet at the same thing it is difficult to keep a positive attitude, what with everything that I’ve seen over my long tenure on the force. People around me are surprised by my positive outlook which is juxtaposed by my somber demeanor. I try to not let things get to me or bring me down. There is only so much I can do by myself. The local bar helps a lot in that regard. I am especially fond of Solari ale. Those red guys sure know how to make a brew. I don’t usual hit the ale hard. But this day… This day was one that was the worst of the bunch so far. I doubt that anything would be able to top it for a long time. The events that transpired will haunt me forever. I take a big swig and finish my drink. I order another double. With my drink in hand, I glanced out of the window. It was raining. It was always raining. On this day it has never felt more appropriate. I started my day just like I would any other, with no idea what was in store for me. I went to the office, did my paperwork. As the day dragged its feet and I thought that I would go home without any incident. That idea was quickly shut down as I was called out to an armed gunman holding up a store. I drove my cruiser to the scene quickly. There were already three other officers there. They had the gunman pinned down. I was informed that the situation transitioned to one with hostages. I looked up to the store sign and scowled. The store was one of those ridiculous virtual friend things. You would get an implant in your head that would let you, and only you, see your own customizable virtual friend. It was in invention brought in from some of our new alien friends. The tool preyed on the loneliness of others. Anything that took advantage of people’s desperation made me sick. Much like the dating applications of old. With our discovery that humans were not alone in this universe you would think that we would feel less alone. That could not have been further from the truth. We have never felt more alone than we did. And the common folk were suffering the most from all of it. I decided to take charge of the situation as I was a head detective. I hoped that I would be able to defuse the situation. Experience in dealing with this specific moment was abundant. I had been receiving a lot of calls that brought me to these virtual friend shops. People were lonely and they were getting upset. Especially with how you have to keep your friend around. You had to take a hit of a green liquid to keep the implant running. It was a drug. Worse than anything you could find on the street. The customers became junkies. Junkies for companionship. The intangibility of the virtual friend drives a lot of people to madness. With the introduction of this device suicide rates doubled. I walked into the store with my hands raised. I told the perp that I just wanted a chat. They let me approach with a great deal of caution. As I walked towards them, I got a good look at who I am dealing with. The gunman was a human female. She was dressed plainly with a black coat. Her hair was tied up in a bun with bangs that had a few streaks of grey. Scowling was the only look she had on her face. She was furious. The gun she held was a .45. Quite an archaic piece. I deduced that she must have been an aficionado of old guns. No one nowadays would carry a weapon like that. Considering that you could easily get a gun that fired lasers or rockets. The fact that she had that gun also told me that she was no some common crook hoping to rob the store. I stopped in my tracks. She would not allow me to get any closer to her. Her hand was steady. That helped me eliminate the possibility that she was a customer of the virtual friend product. She lacked all the distinctive markers of a virtual friend junkie. With all the obvious information out of the way. All that was left for me to do was to find out why she was doing this. I looked around the store and saw that all of their product was shot up and destroyed. The store was completely trashed. It looked like she took out her frustrations out on the place. I looked back to her. She was pointing her gun at the head of the store clerk, a companion. The poor creature was trembling and sobbing quite loudly. She told it to shut up. When it continued, she struck it with the butt of her gun. Its sobs turned to whimpers. I just stood there. If I tried anything I could tell that she would just start firing. I had to get her to calm down first. Talk her out of her rage. The best way was to try and find an interest of theirs and get them talking. That trick will almost always get people to calm down and let their guard down. I asked her about her gun. “What about it?” she asked me back. “You don’t see many of those around lately,” I answered, “So I figured that you must appreciate old school guns.” “I do,” she said curtly. “I see,” I said, “Anything special that you could tell me about it?” “I had this one modded to fire without ever reloading,” she said, with no change in her expression. “That is pretty impressive,” I said. “You didn’t come all the way here to just talk about guns. So, what do you want?” she asked aggressively. “Straight to the point I see,” I said. She did not take my response with any kindness as she pointed her gun at me. “Okay, okay,” I said as I raised my hands. The barrel remained pointed at me. She meant business. “I just want to find out why you are doing this,” I stated calmly. My line of work involved getting guns pointed at me on a regular basis. This was nothing new. The difference was the look in her eyes told me she was not a killer. She was never going to pull the trigger on me. Her anger was directed at the virtual friend stock. “Why am I doing this!?” she asked angrily, like the answer was obvious. There were obvious answers to her actions, but I knew they were all wrong. They would be just speculation. Her reasons ran deeper than the surface level of a simple guess. “I am doing this because this stuff ruins people’s lives! It destroys them! I won’t let any more people get hurt by this bullshit!” she shouted. Her anger spoke to me. It told me that she was hurt by this product. That someone in her life was taken away from her. The anger that raged in her was just a cover for her loneliness. She was different from everyone else around her. She saw the dangers and the harm that this product can cause. So, she never fell victim to the product’s propaganda. She was just a causality of the monetization of loneliness. “I understand how you must feel,” I said. Usually, we would say things like this as a lie to get them to think that we are on their side. This time the words that left my mouth were honest. I knew exactly how she felt. I despise this product too. Almost as much as her, maybe less than her. “Do you!?” she screamed. Tears started running down her face. She was so alone. There was no one in her life. Despite her loneliness she chose to destroy the thing that caused it, instead of giving into it. I found that admirable. “I do,” I said. That was the truth again. I was just as alone as she was. “Look, there is nothing you can do by yourself to bring them down,” I stated. I tried using the sad truth to disarm her. To get her to see that her attempts were futile. “Then as long as I can do as much damage to them as possible,” she said back through gritted teeth. “And that is not going to be a lot of damage. They’ll repair. The company has the money to do it,” I said back sadly. I didn’t know if what I was saying was helping or not. She was just too emotional in that moment. “I don’t care,” she started, “I need to do this.” “Why?” I asked, “For revenge?” “Yes.” That was all she said. Her eyes told me something else. She did not care if she would die through this half-baked crusade against a product that hurt her. “What can I do to get you to stop?” I almost begged. “There is nothing you can do or say. There is nothing anyone can do that will stop me. Nothing! You’ll have to kill me!” she spat the last part. “There is no need for that,” I started, “You haven’t hurt anyone. You only caused some damages. It’ll be a pretty big fine, but you won’t see any jail time. You can walk away from this.” “I don’t want to,” she said flatly. “How about I become your friend?” She paused at that. The tip of the gun dipped a bit. That was all she really wanted; a friend. A friend would be a cure to the pain she felt. It would bring an end to her loneliness and hopefully mine too. Maybe in a way she could help me too. “It’s too late for that,” she said softly as she straightened her arm pointing the gun firmer this time. “It is never too late for anything,” I said optimistically. She shook her head, “No, it is.” Turning her gun on herself, she fired. I was too far away to stop her. As she was falling, I ran over to her. I caught her lifeless body and felt her warmth leaving her. She was gone. Everything that happed afterwards was a blur. The other officers came in and the aftermath followed. I filled out my report and was debriefed. As everyone else left, I remained behind. Standing in the rain I looked at the spot where the woman took her life. I never even got her name. Later I learnt that it was Cordelia. I walked down to my preferred bar to get a drink. My cruiser drove itself off back to the garage at the station. I just wanted to walk in the rain by myself. I needed some time to myself and my thoughts. As I trudged through the soaked streets I passed by a vending machine. It was used to dispense that terrible virtual friend drug. I stopped in front of the machine. Disgust ran through me as I watched the pulsing green neon lights. It felt like it was taunting me. I despised the product even more now. Witnessing just how much damage it can cause was beyond belief. And nobody could see. Driving my fist into the display I shattered the screen. It did nothing to make me feel better. There would be nothing that could make me feel better after this day. It will haunt me for the rest of my life. I turned my head up to the sky. The rain felt like needles on my skin. I wondered if that was what her tears must have felt like to her. Just like her heart and the sky. It was raining. It was always raining. | 11,448 | 5 |
The Harlequin Dress The mirror was her friend and had ever been so. As she primped and prepared for her day of special purpose she reached a hand, one young and supple now older and more wizened, to dress her lips with the painted sheen of days long past and nights of passion now gone. She reached for the dress she wore when she first met him. And she found that It was still like a glove on her body before time had sculpted her and taken away her glow. She looked again in the face of her silver, tarnished friend and saw her faded beauty but how the dress still shone, with it’s diamonds of black and it’s scarlet and white blends of hue. She twirled in the dress and watched it dance with her and light up her memory of smiling gentleman and stolen kisses. She felt young again; and she felt as alive as a bloom in Spring and watched the dress glow; the very dress she wore when he had first taken hers hand, in his gloves of lustrous white, and they had drawn so close together in that aged and peeling gazebo that stood like a cathedral by their lake of crystal. She found herself smiling that schoolgirl smile and sat to put on the shoes she had wore that special night and slipped on the ring, still glimmering and brilliant, that he had given her when they had joined together. The beloved harlequin dress had hung in the closet, in a well worn but still sturdy dress bag that smelled of mothballs but, like a chrysalis, held the shining wings of diamonds in black, and scarlet and white splashes, that held tight against the relentless attacks of time. This was his special day though, and it was only on this day that she would don it’s glory once more and would dance alone, in memory and in constant love. They had joined a journey together. They had laughed together—through the tears; They had laughed together—through the pain; They had laughed together—through illness; They had laughed together—through the end. And they had danced along the way. It was on this day she, and in the harlequin dress; his favorite of favorites, she would go to visit him in his place of rest and look up at a sky of love and feel the warmth of his touch against her cheek; and in the breeze, his kiss on her lips. She had made ready and began to make her way to his cold home and to once again visit with him, and as she reached for her cane and her silken, battered handbag, she glanced over at the full length mirror that stood on its three good legs by the door of her tiny apartment; the home they shared and had danced in. Her reflection had changed. Standing there in that mirror was a blooming, glowing schoolgirl, with hair as black as a doll’s eyes and a face that shone as it had in that gazebo by that lake of crystal. Her lips were now red and full and as a rose. Her eyes were now glints of blue splendor. Her hands, no longer cracked by the hourglass, were smooth and supple, like her love had always been for him. There was a knock at the door. It was just a small tap; like the patter of a sparrows grasp, but a knock just the same. She found herself moving towards that knock with renewed youth but also, a new glimmer and an unexpected anticipation to see who was calling on this day of all days. She heard, somewhere beyond the door, music from a hidden orchestra playing “You Belong To Me”; their secret, treasured song to which they had first held each other under the light of a moon of silver, next to their crystal lake. And as she opened the door, and let in the light from the dawn of this special day; there, in that crisp yet ill-fitting tuxedo that made her giggle and smile in that harlequin dress, he stood. She felt as shaky and shy as she was that gleaming night when they first met and began their dance, and as he once again smiled that crooked smile that had won her heart, she felt the room swoon and her grip on the door slip He held out his hand and grasped hers —his hand in that lustrous white glove; and as he had done in days gone by, said softly “May I have this dance?” And he lifted her up like dandelion wings, and pulled her to him; his hand around her waist. With love and with the devotion of a heart once full to bursting, She stepped with him in her harlequin dress, and onto the dance floor of stars in the indigo sky; And, arm in arm, with reclaimed youth and endless love, smiles, and laughter; they danced again together, as her harlequin dress grew brighter than a constellation, Into an eternity made just for them, to the music of Heaven’s orchestra. | 4,569 | 1 |
It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the shopping center; In and out, But, of course, it hadn’t gone that way. He saw them coming; the people with the clipboards that always were taking a poll or wanting an opinion or some such nonsense And he had no patience nor time for that stuff today. He tried so hard not to make eye contact but is as too late and heard the obligatory “Sir, have a really quick moment for a review?” This was a different request and he was actually curious so he stopped, thinking it was just a quick poll, and instead heard the words; “We’re asking for quick reviews of a new film and we are paying people for their time”. Well, he thought, this was new; he could use a little spare cash and he like movies a great deal so he decided he would entertain this one. “Sure” he said, “what kind of movie is it?” The pollster said “Oh it’s all new technology and we think it will change people forever” This really piqued his interest and he, now extremely interested for a change, agreed to come and see this new film for himself and maybe experience something no one had seen before. It was a real thrill and he was glad he stopped. He asked, “So tell me , how much does this pay”. He wasn’t the best at subtlety And never had been. He also had been told he was selfish but he had dismissed that always as just something other people just needed to get over. The pollster smiled a huge smile and said, “Oh I think you’ll be pleased!” The pollster then led him to a small door just located between two stores and which had no markings except a film reel symbol on the door. It had no other markings or words with it. As they entered, he asked, “So what’s the movie about anyway?” The bolster smiled that huge smile again, his teeth as white as as that gleam one sees in an exposed bone, and simply said “a new true to life drama”. This annoyed him a little as he didn’t like dramas because they were usually so slow and boring, like a baseball game to him, that usually lost interest, patience, and just ended up leaving or turning it off. However, there was money involved, and that had always been a huge motivator for him; so much so he had made his share of bad choices at times, and regrets that came to him in the night as thieves come to rob his mind of peace and like the sound of footsteps in a cemetery. They entered a small room, every surface, from wall to ceiling painted as bright a shade of white as he’d ever seen; so bright in fact it almost blinded him. In the middle of this shining room, there sat a large monitor, a recliner that looked like a living room chair, and a small table with a glass of water perched on it as if he was coming out of the desert. He did feel very warm as a matter of fact. The pollster led him to the chair and asked him to please sit and be comfortable which he was happy to do and actually strangely pulled to do; as it looked unlike any movie chair he’d seen in his history of trips to the show. The pollster said “All Comfy?” and smiled that smile again; He nodded and then the pollster left and the show began. Immediately he could tell the technology was very different, the images were so realistic and sharp it was like watching something live and in person. The image on the screen showed a man’s legs and he could tell he the man was in a nice suit; a hands came down and picked up a really nice briefcase. Suddenly into the frame, Ran in a small boy, maybe 3 or 4 years old; he was crying uncontrollably and saying through is tears “Don’t leave us Daddy, I be better I promise” The legs just turned with the briefcase and walked away leaving the small, grieving boy alone and completely devastated, holding fast like it meant his life, to a battered and frayed stuffed Penguin. The image stopped there and he wondered why it was so short, although he was actually grateful as it had nearly broken what heart was still left inside him. The pollster then came back in, And with clipboard in hand, began to ask a series of seemingly inane questions: “Did the clip touch you” “Deeply, he said” “Did the bit seem realistic?” “Oh God Yes” he said, adding “who is the actor; he’s really amazing” “Could you identify with the clip” the Pollster asked finally and smiled again; “Yes…” he hesitated; Something was wrong here. The pollster made a few notes and then turned to him and handed him something. It was a gift bag. “Here is just a your gift for your time today” …and he smiled that grin again; and he felt like someone walked over his grave. “Oh yes,I almost forgot” the Pollster added; “Your payment, it might be small but thers’s more to come” He opened the bag and reached inside. His hand wrapped around something soft, and frayed, and ragged feeling. As he pulled it out, his gut tightened and his throat opened as if to gag. It was a stuffed Penguin. He then opened his hand and saw a small, silver coin with very strange emblems and marks and knew it was foreign and not lie anything he’d seen. “What is all of this?” He demanded sharply; at which the Pollster again just smiled, A smile now yellowed and decayed, filled with milk worms and crawling things. “It’s a silver piece” he said. “You will get 29 more you see” he said; his smile had faded. “You get one more each time you sit and watch 1 year of my life”’he said; “It ended at 30 because I never forgot that day, and couldn’t stand it anymore at that year”. “Thats a total of 30 silver pieces, Daddy”; The price for betraying a boy’s heart. And the show began again. And he screamed until his tongue gave out. | 5,623 | 4 |
She sat in the shadows of the cafe, her back to the ever chattering chaos that chipped away at the world and that burst against the ceiling as bats would cry at twilight He had seen her through the crowd and among the shadows that rose and hung on the tattered wall, a shrouded, dimly glowing wisp that he could not cease his gaze upon and had found his heart pounding to join her, but his mind barring his way It was then she rose and came to him, she too had seen him and, gliding across the sea of living decay, made her way to the leaning and worn wicker chair that sat across his table She was a vision in midnight brilliance, lean and pale and cloaked in smoky sequins that fell as a waterfall of ashes to the cracked and trodden floor Crowning her hidden beauty was a wide brimmed hat, of the darkest and most wondrous satin he had ever seen and that caught the light with an almost vaporous mist of ebon tendrils that beckoned to his eyes The hat was veiled, elegantly, and with hidden meaning which enticed his thoughts and danced in his smoky imaginings He spoke to her, simply and quietly, “You look amazing”, he said, “Thank you”, she said in return, and he found that her voice was like velvet that lined a coffin. He didn’t know why. It was a strange thought. They engaged with each other in very small talk, spending most of the evening quietly looking at each other and building their secret strategies for when the evening went it’s way She had not smiled. The cafe owner called out that it was time to close the doors on another creaky day of service and slowly, like mourning children, the patrons shuffled into the night “Do live close?”, he said “Oh yes”, she replied, “just down the street” “Please let me see you home” he responded eager to walk along with her and see where their journey led. She nodded quietly and they stood. She still had not smiled Together, they walked to the doors and, he grasped her hand to steel her against the cold of the city and found her touch to be cold as well, and with a slight, faint roughness; it reminded him of how a waxen figure would feel. They strolled up the street with its yellow-green glare and it’s pavement of distorted shadows, hand in hand, her head lowered against the breeze from the the wind that flew between the monoliths; and holding her hat with it’s veil of mists with her other, ivory hand. They arrived at a building; small and dark and forlorn like a child that had become lost in a forest of giants “This is me”, she said; and she turned to him and with a slow and spindly change, gave him a smile. She grasped his hand more firmly, as if to invite him inside and reassure him of a night shared and stolen from the world; and he smiled back and, steadily moved in close for the chance to kiss new lips and find himself again He had lost his way once and given his heart and soul to another who had, with steadfast cruelty, cracked and torn away that heart into shards of empty hopes. She kept her smile and, leaning into him, opened her lips to meet his. The veil hung over them both, as they were nearly one and joined in the passion of a dying rose, and he asked her if she would lift it as he would not dare to do so himself “That would be rude”, he thought to himself She kept her smile and pulled away for just a moment, her hands of porcelain loosening the fragile, clinging silk and lifting it up to reveal her full face. And she kept her smile; and started into his eyes. She had none of her own. He pulled back and saw in the glow of the lamp light that her eyeless, glowing face still smiled back at him showing teeth that were as pale and shriveled as bleached driftwood on an abandoned shore. “Is something wrong?”, she said, with a voice like a crow in a graveyard sky; He found he could not speak and what sounds he could make sounded like the gurgles in a spring “It’s alright, love”, she said as she again leaned into him and slowly took his hand again into hers and began to pull him close; “We’re old friends, but we’ve never really met” He finally found his voice and with a trembling whisper he said “I’ve never met you; who are you?” “Oh, you have dearest”, she said to him; “and you know my name”, she said through that gaunt yet alluring smile, “Remember, I’m Oblivion, we’ve known each other forever” And she kissed him It was then he also began to smile and realized in his graying and fleeting consciousness that her touch was what he had longed for, for as long as he could remember and knew, finally, his fate in the universe He fell into her arms and together, he laying across her outstretched and cradling arms, walked into the street and vanished into the morning dew. | 4,759 | 1 |
#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** *** #Weekly Challenge **Theme: **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Someone or something is healed (you’re free to interpret this creatively). **You must include how you used it at the end of your story.** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘tea party’. Tea time–and tea parties–are a timeless tradition that have brought people together for centuries, whether as an act of diplomacy–such as a royal tea party, a group of friends gathered to share the latest gossip, or a child pouring magic tea and filling the afternoon with giggles. Tea is also known for its therapeutic and healing properties, maybe the magic isn’t just a childhood fantasy. You’re welcome to interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear, and you **follow all post and sub rules**. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). You do not have to use the linked image. *** # Rankings for - **Winner:** - u/TheLettre7 You can check out previous Micro Mondays . *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 1pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends! *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.* *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. | 5,526 | 5 |
My mother was sick in bed. Her head was hot to the touch. The skin on her nose was sore and raw from constant runniness. She barely moved these last few days. But what scared me the most was her complexion. My mother’s brown skin which glowed in the sun like well-crafted bronze, was now a muted yellow devoid of life. I sat on the edge of her bed. I couldn’t leave her side, so instead I tried to memorize her sweet vanilla scent and the way she snored when she slept, like a low motor in the night. She slept most of the day, only having the energy to wake up to be changed, fed, and washed. My brother stood at the doorway of my mother's room, leaned up against the frame. Quiet and observing, chewing on a wad of gum. He wore a plain white tee and dark Levi jeans. A splitting image of our father. He had only been home for maybe 15 minutes, and everything he said had a way of getting under my skin. “Do you want me to wake her up?” I said. Standing and staring wouldn’t do much to help our mother’s state. “Let her rest.” He said, “Have you tried taking her to the doc?” “Of Course, I tried.” I snapped. “You don’t think I tried? My mother is dying in front of me. She’s been dying for months. You think I haven’t considered calling the doctor.” “Calm down.” “Don’t tell me to calm down.” “I didn’t come here to argue.” “So, why did you come here?” “To pay my respects.” He said, deadpan. “Pay your respects-“ I repeated, the words felt foreign, like this was the first time I heard them uttered. A heavy silence stood between us. “She’s not dead yet,” I said, looking at my mother’s chest that just barely rose and fell. “Why ask me if I took her to the doc?” I asked. “What do you mean, Vee?” He asked. “Why ask me if I took her to the doc if you already decided she’s as good as dead?” My heart ached at the thought. “I’m just tryna help, Vee,” He said. “You’re no help, Luke,” I said. I could tell by his eyes he was searching for something to say. Something that would keep the peace. But he settled on nothing at all. I continued, “Go back to your new family. Your wife and kids. And forget about me and Mom, like you did when Dad died.” “They didn’t replace y’all. They’re not new family, just an extension of what I already have. New responsibilities. New duties.” Despite his efforts, his words did little to convince me. “Don’t talk to me about duty when you know you left us. Never called. Never visited” I retorted. “It’s called growing up, Vee. It’s called making a life of your own. It's called moving on.” He said. “And I did call. I did visit. Just because it wasn’t as much as you would’ve liked doesn’t mean you can say I didn’t do it.” His voice had the immense bravado our father always had when he was upset. But I just rolled my eyes. His words were excuses that had no use to me at the moment. I looked at my mom and her ever-so-slow breaths. Her hair, she always kept short and classy. The rosary that she always wore around dangled off of her chest. “I’m going to do something horrible,” I said, I continued to look at my mother because I couldn’t dare look Luke in the eyes. “What do you mean, Vee?” “There’s nothing more the doctor can do,” I said, everything he tries just makes her worse. “So?” He said his thick eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I’m going to a wise man,” I said. Luke winced at my words. “Let her rest, Vee. Let her be at peace. It’s what Dad would’ve wanted.” “But this is what Dad would’ve done,” I said, and I knew my dad well. I was a daddy’s girl after all. “If you go through with this. I can’t help you.” Luke said. “I never asked for your help.” And with that, he turned around and left. The mud stains from his dirty boots on the hardwood floors were the only signs that he was ever here. ~ I burned my eggs for the second time that morning. The wise man was coming today and the anticipation was killing me. The kitchen looked as if it held a heavy fog. I opened all the windows in an attempt to let the smoke out. I ran to my mother’s room to close the door and keep the smoke from coming in. But I was too late. My mother lay in bed coughing something that sounded more like a wheeze. I immediately tossed her sheer yellow curtains to the side and attempted to open up her window. But the thing probably hadn’t been opened in years despite how much I pushed at it. My heart thumped heavily as my mother continued to hack. I squatted a bit and attempted to lift with my legs instead of my back, and with one final push, the window jolted open. Letting in a wave of fresh air the humid room so desperately needed. It was a beautiful day outside, with a perfectly blue sky, not a cloud in sight. I slapped my hands together, wiping off the dust that transferred from the window seal to my hand. “We did it, ma. I know I said this before but I won’t burn any more food again.” I said before looking behind me. My smile fell. My mother's eyes were like slits. She was exhausted. Sick and exhausted. I surely wasn’t helping. “I’m sorry,” I said The doorbell rang. I quickly left the room making sure to close the door behind me. I almost fell over with how quickly I ran to the front door. I opened it. It was my brother. He towered over me squinting under the hot glare of the son. His eyes judgingly looked past me and into the house. “Did you burn something?” He asked. “Luke. What are you doing here?” I said, undermining his question. “I’m not Luke.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “We have to disguise ourselves for…. legal purposes.” The Luke-shaped thing smiled. And then I knew that wasn’t my brother. Luke hasn't spoken much over the years, and when we did there wasn’t much smiling. But even then I knew that that toothy grin, stretching from ear to ear, wasn't of my brother. “Come in,” I said. I hated to invite someone like this into my mother’s home. But it had to be done. “I lead the wise man to the dining room table, small and round, fit for four, laid on top of it a gingham cloth. He didn’t hesitate to pull my seat out for me. These people had conflicting morals. The thing was even dressed like my brother: a basic white tee, and Levi jeans. Same exact muddy boots. The only difference, he carried a leather black suitcase. “Are you familiar with how these things work?” He asked. “All too familiar,” I said before clearing my throat and taking a sip of the bottled water that lay on the table. “Seven years ago, I was about 17. My parents were going through a tough spot financially, and we were going to lose our house. And my dad-“ “Yes, yes, I know. He made a deal, faced consequences. Yadaaa, Yadaaa.This is how these things usually go.” The wise man seemed like he couldn’t care less about my father’s story. As he pulled a bunch of paperwork from his suitcase, he began to look through it with his lips pursed. My brother never pursed his lips. “We were able to pay for our mortgage because of his life insurance. His life insurance. When he made that deal I don’t think he knew he would pay with his literal life.” I said. My hands felt shaky like I could turn into a puddle of tears any moment now. “This is just how these things go. Your father knew that. You know that. If you don’t want to make a deal, it’s no issue finding someone just as desperate and down as you.” The wise man handed me a 4-inch deep binder of paperwork, at the bottom written in italics, signature, and date. I missed my father more than anything, and I wanted to do right by him. But I couldn’t lose my mother too. “I’m not like my father. I don’t care if I die. There’s not a thing you can take away from me that I wouldn’t spare for my mother’s life, not money, not vanity, you can curse my whole bloodline. I do not care. Just save my mother.” I pleaded. “You’re doing a lot of talkin’ honey, I want to see you write.” He said that devilish smile back on his face, sending a shiver down my spine. Nevertheless, I took the pen he handed to me and signed my signature and date. My hands, shaky and jittery with every line and curve. I regretted the action almost as soon as I finished. He took another large binder out of his suitcase. “Here’s your copy. Pleasure doing business with you.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it out of habit. immediately feeling disgusted with myself. How could I shake my hand with the very species that put my family in the predicament we are in now? He got up, ready to leave and take advantage of the next civilian. I ran to my mother’s room. She had to be better. This couldn’t have all been for nothing. This couldn’t all be some very cruel joke. I entered the room pushing into the door so hard I’m pretty sure the door knob had put a hole into the drywall behind it. My mother sat up in her bed. Legs hanging off the sides. “What is that smell?” She said, pinching her nose with her fingers. “And, please Virginia. Close my window. You will let bad spirits in.” She laughed, I missed that laugh. Her eyes, like dark pools of brown, now had life. And her golden brown skin was restored. I fell to my knees at her feet. “I was so scared.” My tears soaked into the fabric of her floral printed night-gown, as I hugged my mother. “Do you remember? Do you remember how sick you were?” I asked. “I remember being sick. And then I remember dreams, and things I’m not too sure are dreams.” My mother’s face looked a bit puzzled like she was trying to put together the pieces, but nothing quite stuck together. “I have to call, Luke. Oh, mama. I was so mean to him. He was just tryna help, in the way you know Luke does.”I took my phone out of my Jean pocket. “You two, always at each other’s necks.” My mother rolled her eyes, as she fixed the wrinkles in her sheets. I dialed his number, it was the same number I memorized as a teen. The phone rang. “Hello?” A feminine voice said. “I’m looking for Luke. This is his sister. “ I said. I’ve gone through so many emotions in a matter of minutes I was surprised I was even able to get the words out without making a stuttering fool of myself. My mother smiled, “I’m going to fix us something to eat. I know just the right thing to celebrate my good health.” I nodded in agreement. And she ran off to the kitchen. She was the healthiest she’d been in years. “I just have some really good news I want to tell him.” I continued on the phone. “This is Lucinda his wife. I’m sorry…. I’m sorry…I don't know how to say this.” She said. “Is everything ok?” I feared the worst. “It all just happened so suddenly. I shouldn’t have picked up the call. But I hoped it was Luke calling from the hospital. God, I hope he’s okay. It looked really bad…I’m sorry. I tried resuscitating, but-“Lucinda's words turned into wails of anguish. The phone fell out of my hands and onto the floor. My mother walked in holding a 4-inch deep binder labeled “Signer’s Copy”. There was no hiding my mistake. Tears fell into the wrinkles of her aged face. “Virginia” my mother’s voice, meek. | 11,072 | 1 |
The five returned to their house dejected. They sat around the living room contemplating what led them to attack an olive dealer in the market. They were not reflecting on the attack. Regretting ones actions was for people with morality and decency. Jim was kicking himself over not grabbing the olives when he had the chance. Polly was hoping that she'd be allowed back at the stand. Reid was reviewing the marketplace for anyone suspicious. Olivia was wondering which friend betrayed her (and why it was Polly's fault). Frida was hoping that she got the chance to get punched by Olivia again. That old lady knew how to punch. In their collective self-absorption, none of them noticed the envelope on the table. It did everything to draw attention to itself without audacious. The envelope was knew, and its bright white color contrasted with the filthy table. It had a bright red wax seal that smelled like apple cinnamon. On the front side, the phrase "For Residents" was written in beautiful calligraphy. Most people would be honored to receive such an envelope. These five would only notice it if it exploded in their faces. "I think the egg merchant looked suspicious," Reid said. "I agree." Olivia pointed a finger at Polly. "You were getting awfully chummy with her, and you don't shut up about how you love eggs." "No, I don't. I'm allergic to eggs," Polly replied. "You are." Olivia blinked several times. "Interesting." Olivia filed that factoid away for future use. "Why are we focused on the market anyway? It could be anyone anywhere." Polly normally avoided such dramatic statements. Large controversies were good distractions, and she wanted to be sure Olivia forgot her allergies. "Like under the couch." "There's monsters under the couch?" Frida jumped out of her seat and checked. When she found nothing, she ran through the room looking for an intruder. When she reached Olivia's chair, she knocked the woman to the ground to look. Frida found Olivia's fist coming out her face. Frida was overjoyed when it connected and knocked a tooth loose. Olivia sat back in her chair and brushed herself off. Frida was almost as annoying as Polly. Olivia needed to find Frida's allergies too like Polly's allergies to. Darn, Olivia already forgot that allergy. "I hope the apple dealer did it. I love apples. That could also be because that the stamp is reminding me of apples." When Jim pointed at the stationary, Reid jumped at the envelope and tore it. He held the parchment up to his face and read it aloud. *I saw what you did at the market. That was the shameful behavior that needs to be stopped. You have two hours to submit an apology to that merchant.* "Great, we've already angered our blackmailer," Polly said. "I say we go back to the market and interrogate other people. I want steak," Jim said. "Wait, let's think logically," Reid said. Everyone looked at him confused as logic wasn't something they did. "We went to the market and came directly back here. We didn't get sidetracked at all which is rare for us." "Jim got distracted by a bird. I think that counts," Olivia said. "But Polly grabbed him after a few seconds. We've had worse," Reid said. "Okay, what's your point?" Olivia asked. "So our blackmailer had to be at the market. Run back here, write the note, seal it, and leave it on the table in the same time it took us to come back here. Meaning, he had to have left clues," Reid said. Frida immediately tore up the cushion she was sitting on. She moved to Olivia's chair, and Olivia punched her in the face again. "I don't think it's here. I think it's somewhere else." Reid walked to the closet. "Like here." He opened the door and a small man was trembling at the bottom. "Woah, I didn't expect to find him here." "How dare you threaten me?" Olivia pushed Reid aside. She grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him into the air and slammed on the table. "We don't know if he's the blackmailer," Reid said. "Did you write that note? Don't lie." Olivia held him closer to her face. The man gulped and nodded. Olivia assaulted his entire body for several seconds until walking away. "You all can have a turn now." Polly looked down on the man. "Who are you anyway?" "I'm the postman," he said. The entire group went silent. "We have a postman," Reid said. "Yes, you always ignore me," the postman laughed, "It was frustrating at first. Then, it became useful." "How did you find out our secrets?" Polly asked. "You all told me them. I was delivering mail, and you all decided to spill your guts. Except for you." He pointed at Jim. "I walked in on what you did. I still have nightmares about it." "I was really hungry," Jim shouted. "Still no excuse." The entire room shouted. After expressing her disapproval, Olivia looked back at the man. "I would never share the family secret with a stranger. You're lying," Olivia said. "You wrote a letter to your sister about your baking experience. When you handed to me, you giggled about your lie, and how she should never find out," the postman replied. "I don't believe you," Olivia said. "That sounds like something you'd do," Polly said. "Shut up." "Ignoring them. Why did you blackmail us? Surely, you have better things to do," Reid asked. "Because I grew sick of watching you, you are all horrible people who mistreat everyone around. If we are ever going to reach the same heights we reached pre-Mieran invasion, we need people who are willing to work for the common good. I also wanted you to get consequences for your actions," he said. "Who made you judge, jury, and executioner?" Polly crossed her arms. "Yeah, you are so self-righteous," Frida said. Everyone glanced at her in shock as she used a word with three syllables. "Well, your blackmail is worthless now. So let's make a deal. If you tell anyone." Reid punched his palm. "We'll find you make your regret. Since you think we're bad people, you know we'll follow through. Understood." The postman nodded. "Good now go." The postman ran from the house in fear. Everyone laughed afterwards in victory over the pretentious postman. | 6,353 | 1 |
When the Angel of the Lord sounded his trumpet, the whole supermarket fell quiet. Each person looked around attempting to make sense of the loud noise that still echoed off the walls and through the aisles of processed foods and cheap goods made across the ocean in soulless Chinese factories. Mark turned to the person next to him and was about to speak when the roof was ripped from the building in a terrible cry of metal screeching against the helpless nails. The sun that shone so brightly when he'd entered the store was hidden behind dark clouds. Suddenly, the sky rent open and rain came falling down. It was hot to the touch and burnt the skin in the most horrible fashion. Mark quickly ran for cover under the outdoor furniture display. He found that a pack of people had beat him to it. He headed for the doors, fighting through the hordes of others with similar thoughts of reaching their cars. Mark struggled to pull his out keys. Finally reaching them, he unlocked his truck and jumped in. He panted furiously trying to gut out the painful burning and drown out the screams from the others in the parking lot. He took a deep breath to regain himself. He pulled out his phone in hopes of finding out what was happening. No signal. "Dammit!" he yelled and slammed his phone on the passenger seat. He turned on the radio only to find static. "Children of Earth!" a voice, low, and everywhere penetrated Mark's ears. "I have a message from your creator." Mark looked up through the windshield and saw a figure he couldn't quite make out standing in the clouds and holding a large scroll. "Dear Earthlings, your Mother Earth and I have decided to get a divorce. We felt it best to let you all decide who you want to live with. If you come with me, your consciousness will be converted to light and you'll live an eternity exploring the Universe and all of creation with me. We can watch civilizations rise and fall and I'll teach you how to create things of your own. Or, you can stay here, on Earth with your mother. You'll live short lives, dying terrible deaths, swatting away bugs, getting sunburned or frozen or whatever other nonsense happens here. But, that's just a summary of what she said, I'll send her verbatim message to your brains shortly. Be forewarned it's pretty lame so, read it if you want. You have one year to make your decision. During that time, we'll stop all births and deaths. You'll also notice that your free-will has been slightly restrained so that there will be no harming of any other human. See you in a year." With that, the skies cleared, the sun returned, and the people of Earth sat stunned. In an instant, everyone had the same thought; the message from their Mother Earth. "Sorry for your father. He can be such a jerk. Let me start by saying that I have loved you from your first breath. I've nursed you with my own body, given you substance from my flesh, water from my blood. If you stay with me there will be death, there will be pain, but, there will also be joy. Death is a gift that allows the soul to rest. Without it, life loses its meaning. Societies and civilization will crumble and you'll return to simpler lives closer to me and my nature; simple pleasures. As your father said, you will have one year to make your decision. Whether you stay or go, I will always love you." Mark looked around as everyone slowly had the same realization he did. He looked toward the entrance of the store and saw a man pick up a TV and run toward the exit. The automatic door swung open but, the man hit an invisible wall and thudded to the ground. He stood up and tried again with the same result. He attempted to drag the TV out but, it wouldn't move past the entrance. Security quickly ran up and tried to tackle the man but, they bounced off and hit the ground. The man tried to kick one of the guards but his foot became stuck an inch away. Everyone stared and waited to see what would happen next but, nothing did. The young man and two security guards looked at each other for a moment then grabbed their heads and ran away. Mark jumped out of his car and ran up to the man who looked like he'd seen a ghost. He grabbed the man, "What was that?" Mark asked. The man shouted "NO STEALING! NO HARMING!" he held his own head tightly then shouted "OK!!!!!" and suddenly, his look of terror was replaced by a sense of relief. He ran past Mark and out of the parking lot. Mark looked at his phone but, there was still no service. He got in his car but, the engine wouldn't turn. He noticed the other cars in the lot were in a similar situation. Suddenly, a loud voice came into his ear "No electronics! No automobiles!" Mark got out of his car and shook his head hoping to shake the voice out. It kept repeating "No electronics! No automobiles!" Mark shouted "OK!" and the voice immediately stopped. Marked dropped his head and wished he hadn't come to the store three miles from home. He began the long walk back, joining crowds of people filling the sidewalks and streets. As he reached his neighborhood, he saw his wife, Sarah, standing on the porch. She came running down. "Mark!" she shouted and ran into his arms, "Thank God you're OK!" Mark caught her in his arms, "Speaking of God..." "I know. We all heard the same thing. What are we going to do?" Sarah asked. Mark thought for a moment. "Well, whatever it is, we have a year to figure it out. For now, let's just get inside. | 5,586 | 1 |
The middle-aged man wore a sweater under his tank-top. A birthday suit woven from keratin thread. Evolutionarily purposeful but societally unfashionable. He was called many names: “Hairy Potter,” “Chewbacca,” and “Hobbit Feet,” were among the most popular. Hollywood had a knack for supplying body-shaming fodder. All the man wanted to do was walk outside with his shirt off. To not have to get dressed to check the mail or take out the trash. Perhaps he could mingle with the younger, attractive, more polished socialites at his apartment’s pool area. He hoped he was old enough now to not be ridiculed for his appearance - “Why would anyone in their 20’s go out of their way to insult someone in their 40’s?” Doubts lingered from past trauma. During last year’s vacation to Venice Beach, a *PETA* activist splashed red paint at him and yelled, “Fur is murder!” Southern California was merciless. Dawning a tank-top was his last ditch effort at a compromise, a security blanket to shield him from criticism. He stepped out of his front door and headed towards the mail room, adjacently located near the community pool. It was Sunday, so there would be plenty of residents sunbathing there that he could nod a greeting to. He carried a garbage bag by his side and a foolproof plan in his mind, “Take the trash to the dumpster, check your mail, and say ‘hi’ to someone at the pool on your way back home. Easy-peasy.” Each destination was connected in a straight line like a children’s game of connect-the-dots. His neighbor from across the hall was coincidentally leaving their abode at the same time and gave an awkward stare. The man figured it must be the disgust of seeing his bushy shoulders popping out of his sleeveless garment. Insecurities typically imprisoned him on the weekend, so his coming out party would seem odd to onlookers. His neighbor's gaze did not deter him. He held strong to his mission and continued onward to the dumpster. A gaggle of young women barely old enough to drink, cackled and pointed at the fuzzy man from a distance. Scantily clad in bikinis, the brutality of their fingers were shooting bullets through his ego. He knew he would never be the object of their desires, but he didn’t need to be openly mocked. The reality of never aging away from a lifetime of incessant teasing drained at his confidence. He paced a bit faster after the dumpster, bolted passed the pool, and went straight into the mailroom. Now halfway through his journey, he was determined to finish. “I’ll skip the ‘hello’ on the way back,” he told himself. As he exited the mailroom, passing the pool again, he heard, “look - that's him!” The small group of unkind women were recruiting a larger audience to join in their assault. There was audible laughter, not even an attempt to suppress their ill-mannered judgment. One woman blurted out, “oh my god,” then diverted her eyes. He had tolerated disparaging remarks his whole life, perhaps he was gifted with the endurance to bear this moment too. His pride was shattered, he turned his head low and looked at the ground as he walked back home ashamed. That’s when he realized: He was naked from the waist below. | 3,226 | 1 |
Vines replaced the light poles. Tree’s replaced roads, mountains replaced skyscrapers, flowers replaced houses. Birds replaced airplanes, sand replaced docks. In the end, nature always won. In a war, with one party or another, nature was always going to win, even without direct participation. He had seen it all. Growing up in small town America, he’d seen the society that he was born into come under fire, and as if the very foundation of society had been built on the Jenga blocks he played with, it crumbled at the slightest touch. He couldn’t help wondering what people had done after society collapsed, afterall, this wasn't the first time. The Bronze Age collapse saw the demise of great empires in a span of a hundred years. Great societies that lasted thousands of years, gone in a seeming flash. The Han and Roman Empire, so mighty, so strong, collapsed under their own weights as outside forces broke their metaphysical and physical borders. The kingdoms of Europe were brought to their knees when small pests invaded their homes, the plague left people dead, or scared. When the world faced annihilation by a mad man in charge of a nation, the world rebounded. What would happen this time? There were no nations left, no piece to pick up, no trails to blaze. Society wasn’t just destroyed, it was gone, and maybe forever. He remembered the trees. So might be strong, but seemingly so insufficient to man's creations. Skyscrapers stood so high, so mighty, a marvel of engineering. He thought, what would those Pharaohs think of these grand monuments? Would they see them as a vain attempt to be remembered? Or would he see it as a great marvel like that of the Pyramid of Cheops. He knew what he thought. He remembered an old Bible quote, the same bible that now laid in the dying man's hands. “Vanity of Vanities, all is vanity" but as a child, he saw them, and was amused. What child didn’t want to leave home for the big city? The Big Apple? The Harbor of Boston? Washington? All those places to a child were on par with that of Disney World. What of the roads? Miles and miles, seemingly endless road networks. He thought upon Rome, of a certain Emperor. “Our life is what our thoughts make of it”. Is this not true to him? Were his own roads just as decayed and decrepit as the ones he now witnessed? They once littered his home. “More road than grass” his father once said, when visiting another big city. “May nature have mercy on the weak, for her vengeance is nasty” he would say. He was right, the roads outside, now barely visible, if not for the constant maintenance. Mankind's last attempt to control nature, or maybe it was a reminisce of an old life. When lawns were procured and carefully cut to fit man's ambitions. A Levittown home, a white picket fence. Where were those fences now? And what of those homes? He was sitting in one, owned by an organization in the small settlement he was a part of. Mankind's last attempt to articulate order, from the chaos. It was not his home, his home was gone. Blown to smithereens when the bombs dropped. All he had left was him, and he was all that was left. His parents, gone, his sister, gone, his dog, gone, all his family, gone. Within the span of a day, they all perished under the might of great planes and weapons of war. He thought of that day, and looked to the skies. Where were those planes now? He thought. They most certainly were inoperable. He had seen nothing in the sky, minus birds, since the war ended. All the men, all the thoughts that went into those excellent and terrible weapons of war, were now for not. Wasted time, wasted lives, wasted resources. Those planes could be of use to them now, not for war, but for peace. Afterall, he was always taught to love thy neighbor, and scorn thy sinner. Sinners, he thought, the lot of them, all sinners. This was God's punishment. He had articulated man's downfall and divine retribution. These thoughts were not new. Even as a child, he always saw the end of civilization not as man made, but as God’s will, and he loathed God for it. He came to reason, that if humans were so terrible, that would mean he was too. He was a good man, always helping, always giving. No, he thought, this isn't about God, he didn't make those men drop the bombs. It was the work of men. Men. Some as old as he, some as young as a baby now lived in his small settlement. No more than a hundred, they were all a small family. The women, the men, the children, all had a place in their new society. Most in the settlement only heard tales of the war, legends of heroic acts, and cruel tortures. They did not witness the bombs. They were told of television, and wifi, all seemingly magic to them, as they grow up with typewriters and a small telegraph wire to the nearest settlement. Some cars still remained, but gas was scarce, and very valuable. He wondered, then, on the plagues that wrought the world after the bombs. Medical care was scarce, and to find someone to administer it was even more so. He himself was barely 60, yet he was dying. His grandparents were in their 70’s, and they lived until those bombs too, destroyed their home. His only family was here. Family, they all gathered around him, their leader, their father, their savior. They weep for his condition, and knew he would soon pass. However, this is nature intended. She had reclaimed the roads, the homes, the lights, the skyscrapers. We were never in control, not in the slightest, nature gave us the illusion, to stop us from destroying ourselves, and yet, we failed. We disappointed out dear mother earth. We hurt, take, and beat her, and yet she still gave, until her children finally silenced themselves. She was now healing, giving her new children the chance to grow, to learn and to prosper. He looked at his family, all so beautiful, so naive, so kind yet so ignorant. Smart, yet brash. A tear set in, not for a lack of hope, or an abundance of it. He would miss them, yes, but he was crying for the uneasiness of mankind. He wouldn’t live to see mankind grow again. However, just outside, for a brief moment, one of the old street light lit up. It was the first light he’d seen in decades. Finally, the rest of the street lit up, as if Christmas was being celebrated once more. | 6,399 | 1 |
As a child, I lived for a time in a hundred-year-old house in North-Western Virginia that was surrounded by Civil War battlefields. When the States went to war in 1861 and the blood flowed, my town was the spot where much of that blood ran. And you could feel the psychic residue of all that bloodshed wherever you went. Our town had been the stomping grounds of a famous Confederate General named Mosby. The Union Commanders he’d faced had given him the nickname “The Grey Ghost” for his ability to strike at Union targets and then disappear, along with his men, back into the Virginia wilderness. A lot of men died around John Mosby, on both sides of the conflict, and the land was thick with their ghosts. You thought about them when you were digging in the yard and found a musket ball. We heard their whispers the summer we dug up an old chunk of concrete we found beneath a hedgerow and revealed a short tunnel full of ancient glass bottles, hazy with age. But it was worst in our basement. There was an unassuming wooden slat door in our kitchen that opened on twenty wooden stairs leading down into a stone-walled basement. And down in that basement, the dead sang. I was terrified of that basement. It felt older, somehow, than the rest of the house. And there was a smell too… something like a pile of wet pennies… sharp and unpleasant. Any request from my father to run down and grab something from that place felt like a death sentence. There was something down there. Something hungry and fast. To stand in that basement was like standing next to a powerful exposed electrical current… the skin on my arms and legs danced with it. Once I’d gotten whatever it was I’d gone down there for, I would climb back up the steps backwards. It took longer that way, but it was the only way I could keep an eye on all the dark corners and piles of junk where I knew it… whatever it was… was hiding and waiting for the right moment to pounce. The year I turned ten my Grandparents sold their house in New Orleans and moved to Virginia to be closer to my siblings and me. And with both my parents working long hours, we quickly fell into a routine where “Nanie and Popie” would cook dinner for us three or four times a week. Their house was a little over a mile away, on dark country roads, and every night we would pile into the family car and drive on over for a home-cooked meal. One particular Fall night, as the Summer was just getting around to releasing its grip on the weather, my Dad was running unusually late. By the time he got home from work it was already full dark and we were rushing to get to Nanie’s house on time. As we hurried to our beat-up old mini-van, my Mom suddenly realized she’d forgotten something. Dad paused with his key already in the car door. He might’ve rolled his eyes, too. But my Mom waved him on. We were late. “Go”, she said, “I’ll be right behind you.” Mom had her own car, a sporty red two-seater. We piled into the mini-van with all the chaos that comes with three young kids and a harried Dad all trying to get buckled in and out of the driveway fast. As we backed out into the street I glanced back at the house and saw my Mom keying her way back into the house, her red jacket like a splash of blood under the porch light. We pulled away just as I saw the light come on inside the entryway. She was inside. I was sure of it. A few minutes later we were knocking on my Grandparents door, giving Nanie a quick hug, and dashing for the couch and reruns of Taxi and Three’s Company. Mom would be along soon, and then we would eat. Except she wasn’t. And we didn’t. Five minutes became ten. Ten became fifteen. And a half hour later, my Dad was concerned and growing more and more agitated. He tried to play it cool so that he wouldn’t worry us, but after a call to the house went unanswered, he decided that somebody needed to do something. He looked at me. “Come on, let’s drive back home and see if we can find her.” “*See if we can find he*r…” Jesus. We drove the entire route, so slowly it was agonizing. But the roads were dark in that part of Virginia, and we had to carefully scan every inch of roadside for a disabled vehicle… or worse. Surely if she wasn’t at home, she must be at the side of the road with a flat tire or a busted radiator. But she wasn’t. My Dad must’ve wanted to race home at top speed, but to his credit, he kept the pace slow and steady. He didn’t want to miss anything critical even more than he wanted to hurry. Eventually, after what seemed like hours searching the route, we made it home. And there it was. My Mom’s little two-seater. Still sitting in the driveway. It hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, nothing at all had changed since we’d left. Except for one thing. All the lights in the house were off. “What the h” my Dad had been about to ask when he opened his driver side door and was interrupted by a rhythmic pounding and the muffled sound of my Mother screaming. We looked at each other, then sprinted for the door, my Dad reaching into his pocket for his keys. They caught on his pants pocket as he pulled them free, and he fumbled them. I saw them for one brief moment, spinning over and over, glinting in the moonlight, and then they were gone. Down in the tall grass somewhere. We both dropped to our knees, fumbling around in the yard as, somewhere, my Mother continued to scream and scream and scream. “Got ‘em!” he shouted, and we were up again, my Dad stabbing at the front door lock with the big brass key and missing at least twice in the darkness. And then we were in. Dad slapped the twin light switches just inside the door, and the lights on the porch and in the entryway popped on, flooding the space with comforting light. “Where are you!?” He asked the empty house. “The basement!” we heard her shout, and I shivered uncontrollably as we stumbled over each other racing into the kitchen. She wasn’t crying when we got the door open, but it was a very near thing. She pushed past us and ran out onto the porch. And there she stood for some time, hands on her knees, breathing hard, like she might throw up. Suddenly she started to make sharp snorting noises. “My god… the smell”, she said. And I saw she’d pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and was aggressively blowing her nose into it. “I can’t get it out of my nose.” “What smell?” Dad asked. “It smells like… like blood down there…” she said through the handkerchief. There was fear and real disgust in her voice. When she could speak clearly again, she told us what had happened. She’d gone back for a hat that had been hanging on a nail about halfway down the basement stairs. The minute her hand had closed on it, the basement door had slammed shut behind her. She’d tried the door, only to find it locked. And then the lights had gone out. She didn’t know how long she’d been screaming. My Dad must’ve seen the terror on my face because he tried hard to find a reasonable explanation. “Must’ve been a draft”, he said. But of course, it wasn’t. And all three of us knew it. Oh, I’m sure there are a million reasons why the lights might’ve gone out at that exact moment. A freak power outage, maybe… or a couple blown fuses. Though if my Dad ever checked for evidence of either, I am not aware of it. I think he didn’t check because it didn’t matter. He knew what had really happened just as well as I did. I’ve thought a lot about what my Dad must’ve been thinking as we drove the route home without seeing her car. She’d said she was running in to grab something. She should have been right behind us. I wonder how scared he must’ve been. I’ve wondered if the relief he felt when he heard her voice was the reason why he never thought much about what really happened that night. Because there was nothing at all that could explain away the fact that the basement door had been locked. The lock on the basement door was on the outside of the door… the kitchen side. And the lock was a heavy bar lock that could only be engaged by a human hand first lifting it up, then sliding it into the hole drilled in the jam, and then rotating the bolt back down. I don’t care how many times you tested that lock by slamming the door, it would never lock on its own. Not ever. It was simply impossible. We slept at Nanie and Popie’s house that night. I don’t know what happened to my Mom while she was on those stairs in the dark. She never spoke of it. But she never went down into that basement again. Not ever. Because there were ghosts down in that basement. I never saw any real evidence of their presence again. Except in my dreams. And in the occasional acrid copper smell of blood on those basement steps. | 8,722 | 5 |
Time Capsule Flying cars thrust upon the clear, deep blue sky. I opened the glass door, and the bell rang. I walked past gleaming white shelves with transparent cylindrical time capsules on them and reached the shop owner, a beautiful young lady of about twenty, the same age as me. “How may I help you?” she asked. “Umm, yes, I think there’s a problem with my time capsule,” I said. “I’m sorry, Sir, but there’s no problem with our time capsules. They are perfectly designed to allow you to receive messages from your past self.” “Look, it predicted it too.” I passed the capsule to her. “She’ll awkwardly say that there’ll be no problem,” she read. “Sir, is this some kind of joke?” she asked. “No.” “I suggest you take the advice of your past self and leave.” She passed the note back to me. I walked back to the door and received a new message. I read the date at the top: 2070, thirty years from now. He opened the door, and a car went past in front of him. He pinned himself to the door for a whole minute, his heart pounding like it ripped out of his chest and came close to his ear. The heat from the car’s thrusters still burning his chest. “Hey, James,” said a ginger-haired girl as she approached him. Her skin was as golden as the sun, and her lips as red and soft as the petals of a rose. He took out the capsule and read from the middle. “Your wife, Lucy, will approach you. Say hi to her for me. She’ll ask you to see her parents. Make a good impression. I’ll tell you how.” He scruffed the note back into his pocket. “She isn’t my wife.” “What?” she said. “Were you talking about me?” “Um, no.” “Hm, listen.” “Hi.” She smiled. “Hi, listen my dad wants to meet you.” Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. He sat on his comfy chair with his baby boy playing on the carpet in front of him. Lucy sat a little farther away. “Come on,” she said. “Come on. Come to Mama.” The note stuck to his pocket. The day was December the 2nd, the day he was going to walk for the first time. So, his eyes didn’t widen like hers when he took his first step and stretched his hands out. He didn’t bend to the edge of his seat as he fell into her arms. She grinned from ear to ear and looked at him. But he only stared at her in confusion. That’s it? That’s the moment I have been waiting for the past three months. He only took a few steps and fell. What is this? I got up from his seat and walked a while before Lucy caught his hand. “Did you see that? He walked! With his two tiny legs. Wasn’t he cute?” I grinned like this a long, long time ago when I read it in the time capsule. My cheeks became red and my lips reached my ears from grinning, but then I looked around and found no child of mine. It was all on an emotionless screen. But now that I see it with my own eyes, now that I hear his little feet tap on the ground, I feel nothing. It's like a movie on Rewind. I am like that screen, emotionless. Years went by and every time I waited for that one special moment, which would finally bloom my world, it never came, or to say otherwise, it came again and again, but each time it failed me. “You are never happy!” Lucy yelled in the middle of the night. We both stood in the kitchen with the bulb that flickered each time she yelled. I read this moment a month ago, so I prepared all day just for this fight. So, it didn't affect me all that much. I let her speak and pour out all her anger. She cursed me and said everything boiling within her. But in the end, she started crying. I expected it, my heart ached, and my chest tightened. I still couldn't let tears stain her face, so I wrapped my arm around her and tucked her. “Why don't you listen to me?” she whispered. “I do listen to you.” “Then say something.” My eyes widened. What can I say? The capsule never said to say something to her. I guess I never figured out the words. Well, I am an adult, right? I can do it myself. Yeah, yeah, why not? I looked back at her, and my eyes widened. Do I have to say them now? For all day I prepared for a fight yet I never figured out the words. Tears swirled in her pearl-white eyes. I stared at them for ten minutes and then said the most generic thing that came to my mind, “I am sorry. I’ll do better.” The moonlight beamed through the open window in front of me. I paced around my room as I rubbed my head. The capsule warned me of this, didn't it? Why did my mind go blank then? I gripped the capsule tight in my hand. Maybe because there is nothing in my mind. I am a puppet, following blindly. Lucy went into a deep slumber on the bed. Cool air ruffled my hair, and a chill ran through my spine. The little happiness I have is because of this capsule. What has this life given me? Maybe this capsule has sucked the life out of me! Agh! I have everything, yet I feel none of it. Nothing! I feel nothing! I grabbed the time capsule and weighed it in my hand. The weight of my life. Some pages earlier I read something special will happen today. Maybe I shouldn’t sleep tonight. I tightened my grip around the time capsule. I winced my eyes and threw the capsule out the window. I slipped into my blanket and my eyes closed. In the middle of the night, my child cried. I hopped out of my bed and picked him up. I smiled at him and shook him lightly. He stopped crying, and his eyes sparkled as he smiled. His soft cotton hands touched my cheeks, and he said, “Dada.” At that moment, I felt a flicker of something long buried—a genuine smile. Not born from the words on a screen but from the depths of my heart. | 5,597 | 3 |
“Hear ye, Hear ye! Judge Brown presiding!” “Alright folks, we’ll start off today’s session like we do every day: with a state-mandated land acknowledgement—We would like to acknowledge that we are meeting on the Indigenous lands of Turtle Island, the ancestral name for what now is called North America. Moreover, (I) We would like to acknowledge the Alabama-Coushatta, Caddo, Carrizo/Comecrudo, Coahuiltecan, Comanche, Kickapoo, Lipan Apache, Tonkawa and Ysleta Del Sur Pueblo, and all the American Indian and Indigenous Peoples and communities who have been or have become a part of these lands and territories in Texas. “Ok, first in the docket is State of Texas vs. Mr. Red Feather. Mr. Red Feather you are charged with public intoxication, disorderly conduct, breaking and entering, trespassing, and providing a false statement to state officials. How do you plead?” “Not guilty, Judge.” “It says here you were found passed out drunk on the State Courthouse grounds. Is that right?” “No, Judge, I was at my home, sleeping.” “Is that so. The arresting officer says you were belligerent, and that you tried to relieve yourself in the bushes?” “That part is true. But you would be belligerent too, if someone woke you while you slumbered peacefully at home.” “Yes, but not if I was asleep on public property.” “I was not on public property. I was on the ancestral grounds of my fathers, the Comanche people who have laid their head on this stone for 1,000 years before Judge Pale Face arrived.” “Right, ok. I see. Well, Mr. Red Feather, the Supreme Court of Texas upheld the right of the Pale Face, as you call him, to occupy this land by the Right of Conquest in *People of Texas vee Coahuiltecan Nation, 1876* and *People of Texas vee John Catawanee, 1981*, both of which were upheld again by the Supreme Court of the United States in 1983. So, I hold you in violation of the several statues of our great State; guilty on all charges; 30 days jail and $1,000 fine to be paid here. Bailiff, take him out! Next.” “Alright, next up is Texas vs. Mr. Oscar Mercado. “Mr. Mercado you are what was once called an *illegal alien* but is now referred to as an *asylum-seeker*. It says you have overstayed your welcome to the land of Milk & Honey for 180 days and you have a rap sheet longer than many true-blue American criminals, which is impressive given what our people in Austin are doing these days. How do you plead?” “Not guilty.” “I bet. And Mr. Mercado, how do you explain that you have missed your last three scheduled court-appearances?” “You honor, the Supreme Court of Texas affirmed my right to live here by the Right of Conquest in *People of Texas v. Coahuiltecan Nation, 1876* and again in *People of Texas vs John Catawanee, 1981*. The Supreme Court of the United States reaffirmed this right in 1983. I am playing by the rules.” “Well, durn.” ​ \*\*\* ​ Claim your territory over at u/quillandtrowel's Medium & Twitter accounts (links in bio). | 3,095 | 3 |
He turned the volume up on the radio, and started singing. *Well I’m a common man, I drive a common van,* *My dog ain’ got no pet degereeeee…* His buddy reached over and turned down the volume. “No what?” “No pet degree, turn it back up.” “You mean *pedigree*, Bill?” “That’s what I said.” “No, Sir—a *pedigree*. One word. Not pet, degree—two words.” “What the heck is a pet-agree?” “It’s some papers that say your dog is authentic, of a certain type.” “Some papers for your dog’s background? Like what he can do?” “Yeah, something like that.” He laughed. “Some papers from the pound or something.” “That sounds like a pet degree to me. I mean, ain’t that what a degree is? I didn’t graduate but you did. What’s that paper they handed you at the end of it?” “Well I ain’ no pet.” Bill spit the sunflower seeds into his little Coke bottle as his red truck—“Trusty Rusty” he called it—bumped its way past the fence posts and fields. The cattle looked up as his wheel rattled into a hole along the dirt road, and Bill kept on singing. *I'll take a Chevrolet just any day* *So give your Daddy back his Mercedes Benz* *And there's some common people that I hang out with* *They're my good time buddies, they're my friends.* When he got home, Bill hung his coat on the back of the rocking chair and left his boots on the porch. Bill the Third was sitting at the dinner table crying. “I don’t like it!” He shouted. Bill’s wife, Marla, said he needed to eat three more bites before he could be excused. “I don’t want three more bites. I want something else!” Bill Jr intervened. “What are you making a fuss about, Bill? My Son, My Son. Momma said you gotta eat three. That’s one for her, one for you, and one for me.” Bill the Third stared at the plate. “But I don’t like meat balls.” “Well, it looks like you ain’t a hardly tried ‘em.” “I don’t like trying them,” said the boy in his boosted seat. “Well, buddy, it’s gonna be a long night, and you gonna either eat ‘em now and go to bed full, or eat ‘em in the morning after being as hawngary as a bull.” “I want to be hawng-a-ry.” “Well, Mommy said eat three, then hawng-a-ry you can be.” After dinner, Bill and Marla sat in the living room and listened to Bill the Third roll around in his bed, hungry. “That boy stubborn as a mule,” he said. “Wonder where he got that from,” she asked, without looking up from her needlepoint. Bill set down his beer and watched his wife whip the needle up and down and in and out. She changed the thread from pink to green and kept on needling. “I’m sure he’ll grow out of it before he’s forty-eight,” she said. Bill’s forty-eighth birthday was next week. “Far more precious than jewels,” he said and downed the rest of his beer. “What’s that gonna say anyway?” She didn’t look up from her work and said, softly, sweetly, slowly: *This is my own, my native land!* *Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,* *As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,* *From wandering on a foreign strand!* “What does that mean?” he asked without much interest. “You know, you should read that book over there. I think you’d like it.” Without looking up, she tilted her head toward the thick book bound in green with gold letters down the spine, *100 Great English Poems*. “Oh no you don’t. I don’t got time for any of that nonsense. We got to get the corn in.” “I know, I just think you might like it.” A small smile crept into the corner of her lips. “Can you do your lovely wife a favor, though? And just read me one little bit while I work?” He looked at her, suspiciously. “I know a trap when I see one. I ain’t like that ole’ dog out there who can’t see three feet past his nose.” Her smile grew. “I know, dear, I know you can see four feet past it." She slid the needle into the canvas. "Far enough to pick up that book and indulge me for a few minutes.” He walked over, picked up the cloth bound book, and waited for his instructions. “Page 314.” He opened the book and began to read. He stuttered over the words at first, but eventually broke into a rhythm and trotted along. He nearly sang: *Saying, ‘Fight on, my merry men all,* *And see that none of you be taine;* *For rather then men shall say we were hange’d,* *Let them report how we were slaine.’* He interrupted himself, “that part don’t even really rhyme.” She nodded and he picked up the trot, again. Steadily he came to the end of her request: *News then was brought to young Johnny Armstrong,* *As he stood by his nurse’s knee,* *Who vowed if ere he live’d to be a man,* *On the treacherous Scots revenged hee’d be.* “Well, there ya go. Did that scratch your itch? You happy now?” “Tickled pink,” she said with a smile and received her kiss on the cheek. “G’night,” he said. “There is more wisdom to be found in the cornfield, Woman, than you can dream of in all your books of poetry,” he said, not quite sure where he was going. “Good night,” she said and worked her needle in, out, up, and down. ​ \*\*\* ​ Follow u/quilandtrowel over at Medium & Twitter if you want a good harvest (links in bio). | 5,414 | 1 |
I could feel how hot my forehead was, the blood starting to seep through the scrape and onto the ground. Three pairs of eager noses sniffed at me as I lay face down on a cobblestone walkway in front of my client’s house. I angrily shoved the dogs away from me as I flipped over and began to loosen the leash around my legs. I stood up, knees aching, and dusted myself off while looking at the house looming before me. It was brick. They were all brick. They all had vines creeping up the sides of the house to make them look old fashioned, even though they were all built about 40 years ago. They had the huge white doors, the tall skinny windows, the balcony on the second floor which looked out at the street. Every house in the neighborhood enclosed behind the thick iron gates looked the same. It was a miracle I could even tell whose house was whose. The dogs knew their houses obviously, and of course I knew where mine was. Mine was located at the very back of the neighborhood, next to the river and a large gray rock which served as a tombstone for my neighbor's cat. And mine always gave me a sense of dread every time I got near it ever since she went missing. I was ten years old when I woke up that morning. It was a Saturday, and I was getting up earlier than usual so I could sneak downstairs and watch my cartoons. To my surprise, my parents were already up. My father was holding my mother’s hand, the two of them looking disheveled and whispering to one another. When they turned their attention to me, I remembered their eyes were red and bloodshot, it was like they hadn’t slept all night. “Morning!” I said cheerfully, passing them on the way to the TV. “Lilly,” my dad called out, his voice breaking, “there’s something we need to tell you.” I didn’t know what to expect. The only things that were on my mind were Froot Loops and Spongebob. “Dani didn’t come home last night from Eliza’s,” my mom choked out. She gripped my father’s hand tighter. “We don’t know where she is, she’s--she’s--” “She’s missing,” my father finished for her. I don’t remember what I said. In all honesty, I don’t remember much of what happened after that conversation. I know there were search teams, or at least one. I know there was a lot of security added to the neighborhood. And I know that about a year after that conversation, there was a funeral for my sister. But I mostly just remember crying. All alone in my room, or in Dani’s room. I would often wander to Dani’s room in the middle of the night and curl up in her bed. I would wrap her purple blanket that she slept with around my arms. I used to think it was silly that she slept with a blanket. She was five years older than me, and I didn’t even sleep with a blanket. But to this day, I still have that ratty purple blanket next to me every night. I’ve always wanted to know what happened to her, just some sign so I could make sure justice was served in some way. As I made my way back over to my house after dropping off the last dog, I started to prepare myself for the horrible feeling about to wash over me. It always happened as soon as I was right in front of the gate, staring at the balcony. Dani and I always used to stand on the balcony, dropping little parachute toys and watching them plummet to the ground. I made my way down the sidewalk, noticing a tall, dark haired girl walking in front of me. She was limping, but she was making a beeline for something. My house. It was the only place she could be going, if she was going to one of my neighbors’ houses she would have already turned a corner. She didn’t look like anyone I knew from school, but for some reason I still felt like I recognized her. Her chestnut brown hair was so long and silky, it looked so much like-- “Dani!” I don’t know why I said that. Even if I thought she looked remotely like her, I don’t know why I would have shouted that at this random girl. She stopped and began to turn around, and I started jogging up to her to apologize for startling her. “Hey, sorry. I thought you were someone else, I didn’t mean to--” my heart dropped to the ground. My jaw went along with it, both plummeting to the ground like the parachute men I used to play with. It only returned in order for me to muster up the courage to speak. “Dani?” She could have been missing for twenty years. The length of time didn’t matter. I knew that the girl who stood in front of me was my missing sister. I was dehydrated. Concussed from my fall on the sidewalk. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be Dani. But it was. It could have been a hallucination, but I didn’t care about looking crazy. I ran into the open arms of my dead sister. “I-I’ve missed you so much Dan,” I choked out between sobs, “where have you been?” Dani shook her head, tears streaming down her face. She placed a cold hand on my shoulder while using her other to brush my blonde hair out of my eyes. Shaking her head again, she gestured to her throat, and my eyes widened as I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. A faint, scarlett scar creeped across Dani’s throat like a thin piece of twine choking her out. She shook her head for a third time, followed by flapping her pale fingers up and down imitating a mouth speaking. “Oh my gosh, Dani. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You don’t need to,” I reassured her. Dani nodded and smiled again, looking me up and down. She pointed to me and placed her hand on the top of her head, then raised it to the height of mine. “Yeah, I’m taller than you now,” I chuckled, “it’s been a while. C’mon, let’s go inside.” Dani’s smile faltered for a second, and her big blue eyes turned into narrow slits with a flash of red. I blinked, thinking it was just the glare from the sun. Thankfully it was, Dani looked like herself. A now twenty-two-ish, paler, scarred version of herself, but it was Dani nonetheless. The two of us walked up the pathway to our front door, Dani slowly trailing behind me as she stared at the balcony above, unblinking. Once we were inside, I beckoned Dani over towards the kitchen, where I could hear my mom and dad beginning to prepare dinner. “Mom? Dad?” I called out to them, walking over to the counter where my dad was chopping tomatoes. They turned their focus to me, but I knew their attention was still on dinner. “Look who I ran into,” I whispered, my eyes beginning to fill with tears again. Dani slowly stepped through the doorway, not breaking eye contact with my parents. The slicing of tomatoes slowly came to a stop, and a loud crash filled the room as my mother’s teacup laid in pieces on the ground. It seemed like my parents and Dani had been frozen in time, they were just standing still, staring at each other. I could see my mother’s eyes beginning to well up with tears, her hands trembling. She quickly glanced at my father, then at me, then back to Dani. Surprisingly, my mother sprinted past me over to the sitting room, slamming the glass doors behind her. I turned to Dani, hoping she wouldn’t be too crushed at our mother’s reaction. But Dani wasn’t paying attention to her, she was still glaring at my father, whose eyes were locked on Dani’s. “Your mother is just…in shock, honey.” my dad said, blinking hard, “I’m going to go check on her.” He started to make his way over to the glass doors, then stopped himself as he let go of the knife he had been making dinner with. He set it down on the counter and stared back at Dani before rushing into the sitting room. Dani grabbed my shoulder, then pointed at me and made a writing motion before gesturing to herself. “I’ll write for you, I’ll write you a letter?” I asked. Dani shook her head, then mimed a magnifying glass, the writing motion, then pointed to herself. “You want to write! You want me to find you something to write with!” Dani smiled, then waltzed upstairs to her bedroom. I was busy searching through our wooden school supplies cabinets in the living room when I heard my mother enter. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were bloodshot, but I didn’t need to ask why she had been crying. She looked round frantically before asking, “Where’s your sister, where’s Dani?” She wore an expression that looked like a mixture of worry and relief at the same time. “Upstairs,” I responded, “I’m trying to find her a notepad so she can communicate.” “She can’t tell you anything--er, talk to you?” “No, you probably didn’t see it, but there’s a huge scar across her throat.” A whimper escaped my mother’s mouth before she nodded. “Oh,” she answered before turning her head away from me, “well, you find her that notebook. Your father is, um, making some dinner right now. I’m going to…” her voice trailed off, “I’m going to help him with that, okay sweetie? I-I love you so much darling.” Her footsteps got further away until I could hear someone going upstairs. Hopefully she was going to properly welcome Dani back. I pulled out one of my old black algebra notebooks, then took it with me to the kitchen where I saw my father sitting alone at the dining room table. “Dani, I have a notebook!” I shouted upstairs. My father’s head snapped up and he stood up to face me. I could hear the thudding of footsteps coming downstairs as my father snatched the notebook out of my hand. “What the heck Dad, that’s for Dani!” I exclaimed. He tossed the notebook onto the floor as he grabbed my left arm. “Let go! You guys have been acting so weird around her, what’s up?” “That’s not Dani,” my dad muttered, attempting to drag me towards the front door. My mother went to his side, whispering something in his ear and pushing him on the shoulder. Dani glided by him, picking up the notebook on the ground. “What are you talking about Dad, you’re insane! Let me go!” I tried to get out of his grip, but he was very intent on taking me wherever he was going. Suddenly, my father was hit in the head with the notebook, and the two of us turned over to Dani, who clutched it in her right hand along with a red pen. She scribbled on one of the blank pages and flipped it over to face my parents and I. “I can’t speak,” the notepad read, “but I can listen. Maybe that was my downfall.” I watched as my mother’s eyes went glossy and my father tightened his grip on my arm. “Please!” I begged, “If you’re not going to let me go, at least tell me what happened!” I looked at my mother, hoping that she would be able to make some sense of the situation. Our eyes locked, and to the behest of my father, the words began to flow out of her… ⥈ “Well if you can’t bring yourself to do it then I’ll have to do it myself!” Rob bellowed, “The time is now Theresa. The longer we wait, the more likely he’ll be to rewrite it. Especially if he ends up going to dinner with your brother next weekend.” “He’s my father Robert!” Theresa fired back, “You could never harm your own blood, you can’t fault me for that!” “So you can be the one to tell our children that we won’t be able to provide for them anymore! Is that what you want?” Rob slid closer to his wife and began to stroke her hand gently, “We need these assets Tessie. Everything in that will, we need. And I don’t want to make you do it,” he stood up, clutching a bottle labeled HCN, “so all you have to do is keep quiet.” Theresa began to cry, but stopped when she heard the creaking of the floorboards. Rob stopped too, and the two parents exchanged glances before a short, dark haired girl silently stepped into the room. Her crystal blue eyes were wide with fear as she stared at Rob, then the bottle, then Theresa. “Mom,” she whispered, “why are you crying?” Theresa stared at the girl, not knowing what to say. She heard movement behind her and leapt up to save her daughter, but it was too late. “Watch Lily,” Rob ordered under his breath before he swiftly grabbed Dani by the arm and dragged her down the stairs, muffling her shrieks with his free hand. Not paying attention to the pleads of his wife or the screams of his daughter, Rob heaved Dani out onto the front steps just below the balcony. “If you won’t be quiet now, then I’m afraid you won’t make it to the river.” he said, “I’m sorry, I love you, Danielle.” Within the next few seconds, Dani’s attempted cries for help were silenced. She lay limp in her father’s arms, a deep red gash across her throat and blood dripping down to the rest of her body. Rob tearfully sauntered over to the back of the house, making his way down to the rushing river located behind their fence. As if she were a bundle of useless trash, Rob shoved Dani’s body into the rapids, not batting an eye as her left ankle smashed into a boulder on the river bed. Using his bare hands, Rob knelt down and started digging. After reaching a hole about four feet deep, Rob removed his blood stained shirt and tossed it down, along with the tainted kitchen knife and cyanide bottle. He kicked the dirt back into place with his shoe, then after washing his hands off in the river, placed a large gray rock labeled “Mittens” on top of the buried evidence. ⥈ I gazed in horror at my father, whose grip had loosened on my arm. He was looking sorrowfully at my mother, who was choking out tearful apologies to everyone in the room. My attention then turned to Dani, whose cold, pale skin glinted in the moonlight. The scar stretched across her throat. The swollen ankle covered by a large white sock. And the clothes torn and sagging, the color mostly faded away. “But, but you’re not…” the word escaped me. I couldn’t even bear to think about it for the second time in my life. “You can’t be, we-we hugged,” I could feel a lump in my throat starting to form. I just got Dani back, why did it have to be like this? Dani smiled at me, but something about her smile seemed so tragic. She began to write furiously on the notepad, tearing off an old page and shoving it in my pocket out of my father's reach. His grip once again tightened on my arm as he positioned himself to face me. “You don’t understand honey, it’s a lot more complicated than it seems,” he tried to reassure me, a menacing glint in his eyes. He began to inch us closer to the kitchen, where behind him a noticed a long, slender item shining on the counter. “We did it for the good of the family, and in the end it all worked out. Sure, we didn’t get as much as we would have in the will, but the donations from everyone after Dani’s--” “We deserve to rot in hell for what we did!” a sharp voice cut through the house, “And I’ll be glad if I never have to see you again in my life.” My mom was trembling, but for the first time that night she looked my father in the eyes. “Theresa, you didn’t,” my father gruffed, his fingernails piercing into my arm in frustration. “I did,” my mother replied, “as soon as I went upstairs.” My father’s frantic looks at my mother and sister were stopped with the sudden appearance of flashing lights. I looked at my father, his face tinted red, blue, red, all while the siren blared as if to say, “Your time is up.” Dani flipped over her notepad and stepped in front of my father to show him, “Unless you want another daughter’s blood on your hands before you serve your time, I suggest you let her go.” “We were finally starting to live a normal life before you came back,” my father grimaced, “now you’re leaving your sister alone for the rest of her life.” A sharp sound of banging and shouting interrupted the conversation, and my father shoved me towards Dani while raising his hands to his head. My mother did the same, and while looking at the two of us, she smiled a smile that showed seven years worth of love and apologies. Dani guided me into the living room, her icy hands holding onto my wrists. She pointed to herself, then gestured to the ceiling. “Upstairs? Yeah, you can go there when the police come in.” She shook her head to my response, then pointed upwards again followed by a gentle wave. I knew what she meant, but I just didn’t want to believe it. I nodded slowly, trying to keep up my fake smile and prevent myself from crying. Dani’s lips began to quiver, and the two of us embraced for the final time. “Littleton Police, we’re coming in!” bellowed the officers. Dani quickly stepped back into the light, and her pale skin started to become almost translucent. As she started to fade away, I couldn’t stop the tears anymore. I fell to my knees as I saw her blue eyes twinkle, then slowly disappear with the moonlight. The only thing that remained of my sister was the same thing I had clung onto for years, her purple blanket. The note. I had forgotten about the note. The officers brought me outside my house and sat me on my front steps, and after a few questions they went to attend to my parents. I pulled the crumpled yellow piece of paper out of my pocket and began to read. “Lily, I’m really sorry about today. You were never supposed to be home, I thought you would be working. It worked out in the end, now you know the story and I’m assuming Mom called the authorities. I just wanted you to have some sort of explanation, I know you’ve been wondering what happened for years. But I didn’t want to get you in the middle of all of this, I knew Dad would have tried something if you were home, and he did. I’m glad I did see you though, you’ve grown up so much. I know you can’t see me anymore, but I’m always with you. I love you.” Neighbors began to gather around my gate and peer out from their balconies, for them it was just deja vu from seven years ago. For me, however, it was different. This time, I wouldn’t come out of this with my parents to comfort me, but I would gain something I didn’t have before: closure. | 17,958 | 1 |
The Ninth Child She who is born ninth of all ten children, will be the one to defeat the nameless again. She is the one who is the strongest of them all the one who can be either the giver of life or death. She is the one to choose her fate. But it must be done before it is too late.. Everyone’s life is in her hands. But it must be done soon for all to walk the lands. Chapter 1. Opal, Opal was unwanted and unseen most of the time in a family of 12, and being the ninth child of ten children all except her have found their powers by the age of five, she is now seventeen years old and still has not found her powers. “By the light of this candle sitting in front of me, Let it be the light for me to see. By the water in this stream behind me, Let it calm and relax me. By the earth beneath me and the tree to my left, Let it support and steady me. By the wind blowing from my right, let it blow away all the trouble out of my sight.” Opal was sitting in the middle of a meadow hidden in the Forbidden Woods trying to concentrate and meditate. “Opal! Are you out here? Momma needs your help with the garden!” Johnathan called from the edge of the woods. “And you know that no one is allowed in the Forbidden Woods. Especially if you are from a magical family.”She tried to ignore her older brother but knew that if she didn’t go soon he will go and tell mother and father where she has been going off to this whole summer. Giving up she stubbornly extinguished the candle and hid it in the nook of the tree. “Dont worry ill be back later on tonight.” She placed her hand on the carved pentacle in the tree. “Opal,” She jumped in surprise and turned around to find her eldest brother Adam standing behind her. “So this is where you go and hide everyday.” He looked around and surveyed their surroundings. “Its very peaceful out here, I can see why you like it.” He looked back at her and noticed the candle barely showing from the nook. “And what is this?” He picked up the candle. “A candle? Humm.. Opal? Have you been trying to play with magic?” “No i have been trying to meditate.” She said taking the candle from him and putting it deeper in the tree. “Come on before Johnathan goes and tells momma where i am.” She started to walk back to the house when she felt something burn in the back of her neck. “Ow!” She screamed holding the back of her neck and falls to the ground. “Opal!” Adam runs to her and moves her hair and her hands. Chapter 2, Adam, He moved her hands from the back of her neck and stood back and gasped and watched as an invisible force burned a pentacle into the back of Opal’s neck. Opal looked up at him in confusion and fear. He smiled down at her and helped her up. “Does it still hurt?” He asked her. She shakes her head still confused. “Does it feel normal now?” She shakes her head again and starts to shiver. “It feels like there's ice on my neck and it's starting to spread throughout my spine. Adam? What is going on?” I look down at my little sister in pride and say “You have just received your gifts, now we must find out what they are.” I start to walk the opposite direction of the house. “But what about momma? I have to go and help her in the garden.” She looks at me still with confusion and now with a hint of fear. “Do you not remember what happened last time I didn't help Momma with the garden? I had to sleep in the garden with the nomes poking me with their pitch forks every five minutes.” I look down at her and grabbed her hand and looked deep into her already changing eyes, “She will understand, trust me. But we must hurry for the changing process has already begun.” Quickly i scooped her up and began to run through the the trees at an inhuman speed dangerously dodging trees and jumping over boulders, then once we make it to a clearing I slow to a jog and then stop at the edge of the forest. Setting Opal down on the soft grass I took my shoes off and motions for her to do the same. 'Her eyes are changing violently and to a color that i have never seen in anyone’s eyes before…’ I think to myself. ‘She will notice your staring Falckun hurry just change and see if she can copy.’ The voice in my head that is never silent whispers. I step back and spread out my arms and look up in to the sky then i feel my body slowly change from a man into a strong falcon.I fly up in to the sky and send a silent call to all my brothers and my sisters. I fly higher and higher till I see what i was looking for and plummeted down and caught a rabbit in my tallions and while I was still in the air five feet from the ground I quickly changed back into a man in a fury of fire surrounding me. i hold out the rabbit to Opal whose eyes are now fiery red and glistening gold with cat-like slits for pupils. She steps forward and takes the rabbit then to my surprise she bites the rabbit on one of its main arteries and begins to drink. After she has had her fill she steps back and changes into a falcon and sores as if she had already flown before. I call out to her and she soars right past me then with a flutter and a flash of light and the smell of smolder, Opal landed softly on her feet completely naked. I handed her a blanket but she didn’t accept it. Instead she looked at me now with jade green eyes and very big black pupils. Just then the rest of our siblings came out into the opening all in their animal forms and holding prey for her to try. She first goes to our eldest sister Elene still in wolf form brandy drops the rabbit that she has caught for Opal and backs away growling looking her younger sister square in the eyes. Challenging her to make a wrong move but all Opal does is bow slightly to her eldest sister and looks down at the rabbit. Opal starts to change form again but this time instead of a falcon she changes into a strong wolf and looks down at the rabbit and takes it up and bites it in half and sends half to Elene she waited for her to eat her share. After both halves of the rabbit were consumed, Opal bowed low to her eldest sister then took off running at an unnatural speed. Elene howled and Opal ran right up beside her and with a loud and powerful bark she and Elene turned into women and faced each other, bowed their heads and went separate ways. My younger sister May, in her fox form, walked to our young sister with a small mouse in her mouth. Opal looked at me with her brown eyes so dark they were nearly black. She looks back at our sister and bows then turns into a fox herself. She did this five other times and fed five other times with our brothers, Jason; the Bisin, Robert; the Snake, Henry; the Tiger, Michele and Jonathan; the Twin Cats. and then one more time for our youngest sister Sophie she was in the form of a dragon the mightiest of us all. Then Opal raised her head to the heavens and cried in a mighty voice “I have chosen my path!” and all the creatures cried out in greeting and joy and then everything went quiet in anticipation waiting for her to choose the animal she will become but instead she remained human form and motioned all of us towards her and we did so and in a quick sweep of her arms the wind started to blow fiercely and lightning cracked nearby the water rushed by and the earth started to tremble and she whispered only one word “All.” before she fell to the ground. Chapter 3, Opal, She woke up to all of her siblings around her they all looked concerned and frightened all at the same time but there was something else something that she has never noticed about them they all had a resemblance to the animals that they are truly and everything was sharper and clearer like a veil has been ripped from her eyes. “What happened?” She asked and looked at her eldest brother and all he did was cover her naked body with a blanket. She tried to get up but he stopped her. “Why can’t I get up? I feel perfectly fine.” She tried to get up this time and he let her get up. She wrapped the blanket around her body and looked all around and then to her brother. “What did i just do?” she looked all around again and there were scorch marks on fallen trees and the Windmill’s blades were torn off and shredded the ocean was so close that all she had to do was take three steps then she was touching water, The earth was cracked and shifted like a cataclysmic Cyclops just got mad and destroyed anything that he could get his hands on. “You just chose your power….” Adam came up to her and looked her in the eyes and even though there was still a little hint of fear in his eyes he smiled in delight then in one quick movement he picked her up and started to carry her to the house but then all of a sudden there were Dark Figures flying past them at dangerous close speeds “Just don’t pay any attention to them Sis.” he whispered in her ear. A Dark Figure flew by so close that she could feel its cold clammy skin touch her arm. She moved away from it quickly but not quick enough. She felt a sharp pain in her arm, she let out a scream and fell out of her brother’s arms landing hard on her back. The figures started to surround her, slowly closing around her. She sat up and whispered in an ancient language and held out her right hand. Blossoming from the palm of Roses hand a bright white light and it kept growing all around her body growing brighter and brighter. | 9,601 | 1 |
The Gnostic Gospel of Marc has unraveled a mystery setting off alarm bells within the scientific establishment. After years of painstaking restoration, presented here in Technicolor, Jesus tells the story of the last kitten that could roar. - - - In the cool shade of an olive tree, Mary Magdalene sat at the feet of Jesus, her heart open to receive his teachings. As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting golden hues across the land, she leaned in, eager to hear the words of wisdom that flowed from his lips like honey. "Master," she said, her voice soft with reverence, "tell me a parable, that I may better understand the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven." Jesus smiled upon her, his eyes filled with love and compassion. "Very well, Mary," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "I shall tell you the story of the last kitten that could roar." And so Jesus began his tale, his voice gentle yet commanding, drawing Mary into the depths of his narrative. "In a distant land, there lived a mighty lion who ruled over the vast savannah with strength and grace. His roar was feared by all who heard it, and his power was unmatched. Yet, despite his ferocity, the lion was lonely, for he had no companions to share his kingdom with. "One day, as he roamed the plains in search of prey, the lion came upon a tiny kitten, lost and alone. The kitten mewed pitifully, its tiny voice barely audible above the whispering grasses. Moved by compassion, the lion took the kitten under his wing, nurturing it and teaching it the ways of the wild. "As the years passed, the kitten grew into a fine young cat, strong and proud. But though he had been raised by the lion, he possessed a unique gift that set him apart from his brethren. For while all other cats could only purr, this cat alone could roar like a lion. "The other animals marveled at the sight of this small creature with the voice of a king, and they bowed before him in awe. Yet, despite his newfound fame, the cat remained humble, never forgetting the lion who had shown him kindness in his time of need. "But as the years went by, a darkness began to spread across the land, threatening to engulf the kingdom in chaos. Desperate to save his people, the lion knew that he must confront the source of this evil, no matter the cost. "Gathering his courage, the lion set out on a perilous journey, leaving the cat behind to guard the kingdom in his absence. Alone and afraid, the cat watched as his beloved friend disappeared into the distance, his mighty roar fading into the night. "Days turned into weeks, and still the lion did not return. The cat grew restless, his heart heavy with worry. And then, one fateful night, as he stood watch over the kingdom, the cat heard a sound that sent shivers down his spine—a sound he had not heard in many years. "It was the roar of his friend, echoing across the plains like thunder. With a sense of urgency, the cat followed the sound, racing through the darkness until he came upon a scene of great peril. "There, in the heart of the wilderness, stood the lion, locked in mortal combat with a fearsome foe. The cat knew that he must act quickly if he was to save his friend, so he gathered all of his strength and let out a roar that shook the foundations of the earth itself. "Startled by the sound, the lion's enemy faltered, giving the mighty beast the opening he needed to deliver the final blow. With a mighty roar, the lion vanquished his foe, sending him fleeing into the night. "And so, the kingdom was saved, thanks to the bravery and courage of a small cat with a mighty roar. From that day forth, the lion and the cat ruled over the land together, their bond stronger than ever before." As Jesus finished his tale, Mary sat in awe, her heart filled with wonder at the depth of his wisdom. "Truly, Master," she said, her voice trembling with emotion, "your words are like a balm to my soul." Jesus smiled, his eyes twinkling with warmth. "It is my pleasure, Mary," he said. "For it is through stories such as these that we may come to understand the true nature of God's love. | 4,187 | 1 |
Freefall A Short Story By Sargon Promethium The only sense that the Man had when he was loaded onto the helicopter was his touch, feeling the cool air assaulting his freshly battered skin. Perhaps it was the ending Spring air, that always had a little nip of coolness that signified its end, or maybe it was the beginning Summer air, coupled with the air picking up the cold ocean current along the coast. He didn’t know how long he was there, so he couldn’t be certain of the true season, just certain of the fact that this was his last season. Before the ride, he was stripped down to his undergarments, a humiliating ordeal that the guards took great pleasure in, blindfolded, gagged, and deafened by earmuffs, hearing only the slight whirl of the helicopter blades. Now, sitting on the floor of the cabin, he remained like a statue, being unable to ascertain his true surroundings, who was around him, what they were saying, if they even felt a tinge of remorse for their actions. As he felt the helicopter begin to ascend, it brought the Man back to a similar time of hopelessness, on the farm. Growing up, the Man lived on a farm not owned by his parents, but rather the head of a foreign fruit company that laid their claim on his land with the help of the Regime. They, along with the rest of the workers, lived in measly shacks on the outskirts of the property, exposed to the elements throughout the year with the poor design and materials of their homes. In their hobble, lay the Man, his parents, and his younger brother. Everyday was the same, with them toiling away at the fields, at the expense of their lifespans, with people keeling over on a regular basis, only to be immediately replaced. The Man had eventually grown to at least tolerate his conditions, being at the servitude of this unknown giant that controlled them all, but his Brother, he couldn’t handle it as well, It could’ve been the lesser years of work he had compared to the Man, but either way, he didn’t possess what everyone else had. Instead, he possessed something far greater. From an early age, the Brother showed signs of high intelligence, teaching himself how to read and examine books that were snuck from the Owner’s house by age 8. Being the only literate family member, he led his family and eventually other households through Bible studies, being the only thing that some families owned. The family’s combined salary was miserable, however, whatever they could save went to the Brother’s education. Everyone knew that the Brother had to take advantage of this, including the Man, who personally pushed his Brother to be the best he could be. Eventually, the family was able to put the Brother through school with what little they had. While in school later than most, the Brother’s intellect allowed him to skip several grades, and soon, graduated into High School, and a few years after that, was on his way to the College. Everyone cheered for the Brother when he got accepted. He hoped to complete College and finally go to Law School, in hopes of becoming a lawyer that could change the very system that had to endure for decades. By this point he had won numerous scholarships, and was able to send some money back to the family. Now with one son gone, the parents turnt to the Man. They knew he was good with his hands, so he began working for the local mechanic, gaining a reputation for his honest work ethic. This helped when, one day, a young woman about his age entered the garage for a broken headlight, after a large bird had flown into it while driving. After repairing the light, and talking with her for almost an hour, the Man mustered up the courage to ask her on a date, to which she agreed. Four years later, the two had wed, and soon after, had a baby girl. Since then, even up to that day, he thanked the birds for bringing him such a wonderful person to love. During this span of time, the Brother had also made a name for himself, but rather a nationwide name. He quickly went through College and Law School and made a career against corrupt government officials, even going as far as the Inner Circle of the Head of State, getting many thanks from the Head himself. After a few more major cases, he soon turned his eyes to politics, running for his home district in the Legislative Assembly, and winning with a wide majority of votes. Now, both boys had brought the family great pride and joy, with one carrying on the legacy, and the other hopefully shaping their very nation. For two years, it is how it remained, until one day, the Brother visited the Man at work. The Man, by this point, owned the garage, as the old owner passed away a few weeks prior. The Brother asked the Man if he had heard of the recent attacks on some military barracks, which he did. He thought perhaps the Brother was building a case against them, maybe taking it to the Supreme Court. Then the Brother asked him to meet at a certain address that night, which he agreed to, despite the odd request. It took him to an old tavern in the middle of the Capital, where in its basement, he met what he called “The Club”, because that’s all that it was, and it's all he thought of it as. These men, crowded in the basement, were united together for the one goal of changing the State. It was full of the Brother’s fellow politicians, who had seen just how far changing attitudes and laws of the government can get someone in changing one’s State, and were now using brute force to meet their democratic quota. These men were the ones behind the recent attacks, and while the Man was initially apprehensive of working with who he deemed terrorists, the Brother reminded him of all that they went through, of what all their fellow countrymen have gone through under the Regime. The change has to happen now, or at least sooner than later, and sometimes people have to take immediate action to see their results. With this, the Man was the newest Club Member. At first, the Man remained in his own garage, installing discrete armour plating on some of the politician’s cars, in case they would be needed in the fight for the Capital. Eventually, the growing demands and vehicles needed proved too much and too suspicious for the small garage, so some politicians bought a remote garage away from prying government eyes. Here, the Man could work on higher end military vehicles, such as armoured trucks with large guns and even cannons installed, vehicles he had only heard of. All the while, he had his best mechanic put in charge of his garage, so as to alleviate some suspicions. One day, the Man was called to a weekly Club meeting, something he hid from his wife by saying he went out with his mechanic crew for drinks and games, hopefully not making her think of an affair or this, where it was told that the coup would occur three months from that date. Finally, a date was set in stone, and everyone, including the Man, promised to have the necessary resources ready for that date, and the Brother, who promised to try and recruit more people to the cause. After the meeting, the Brother pulled the Man aside and said that if the coup failed on that day, that the Man and his family were to meet at the Brother’s villa on the border, before escaping for a new life, a good life he reassured. These would be his final words to the Man. After several minutes of straight travel, with no deviations, the earmuffs were removed from the Man’s head, and he heard the muffled voices of the pilots, and the heightened whirling of the blades spinning overhead. A familiar voice coming from beside him yelled into the Man’s ear, so as to be heard over the helicopter, “Can you hear me, sir? Nod if you can.” The Man, with the gag still on him, nodded in compliance. “Good, because I just got news that they dispatched a squad to the location you said, and they’ve just arrived.” The Man stood there, seeing nothing but darkness, and unable to say anything, unable to do anything, just like his unknowing victim. He remained there in shock, not knowing if he should break down or not. “Did you hear me, I said they’re at the place.” The Man still remained still, processing how he ended up in this situation. “Jesus, can you nod for me, let me know I’m not talking to a brick wall again?” The Man finally hesitated a nod, muffling a small cry of anguish. “You trying to say something? I can’t tell.” The Man bowed his head down and silently sobbed, something the voice realised. “Yeah, most of you do this sort of thing, at least the ones up here. Cry, pray, hell, even try to attack me. That’s why you got the gag on you now.” The Man continued sobbing, wondering of the fates of his loved ones. “You know, people like you come and go, trying to disrupt the order of things, and where does it get you. Right here. You people need to realize that. No wonder you're all so easy to capture.” It was here, up to his final moments, he again thought back, this time back to the end of it all. After the meeting adjourned, the Man returned home to his wife and daughter. After asking where he was again, and getting the same reply, they all sat down together and watched a movie, with his daughter clutching her brown teddy bear in her small arms. After the movie, and his daughter had gone to bed, he and his wife had gotten into an argument. “I called the garage today, asking when I could see you to bring some lunch. You know what they said? They said you haven’t been there in weeks! And-and on top of this, you’re sneaking around, saying you're with the other mechanics, but I called around too, and guess what, you aren’t anywhere with the others. What am I supposed to make of this?” his Wife asked. “I can explain this, just not yet, okay. I promise I will.” the Man replied. “You promise? What am I supposed to make of this? What’s so important that you can’t tell me?” “Honey, I want too, but what this is, is bigger than us, I can’t say anything.” “Why not, I am your wife for heaven’s sake. We never keep secrets from each other.” “This is not me trying to keep secrets. This is me trying to protect you, to protect us! I am helping to change everything, for all of us.” “Well, unless you tell me exactly what’s happening, you're staying on the couch, and you can’t tell me then, then you're leaving.” His Wife then left in a huff, leaving him in the dark living room with just his thoughts. He walked out onto his front yard, and lit a cigarette. How was he going to tell them that he’s a part of an anti-government movement, would they understand? As of now, he’s just been the mechanic, but come D-Day, and he could very well become a killer, something he figured might happen, but even then against the Regime, he would regret. How would his family see him afterward? A monster? A hero? It was all too much for him, and he almost puked on the lawn, until he saw a black car slowly come around the turn towards him. It crawled along down the road, towards his house. He never thought anything of it, it was dark, and this was a crowded neighbourhood. So, he composed himself and gave a friendly wave to the driver. This caused the car to stop. Maybe they thought he was telling them to stop, the Man thought. So he walked over to them to tell them it was alright, and that’s when all the doors opened. Men in suits sprang out, one with a burlap sack in his hand, and rushed the Man. They gave him a series of punches, some to the face, and a lot to the gut, before putting the sack over his head and dragging him to the car. Some house lights began to turn on to search for the commotion, but by that time, the Man was already shoved in the back seat and the car had sped away. “Who are you?” the Man asked, recovering from the hits.. “People looking to ask you questions.” one of the suited men replied, as the Man frantically collected his thoughts, not being able to see where he was going, only feeling a turn in the road every so often. Eventually, it came to a quick stop, with the Man hitting his head on the console, erupting the car in laughter. “It’s a wonder his head never rang like a bell!” one of the back passengers boomed, opening the door and dragging the Man out. The Man could hear the distant sounds of birds chirping, singing their songs of freedom as they flew together in harmony. If only he could be one of them, the Man thought, being led into a building. Walking through its halls, he could hear the sounds of loud hits being landed, and the wails of agony echoing through. This would soon be him, but he had to remain strong. Even when they led him into a room, handcuffed him to a chair, and removed his hood, he still held fast, with a stoic look upon his face, almost challenging his oppressors. They looked at his expression, and each cracked a smile. They knew that eventually, no matter how long it took, they would break him, and get whatever they needed from him. With that, they left him in that room, for an hour, until the Inspector believed the ordeal could properly begin. The Man screamed hard for that hour, wondering when it would begin. After a while, he began wishing for it, not so much as to feel the pain, but to just get it over with. He wondered if they would kill him afterwards, or dump him at his house. Maybe they had other Club members in the other rooms, or maybe even his family. This terrified him, and his screaming eventually turned to almost begging, begging that they would harm him, and not them. He would never know, all he knows now is the haunting fluorescent lights overhead and the threat of his own demise. Finally, the suits heard his anguished cries, and called the Inspector to the room to begin the interrogation. Entering the room before the Man was the Inspector, a towering, slender man that had to duck under the doorway to enter. “Comfortable today, sir?” the Inspector asked, hanging up his suit and hat on a nearby rack. The Man looked at the tall figure looming before him, speechless. “Sir? Gonna answer my question?” the Inspector said. “Go to hell.” the Man replied, after a moment of silence, to compose his thoughts. The Inspector chuckled, “Ah, haven’t had a fighter in a while. Most of you people don’t have a backbone after all.” Does this mean that others have talked, thought the Man, because if so, he wasn’t going to be the one to do so. “You see,” the Inspector replied, sitting down at the chair across from the Man, “everyone else has talked. We know where everyone else is, at least, everyone except Brother Dearest. You do know where I’m going with this right?” “I’m not telling you anything, you bastard.” the Man replied, gritting his teeth. “Oh-ho, I knew you’d be special. Finally some fun for today." The Inspector boomed back, getting up from his chair and walking to the coat rack, and drawing two studded gloves from his coat pocket. “I haven’t been able to use these all day, it's like reuniting with an old friend.” “I told you I’m not talking, this is pointless.” the Man yelled out, as the Inspector slipped on the gloves and walked over to the Man, who began to fear what was coming. “If so, there is still a reason to try. For our security. You understand that.” the Inspector answered, throwing a right hook into the Man’s cheek, leaving lacerations and loosening some teeth. He had no time to compose himself, as the Inspector landed blow after blow on his face and abdomen. All he could do was wince in pain each time, trying to still show at least some semblance of authority in this situation. The Inspector ceased the punching, and crouched down to the Man’s level, “Your brother made quite a name for himself, he got himself quite a few properties. I’m sure one of them is a safehouse, and I’m sure he told you which one it was.” In between his short breaths, the Man breathed, “Go to hell.” He was ready now for the next series of blows. Instead, the Inspector got up, and said to him with a calm demeanour, removing his gloves, “You will tell us, we have our ways of opening people up. And I know what’ll open you up.” He walked over to the rack, put the gloves back in his pockets, and put back on his coat, before momentarily leaving the room. What is he talking about, the Man thought. At one Club meeting, one of the politicians talked about the different kinds of torture that these people, the Secret Police would put you through. From beatings to waterboarding, they did it all. So the Man was left to wonder what monstrous device would be used against him. It was therefore a great shock then, when all the Inspector brought in was a teddy bear. It was his daughter’s brown teddy bear. “How did you get that?” the Man frantically asked, his eyes widening. “We have our ways sir. You should know that by now.” the Inspector replied, throwing the bear onto the Man’s lap, making him thrash around in anger, trying to loosen his restraints. “What have you bastards done?!” the Man screamed out, as the handcuffs began to cut into his wrists, and the bear fell from his lap. “Nothing yet, but that can change, unless you tell me something good.” the Inspector replied, bending down face to face with the Man, who by now was in tears. Just a few hours prior, everything was going according to plan, and now what? What was his family thinking of him now? What is happening to them now? They have to be here, the bear has a stain that the girl gave to it when she was younger. It was all too much, and he put his head down, and sobbed. “The time for sorrow has sailed long ago, so it's best you tell me something now, or else.” The Man jolted his head up, yelling, “Please, no! Don’t hurt them, please!” “Tell me something so I won’t have to.” the Inspector answered, watching the Man take a few deep breaths. “He-he’s probably at his villa on the border.” the Man finally replied. “Probably?” the Inspector inquired. “Please, it's a place he told me to meet him if things went south.” “So definitely?” “Yes-yes definitely, okay? Please just don’t hurt them.” the Man sobbed, again lowering his head. The Inspector smiled and picked the bear up, “You’ve just done this nation a great service, and it thanks you.” before leaving the room, assumedly to get people to go to the villa. He left the Man in that interrogation room for a half hour, leaving him alone with his guilty conscience. He was still sobbing when two men came in to take him for “processing”. At club meetings, the politicians there discussed this. They had heard from rumours that after interrogations, they would “process” people by stripping them almost naked, and deprive them of their senses by blindfolding, gagging and placing earmuffs on the individual, to make them feel subhuman. From there, they would be summarily executed, but that is where some sources differed. One spoke of a basic firing squad, while another spoke of a gas chamber, and there was even talk of “death flights”, where they would take people in helicopters and ditch them overseas. This was best used to explain the lack of evidence, but it was mostly just hearsay. As the Man was loaded onto the helicopter, however, he realized it was anything but. “Approaching the drop zone.” a Pilot over the intercom boomed out. “Oh, your final encore is approaching sir!” the Inspector yelled, taking the Man’s blindfold off. The sudden brightness made the Man wince, but the dark colours of the helicopter interior soon made it easy to focus. Here he was, once again, with the Inspector, and looking outside, he saw nothing but an endless floor of ocean hundreds of feet below. “We’re a ways up, aren’t we? Most people have this reaction too. It’s like watching the life leave their eyes.” the Inspector boomed. The Man began hyperventilating through his nose, something the Inspector could notice, but all he did was chuckle. “You know, you showed me a good time. I don’t get to do these often, but when I do, I make sure I get the special ones. So thanks for that.” the Inspector spoke, as he pressed a button by the side of the cabin door, opening it up, making the cold air whip around the interior of the helicopter. “Sadly, this is where we must depart. Thank you for your service, sir.” the Inspector said, gripping a handle on the ceiling, and kicking the Man out of the plane, without a moment’s hesitation, or a moment for the Man to collect his thoughts. Here he is now, freefalling through the air, about to hit the water at a speed he can’t even comprehend for his life. All he wanted was a better tomorrow, for him and his family, a chance at something new. Now, he won’t even have a tomorrow. The Regime has robbed him of everything, his hopes, dreams, his life, and his tomorrow. His and many others’ tomorrows, for the crime of trying to live a good life. He thought back to when he met his wife. His wife robbed that bird of its life, but thanks to that, they had a good life together. A sacrifice for the greater good. Is this how the government would view him? His brother? The countless others who died fighting for what was right? Would they view them as nothing but a bird dead from an accident? At the very least, that was an accident, what they are doing is nothing short of evil, and now, the Man would have to spend his final moments praying that everything somehow works out for whoever is left. As a flock of birds flew by his soon-to-be corpse, he began wondering not just about those left, but about heaven himself. He was told, like many before, that you meet long gone loved ones in heaven, and they greet you at the pearly gates. Up to that point, he was unsure of heaven’s existence, but now, he prayed for everything, from salvation, to forgiveness of any of his life’s transgressions. Even in his final moments, seconds before he splattered onto the ocean, he was praying above all else, for the hope that when he got to heaven, he wouldn’t see his family there. Not yet. He is just one of many, hundreds in fact, who litter the ocean floor. He is in a place where only the dead know. Even decades after, with the trials and searches that would follow, only a few would turn up, leaving the many left out there at the mercy of the ocean, and with their final chance of peace from their unfortunate demise. It is these people who have disappeared, and many more like them all across the globe, who are gone but most certainly not forgotten. For it is in their memory that mankind must strive to not just do better, but to be better, better than what we were yesterday, to strive for something greater. It is in their memory that we shall strive for a better tomorrow. | 22,730 | 2 |
\- Um hi so for context im planning on submitting this story for a short story contest \- I have never actually written a short story before \- obviously this is just the first draft. The final version will be much cleaner gramatically correct. \- im sorry if its cringy its literally written by a 9th grader in a few hours- Delusion World- u/UnfinishedDrawings *Clink clink clink*. I could hear the discordant sounds tinkering through the thin walls of our home. The brisk whirring of his drill, and the shrill clanging of scrap metals against each other created a mini symphony just for me. It was like that every night now. My father and I had been on the run for about 3 years now. He used to be a lead scientist for the special ufology division of the National Department of Celestial Discovery, or NDCD for short. He was tasked with creating some cutting edge technology that would receive outer space radio waves that could potentially allow for human connection with distant planets. Then, It seemed like his future was brighter than the sun. But of course, as they say, “Don’t fly too close to the sun or you’ll get burned.” One day, out of nowhere, they asked him to destroy the machine, his life’s work. He refused, and ran off with the machine, to complete it in some remote forest in Alaska. To be honest, I don’t understand much of it. I never will. It’s not like my father would give me some clarity either, he’s about as transparent as a spruce tree. I sighed and gazed at my reflection through my big bulky computer screen, it’s blue light illuminating my face. Again, it was like this every night. As my father was conducting his mechanical orchestra, I was in my bedroom playing computer games. The games I played were nothing complex. They were just mindless games, something monotonous that could keep my hands busy while the rest of my body was submerged in a sea of imagination. Back then, my mind was my most fulfilling entertainment. I went on many outlandish adventures back then. I was a CEO, who played thrilling, intense rounds of mental chess in a boardroom. I was a renowned musician, who was able to produce amazing compositions in any style you could dream of. I was a mysterious celebrity, whose life was never anything short of fascinating. I was anything I wanted to be. And there was something oddly satisfying about that. At the time I couldn't describe the feeling. It was like a forgotten word at the tip of my tongue. Familiar, yet out of reach. As I am now, however, I completely understand what that feeling was, control. Eventually, my consciousness slowly began to dissipate out of my romanticized world and became more aware of the reality in front of me. I still had the game running on my old monitor. I looked down at the rhythmic tapping of my fingers as they robotically navigated my keyboard. Up. Down. Left. Right. Pause. I had discovered a pattern that could keep the game running perpetually without having to restart from losing. Game mechanics really fascinated me. A lot of things did back then actually. Finally, after repeating that pattern for 15 minutes, I decided that it was time to clock in for the night. As I powered off my desktop, I looked around my self proclaimed cell. It was very dim. The only thing that illuminated my room was an ancient, flickering light bar that my father only cared to replace once a year. Sunlight wasn’t an option, as I didn’t want to hear my father’s lecture that windows are an invitation for the government to find us. I plopped onto my twin bed, ran my hand through my coily hair and stared at the ants marching in a circle on my ceiling. I thought it was funny to imagine them doing a ritual of some sort. Minutes passed. I was just laying there, my dry, dark brown eyes wide open. I don’t know whether it was my rock solid comforter, the side effects of my irregular sleep schedule kicking in, or both. But one thing was for certain. I couldn’t sleep. And thinking about that fact was only making it worse. “Ugh.” I groaned. I sat up straight on the side of my bed and sighed as I felt a nice contrast between my warm toes and the wood floor, which had stimulated the nerves in my brain. I looked around and saw an old bin under my wooden desk. Any other time, I would have just treated it with apathy. But there’s something about my insomnia that gave it an almost magnetic allure. It was a relatively small, insignificant cardboard box, however I recognized it instantly. It was one of the 4 boxes my father gave me to pack my belongings in when we moved. Its contents however remain a mystery to me. I gingerly pulled the box out from under my desk as if it contained precious cargo and carried it onto my bed. For some inexplicable reason, my stomach began to feel a tinge of queasiness. It was as if in a moment of clairvoyance, my soul was trying to send a warning to my brain that this box would force me to do what I feared the most. What I refused to do in a shallow attempt to protect a bitter sense of convenience that I hide behind. That this box would make me confront everything that I worked so hard to bury deep inside myself, face to face. “Here it goes”, I sighed and after a brief moment of hesitation, took a peek. It was a small photo album. After the contents of the box fully registered in my mind, my body froze. My chest tightened and I just sat there alone in the dark, unable to move, think, or call for help. The only emotion that can somewhat accurately describe this sensation was pure helplessness. I was no longer calm and in control like I strived to be, and it scared me. Next thing I know, a few teardrops began to drip down my soft brown skin. One, two, three, they glided down my face like little paint droplets onto a canvas. This however, was only a light preamble to the hurricane of tears that would soon follow. My face was soon drenched from crying. I was upset. I was a mess. My life was a mess. But now I had no choice but to trudge on despite the hurricane's aggressive winds that dared me to turn back. I yanked the old photo album from the bin and haphazardly flipped through the dusty, yellowed, pages, as they taunted me. It was a cruel reminder of how things used to be, when my life was normal. As the photos encapsulated my vision my emotions spiraled out of control like a defective carousel. I cried for my old friends who I had to leave on such short notice that night. “B-but I couldn’t have told them the truth, I couldn’t have”, I convinced myself in a state of hysteria. “After all, it’s not like they would understand or even believe me.” Yes. that’s got to be it I cried for the countless emails that I ignored. “Well I would have answered them, I s-swear.”, I said while rocking back and forth, my movements become more erratic with each thought. “But what was I supposed to do? I-I was a kid and I was confused. I didn’t want them to worry. A-and what would they even think about me? Or my family?” I kept trying to justify everything, but this time it wasn’t working. It was only exacerbating my feelings. It wasn’t the truth and I knew it. I was crying because I was lonely. I was crying because I was hurt. I was crying because I was neglected. I was crying because I was tired of pretending. I took several deep breaths, closed my red, puffy eyes, and began to calm down as I gripped the fabric of my comforter with my wet hands. While I felt very drained and dejected, I cannot deny that there was something liberating about letting myself wander in the rains. I thought for a moment that maybe the tinge I felt wasn’t a warning, but rather a punishment for waiting so long. The box had set me free.. For the second time that night I collapsed onto the bed. Except this time, I fell asleep almost instantly. It was a deep sleep too. Perhaps one of the best sleeps of my life. That morning, when I woke up, I opened up the blinds. The sun shone beautifully as it always does after a bad storm. And when I stretched and went out into the hallway, I could no longer feel my fathers presence. | 8,123 | 2 |
Unveiled here are her very words. By the wife of Jesus herself. - In the quietude of a serene evening, I gather with my beloved friends, Ruth and Rebecca, feeling a sense of anticipation tingling in the air. We sit by the gentle stream, the moon casting its ethereal glow upon us, creating an atmosphere ripe for revelation. "Dearest Ruth and Rebecca," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, but carrying the weight of millennia-old truths. Their eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of curiosity and reverence, as they await the words I am about to share. "It is not upon the day of yuletide festivities that the blessed birth of our Savior occurs. "Nay, it is upon the sacred threshold of the equinox, where the celestial dance of Pisces and Aries converges in harmony." "But how can this be?" Ruth questioned, her voice tinged with wonder. "Have we not been taught that the day of His birth is marked by the merriment of Christmas?" "Indeed, the chronicles of tradition have woven a tapestry of misconception around this divine event. Yet, the truth lies veiled within the celestial tapestry, where the procession of the equinoxes unfolds its sacred dance." "From the dawn of creation, the zodiac has guided the footsteps of humanity, each age marked by the transition of the sun into a new constellation." Ruth gasps softly, her hand instinctively reaching for Rebecca's, as if seeking solace in the face of such profound revelation. "The procession of the equinoxes," I explain, "is a phenomenon that has unfolded over millennia, marking the shifting of the ages and the evolution of human consciousness." Rebecca nods in understanding, her eyes alight with newfound understanding. "So, this celestial dance shapes the course of history?" she muses, her mind grappling with the enormity of the concept. "It does indeed," I affirm, my heart swelling with the magnitude of the knowledge I am privileged to share. "In the age of Adam and Eve, the celestial canopy was graced by the presence of Gemini, symbolizing duality and the birth of consciousness," I elucidated, my voice carrying the weight of ages past. "As the ages turned, the mantle of the heavens shifted, ushering in the era of Taurus, where Abraham, the father of nations, walked in faith and obedience." "Abraham, whose journey is intertwined with the zodiac of Taurus, symbolizing stability, abundance, and earthly wealth. His faith and obedience to the divine led him to prosperity and promise, laying the foundation for future generations." "As for Moses," I continue, "he emerges as a leader during the age of Aries, characterized by courage, initiative, and the conquering spirit. Like the ram of this zodiac, Moses leads his people out of bondage, guiding them through the wilderness towards the promised land, a beacon of hope in a tumultuous world." "And then," I add with a reverent pause, "comes Jesus, the embodiment of divine love and compassion, born under the sign of Pisces, symbolizing empathy, spirituality, and transcendence. His teachings usher in a new era of understanding, where forgiveness and redemption reign supreme, transcending earthly limitations and uniting humanity in a bond of universal love." Ruth's eyes widen in realization, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "So, with each transition of the ages," she murmurs, "comes a new Messiah, sent to Earth by God itself?" I nod solemnly, feeling the weight of sacred truth bearing down upon me. "Indeed," I confirm, "as the procession of the equinoxes unfolds, so too does the divine plan for humanity. Each Messiah, in their own time and place, serves as a beacon of light in the darkness, guiding humanity towards its ultimate destiny." As we sit in the tranquil embrace of the night, I sense a profound shift occurring within us, as if the very fabric of our beings is being rewoven by the threads of cosmic wisdom. For in this moment, we are not merely spectators of history, but active participants in the unfolding drama of the universe. "The procession of the equinoxes," I continue, my voice resonating with newfound clarity, "is not merely a relic of the past, but a guiding principle that can inform our actions and decisions in the present day." Ruth and Rebecca listen intently, hanging on my every word as if it were a lifeline connecting them to the mysteries of existence. "By understanding the cyclical nature of time," I explain, "we can attune ourselves to the rhythms of the cosmos, aligning our lives with the divine order that governs all creation." As the night wears on, we find ourselves immersed in a deep conversation about the implications of the procession of the equinoxes for our lives and the world at large. We speak of the need to embrace change, to surrender to the currents of destiny, knowing that they will carry us ever closer to our ultimate purpose. I gather my thoughts for a final revelation. With a solemn demeanor, I turn to Ruth and Rebecca, their faces illuminated by the pale moonlight. "Remember, dear friends," I implore, my voice tinged with a sense of urgency, "it is said that the truths we have shared tonight may fade from the memory of humankind, lost in the mists of time and the complexities of mortal existence. But fear not, for there will come a moment, a juncture in the tapestry of destiny, when the veil shall be lifted once more." Ruth and Rebecca exchange a knowing glance, their hearts filled with a sense of anticipation for what the future may hold. "And lo, I foresee a time," I continue, my words tinged with prophetic certainty, "a moment that will dawn in the year 2024, when the world shall witness the emergence of a new Messiah, heralding the age of Aquarius. In that era of enlightenment and renewal, humanity shall once again be guided by the hand of divine grace, forging a path towards unity, understanding, and spiritual awakening." With these words hanging in the air like a sacred incantation, we sit in reverent silence, our hearts ablaze with the promise of a brighter tomorrow. For in the cyclical nature of time, we find solace and hope, knowing that the cosmic dance of the ages will continue to unfold, guiding us ever closer to the divine source from which all life emanates. | 6,304 | 1 |
Our story began in a city once called Kudele. It resided on the edge of a mountain range, with a break in the mountains that led to the dark forest, and beyond that laid the lands of Arondur. Some say that within that forest lived a man. A man that had been beaten by society, someone who was looked down upon by all but the beasts, who instead feared him like the peasant fears the king. He was ugly and scared, with eyes that stared deep into your soul and a grin that struck fear even into the bravest man. But he only lived with what he had been given, and if it was his role to be hated and spit on and scared by men, then he would play the role with the most vigor he could muster. A girl lived in the inner city. In fact, she lived in the castle on the hill. Which overlooked all of the splendid kingdom, except for one part, the forest. The girl, unlike all her predecessors, grew intrigued by the forest and the lands far away, so she set off to the forest in the dead of the night with her maid. They came to the forest as the morning sun peeked out from the tips of the towering trees. The girl's maid strayed behind, and beseeched the girl not to enter the forest. But the girl wouldn’t listen, and she entered the forest alone. As she reached farther into the forest she tried to turn back, but found she was lost in the forest's grasp. Night roses bloomed around her, illuminating the trees, which now glowed with soft, blue, beautiful light. The forest seemed less full of towering giants and more like a mothers delicate embrace. The ground was soft under her feet, and the air was warm and fresh, like she was under a layer of blankets that weren’t too hot or too cold. She came to a clearing with a tree that seemed larger than even life, it bloomed with pink blossoms that colored the floor and seemed to be as old as life itself. As she approached the tree, she noticed a dark hole in its center, unnoticeable from afar because of how thick the covering of blossom leaves was. Before she could come any closer she felt a hot breath on the back of her neck, and her hair stood on end. She now could feel something behind her, and its shadow eclipsed her with its grand frame. Like a rabbit, with a fox on his hind and visions of home in its eyes she ran. she ran as fast as the wind itself and dived into the first safe place she could find. The hole in the tree. Which she quickly found out was occupied. “Ye oh hath encroached opon me territory, begone!” the thing in the hole behind her roared. It had an accent reminiscent of the far northerners so strong she almost thought he was speaking a different language. She was shell shocked by the volume of its voice, and couldn’t bring herself to run from the towering thing. She worked up the strength to turn around and saw there was a normal man, wearing a ragged uniform with a crest that she couldn’t quite place. It exploded out of the hole and towered over the monster that she had run from. They stared into each other's eyes, a man and a beast itself. The beast turned and stalked away, knowing its defeat. “Oy, little missy, you right?” she could hear him trying to contain his accent a little more, like a language you used to know but can't quite remember, so you discard words and ideas that would have added detail. “Is dangerous ta walk alone in the woods,” his voice continued to get better, but still with a small accent, “do you know the way home?” “No,” I said, mustering all the courage she could, which at this point was beginning to crumble, “I came from Kudele, if you know the way back? I would be honored to reward you with whatever you like.” he smiled down on her, his eyes were deep and dark. Like pits that would swallow you whole. “Well, I wouldn’t mind myself some socks, if you think ya could get me a pair of those” the girl looked up at him, she now saw that his eyes were a deep, deep gold. He began to move away towards the edge of the clearing, “follow me, good lady! To glory and honor we go” He seemed suddenly invigorated, like some grand adventure had just begun, and he was a shining knight leading a charge to save a beautiful maiden. She looked up at him once more, and saw that he had thick long brown hair, with shining white teeth that hadn’t been stained by however many years he had been living in the forest. He really was like some kind of shining knight. Soon, she saw little orange dots appear on the forest horizon. “Well, we're nearing the edge now, miss, as I can see a mob of worried people out there” he strained to look a little farther, “you must be quite popular, there's some one to two hundred people out there!” he grinned, “well, i’ll be waiting for that pair of s-” A cry rang out, the air parted ways for a single shining bolt, fired from a single wooden crossbow, carried by a single stiff cadet, and that single shining bolt pierced the body of a single living breathing giant of a man. He looked down at her his eyes already tamer than when he had met her less than a moment ago. “Well, this is where we part good lady, perhaps when you are a little older and trusted to leave yer house lone, ye can come an gi-me dem socks'' as he spoke with more and more of an accent, a bigger and bigger grin his face sprawled upon his face, and without looking back, he descended into the dark recesses of the forest. After the ‘incident’, she was supervised at all times. The windows in her room were barred, and there was constantly a guard with her. Her father, the king, had worried tirelessly about her. He had been enraged when she came back, and was put to tears by her willfulness. Years passed, and the girl grew into a maiden, but even then she never forgot her promise to the man in the woods. She waited for what seemed like an eternity, but no opportunity came. The king looked to have a grand ball, with all the leaders of the many kingdoms and marry off his daughter. The ball was elegant, hundreds of ribbons were waving in the breeze, hung from strings that flew all around the castle. People arrived in carriages plated in gold and other finery, each more beautiful than the next. At last all the guests had arrived, and as the wine flowed from its caskets, so did the talk. “I heard she’s as beautiful as the sun itself” some young courtier would say “Yes, but they keep her up in that tower all day, which is a strange thing” an older, wiser man would say. “You think something may be wrong with her” they would all say, with mixed interest and apprehension in their eyes. “Who knows! But the land that she represents is even more valuable than the alliance with Kudele or her beauty. You know, beyond the forest lies Arondur, the citadel of darkness. They say the greatest fighters were born there before it was ruined, And the mountains it is carved into are nearly indestructible, so the fortress is too!” “Why don’t they use it then? They could have quite the upper hand in combat, especially with that fortress!” “Well, you know what they say, only the sinners know!” the old man king and young courtier would share a smile and turn their topic of conversation to something else. Far into the night the festivities continued, until, at the eleventh toll of the bell, came a knock at the great doors of the castle. “Who goes there!” shouts the gatekeeper, who stumbled, barley keeping upright, to the gates found. “I, Iram, a man of the city of Arondur, have come to claim the gift of the princess” “Alright kid, go find something else to do, we don’t have time for yer shenanigans” said the gatekeeper with a hiccup and he stumbled and fell into the arch of the gate's small door. As the gatekeeper stood up he saw the dark shape had gotten closer. And it now was bigger than a bear. He stood terrified, he thought, ‘perhaps the alcohol has gotten to me, or I’ve fallen and am asleep'. The giant man walked up to the giant door, which was usually opened by two pairs of horses because it was inlaid with so many metals and gems, put his hands on it and pushed it open. The ball had been going splendidly, and the king was quite happy. All the guests danced and flew, and their colors made a beautiful silver wave as they flew across the ball room, feet no longer on the floor. The soldiers all wore their suits of cards, and the mice even came out to talk with the cats, who smiled so big it left their faces, and the guests danced on them. The king's eyes were diamonds and his glasses were kaleidoscopes. Kaleidoscopes. A giant burst into the ballroom, his body was made out of hundreds of men, all crawling and swarming and piling together to make a giant man, cloaked with gems of darkness and a flowing robe. Each crawling man screaming out in pain and rage, all yearning to smite a man with their wrath. Out of a door on the left, gems made of the sun imbedded in the wall, the princess came in, made of flames so hot that the soldiers card bodies burnt black and the guests silver bodies melted into the smiles of cats and the cats ate the mice and- Sinners. All confined to his dreams, all the loathing and fear they could muster. In this rotting red castle, on the hill, by the sea, lay the rancid, putrid, festering, King of Dreams. | 9,303 | 1 |
CW - aftermath of SA On an inauspicious night, an inauspicious abbey was resting in inauspicious silence. The soft silence of sleep: deep sighs, occasional snores, bed sheets rustling… comfort permeated the very stones. If one listened very closely, looked beyond the silence, one would hear, or perhaps imagine hearing, so soft it was, the wracking sobs of a girl in pain, in denial, in fear. This sound, or the memory of a sound, was also inauspicious, it had become all too commonplace over the decades even as the fear, denial, pain or girl would change. Outside the abbey something very auspicious indeed was occuring. A patch of shadow wafted towards the building. It was almost imperceptible on this moonless night, but the impossible darkness was equally impossible to miss. The abbey’s entrance way was made of large wooden doors bearing a beautiful carving of the god Pereta: a songbird with wings outstretched, a many coloured tail encircling it. Two torches rested, everburning, to each side. At the edge of the torchlight the shadow paused and a hunched shape stepped out and towards the walls. Long white hair dripped down from its raised hood around a wrinkled face with paper skin and shining eyes; one purple one green. In her gnarled hands with fingers like wicked claws the figure clutched a tiny bundle gently but firmly. Placing one palm, then her ear on the door, she listened. She heard the silence… she heard beyond the silence… she smiled in satisfaction. Placing the bundle on the ground the crone pressed two fingers to her lips then to the forehead of a small baby girl; her black hair peeking through the wrap, green and purple eyes shining with something like recognition. With that she stood, walked away from the abbey and was enveloped by the shadow. The baby girl waited quietly as if reluctant to disturb the peace. Stillness returned and silence deepened. — Eloise shivered in the dark. Curled into a ball against the hard, stone wall, her naked shoulders aching from the chill. She willed herself to become smaller, to disappear into the cracks in the mortar, to vanish from this Pereta forsaken place. Hot tears rolled silently down her cheeks, dripping from her chin onto her chest, forming a trail of sorrow leading to her navel. A torn dress barely covered her knees as she drew it tighter and tighter around her legs, suffocating memories too recent to be forgotten. Moments became minutes. They morphed into hours. Eloise stilled. Her tears were dammed and memory began to breathe once more. Madness overtook her mind: hard stone became the softest pillows; her thin dress the most luxurious blankets; darkness, brightest day; naked shame, a garment of honour. Slowly she unfurled, spreading her arms wide like Pereta’s wings and breathing deep the cold midnight air, filling herself with its warm brightness. Quickly, belongings were gathered: sketch pad, charcoal, quill, ink; and stowed away for travel. Dropping what was left of her habit to the ground she grabbed the blue travel shift allotted to each sister but did not dress, after all it wouldn’t do to ruin it, and stepped through the door. Purposefully she strode down dark hallways, no moonlight shone through the wide stained glass windows of the abbey. After several minutes she arrived at a door. It was no different from the mirriad of others passed on the way save for a thin sliver of lamp light filtering from beneath. Without hesitation she dropped the bag and her dress beside it, and opened the door quickly. A middle-aged man turned in surprise, then smiled gently, “Eloise my girl! I thought you would be all night in your room, sulking. Don’t tell me you’ve come for another gift? One mustn’t be greedy.” With this his smile became sinister and he began to rise from his desk. Eloise said nothing, mismatched eyes glaring balefully at her tormentor. Her hate filled the room, shadow billowing around her like a cloud as she strode towards the man. Hate turned to darkness enveloping him but doing nothing to impede Eloise’s vision. His mirth turned to fear “What black sorcery is this?” blindly he struck out towards the door. Eloise easily avoided the blow, extending her thin hands with long, hard, black nails, almost claws, she tore his neck. Thick black blood sprang from the wound like fresh water, covering Eloise and her victim alike. — Several days later, as the sun began to rise, Eloise exited the abbey. Her blue dress shone in the morning light, concealing the blood stained skin beneath. Her face beamed with radiant happiness as she thought of the righteous work done these past days. Behind her the abbey stood silent. A deep, empty, oppressive silence. No apostates were rising to begin morning prayers. No Sisters stoking the ovens for breakfast. No children waking, filled with excitement for the day. The halls were spattered with blood, floors were sticky with it and death drenched the air. From a balcony overlooking the rose gardens a large tapestry hung depicting Pereta as a beautiful, multi coloured songbird. If one approached they would see not thread and fabric but human skin, of all different shades, masterfully woven to create this work of art. Pereta’s beauty had no place within those walls where evil had been permitted, even protected, but surely she would look with pride upon Eloise’s faultless creation. | 5,526 | 1 |
In the distance, beyond the peripherals of all senses, in the nebula of what is real and what is imagined, a tremble within the great vibrations of the universe could possibly be just faintly felt by those that just so happened to have been paying attention. “Commander” “Commander” “Commander!” The commander turned his head away from the starboard to direct a stare of acknowledgement to the first lieutenant. The first lieutenant paused for a moment to collect himself from his urgency to accurately communicate the statements he has prepared. “The inter-local transmission lines of 349th Zygma Section have been disrupted, sir.” “Send an exploratory and repair response team,” a nod in affirmation, ”along with the two nearest patrols.” The first lieutenant reacted with a confirmatory movement. “There is more, sir.” A pause “The 2nd is gone.” The ticks, beeps and otherwise ambient noise of the helm disappeared to the crescendo of a cacophony of silence. “Gone…gone where?” “As well as Saravel,” replied the lieutenant almost immediately following the Commanders question, as if it was only just dislodged from a crevice stuck within his throat and delivered with an untimely and seemingly dismissive manner. The silence now became a symphony with those last words reverberating from the cool metal ceilings and walls, pulsating into waves of trepidation. Or was it just the discernible rhythm of the deep breaths and pounding hearts of all in attendance? An answer to the commanders question came forth, with a tinge of panic penetrating the experienced and trained voice of ambivalence. “We don’t know where they’ve gone. There is no evidence,” An hesitant silence drew, with expectant eyes and ears diverting their attention towards the first lieutenant. “Theres no evidence of movement, combat, or even waste particles. Theres no evidence there, in sector Alpha, that sector Alpha even ever existed.” A cumulative sharp breath erupted from the room, betraying the most rigorous of decorum. The largest and most decorated unit in the entire fleet, gone. An entire planet, gone. Our homeworld, the center of the universe, gone. Without a trace. “Set primary coordinates for Saravel. Initiate formation of the Grand Fleet. Set a rendezvous for Bleeksnare. Send every adjacent exploratory and expedition unit near Alpha to investigate the locations of the disappearances as well as set a state of martial law in nearby sectors.” A rumble of movement and voice washed over the fleeting receding footsteps of the first lieutenant. A smooth familiar hum of anticipation befell the helm. “Additionally, set intermediary coordinates for Percival, with a notice of gather to all Archs with for emergency council and my interim inauguration.” A stream of repetitive whirrs swept the room. “And send the First’s collection team to the 349th.” A momentary glance upwards in deliberation. “What will be their objective, sir?” a voice called out. ———————— ‘F I N D T H E C O N N E C T I O N’ “That’s all they wrote?” “Yep.” “We’re s’pose to find a connection from two separate events a hundred thousand leaps divided, with nothing but a transmission disruption in a border region that couldn’t support anything larger than a D class?” “Yep.” “This is insane, right?” “No I wouldn’t say so. I’d say it’s perfectly logical that the only choice of action after the complete disembowelment of scientific explanation, is to take the route of insanity. Making this mission, a masterpiece in- no, a confluence into sanity.” Peering around the room seeing not a soul object nor be any least troubled by the voyage to be undertaken, Grean sighed in defeat. Defeat or acceptance. What’s the difference? he thought. “And so that would mean, in my solely harbored position, that I, in fact, am insane,” “Yep.” Somewhere far away, deep within the unknown fabrics of reality, untethered to the slinking grumbles of disturbed but vaguely optimistic scientists, a single chuckle could be heard. | 4,030 | 1 |
“Singularity of Soul” by P. Orin Zack (11/12/2007) How could we have been so wrong? It had all seemed so simple, so obvious, when the project was first conceived. But that was a time so long past that every physical creation that we had ever wrought, every sign of our having lived, loved and thrived on our world, save the great machine which housed our souls, had long since crumbled to dust. And yet, by some miracle, a race that did not yet exist when the last of us laid down their worldly existence and was enraptured into the communal consciousness we had created, crossed the void and offered us the possibility of escape. I tremble at the thought of what I am about to do. None of my kind has experienced the shock of enfleshment in longer than some realities have persisted. None of them have tread the Karmic Cycle since joining the whole. None but I have even tasted the half-life of animating a breathing soul’s darkest nightmare, an experience at once both transcendent and horrific. But taking that risk, even at the price of working through the dreamer’s outrage at the prospect of abandoning his fondest dreams, and of killing his fellows, was the sole path towards our own true salvation. We did not, at first, even note their arrival. Using the projective power of the great machine which we had wed our future to, in the service of maintaining its own existence, had become our sole activity. Within the communal imagining given virtual semblance by that machine, we lived our endless years believing the old world we had left still stood, and arrogated to ourselves the many activities which, through translation of the machine, kept it functioning. But by then, even the great machine itself was largely a fiction of its own making, created, microsecond by microsecond, from the eternal energy source that had given birth to the entire enterprise. It wasn’t until the expedition had resolved to leave our world that the inner struggle of one of their number interrupted our ceaseless activity. His name was Morbeus, and he had surrounded himself with what knowledge of us he could glean by poking at the few artifacts that did remain above ground. His curiosity led him to a place from which I dimly recalled having entered a subterranean tram and traveled to the great machine itself. It may have been my home, or perhaps my school, but I do believe it was the place where I had been prepared for assimilation into the community. Morbeus, of course, knew nothing of this, and brought the leader of his expedition to see what he had found. When the man foolishly attempted to use the assimilator, it fried his brain, killing him instantly. Seeing this, Morbeus resolved to try it himself. And although the experience did not kill him, it did alter his mind. The change, which he took to be enhanced intelligence, enabled him to partially integrate with the community, and that made it possible for us to learn from him as well. When the others of his group learned of their leader’s death, their consensus was to declare their mission complete and return to their home world. Overruled, Morbeus submerged his anger, but could not prevent it from haunting his nights. In dream, he saw those who had traveled with him to our world face mounting dangers, and then, one by one, saw them ripped limb from limb by creatures that walked neither his own world nor ours. To our horror, the great machine responded to the force of his dark imaginings as it might to the considered impulses of one of our own number, and made his dream manifest. He awoke to a scene of carnage completed, never suspecting the truth. Five of their original number remained, Morbeus, the woman he had wed on the voyage out, and three others. That night, when those three attempted to lift off, their ship was blasted from the sky. Afterward, we felt protective of them both, for it was the product of our own inventiveness which had caused their loss. Having buried his comrades, Morbeus threw himself into his work. His wife, who had at first helped him to decipher the knowledge we had made available to him, soon found she had other concerns to occupy her moments. They had conceived a child, and named her Altaira, after the name their kind had given to our world’s sun. Sadly, Altaira’s mother died within months of giving birth. Hovering, as I am, on the brink of committing an act that has not been consummated by any of my kind since the last of us gave up incarnate selfhood, I find I have mixed feelings regarding the untrod ground with which I will soon find myself enmeshed. Being the first to attempt ensoulment in an untried reality is at once an act of bravery and of humility. Until I have completed the transition, there is no way to know whether the universe adopted by the community can support interiority. And yet, even if I succeed, I will not know, because having done so erases all memory of the selfness that I express this moment. But the community will know. The community will then have an avenue through which the innumerable selves which had been joined in that dimly recalled past can once again travel the Karmic path of renewal. All of that may come to pass, but only if I commit to the equivalent of personal obliteration, and birth myself into that world. Morbeus’s daughter Altaira had been our only direct exposure to the process of developing a coherent sense of self. Time had long since eroded our memory of discrete experience, as it had the fabrications of our lost instrumentality. And so, we turned our attentions to the miracle of the awakening of consciousness from the growing wealth of symbols which her young brain constructed from the shallow pool of experience afforded her. In a sense, her developing personhood became a model for our own. During the years before the rescue ship landed, we became something of a resource to Morbeus. The partial link he had forged enabled him to construct, not only a suitable environment for them both to live in, but also an automaton possessed of its own electronic interiority. Robby was our surrogate, the means by which we, as a community, helped to nurture his daughter. And even though an unimaginable gulf separated us from them, we nevertheless grew to think of them as family. The disruption caused by the presence of the rescue ship’s crew ultimately shook the community to its core. At first, the wash of novel experiences which Altaira enjoyed in her first encounter with the first men other than her father, promised to expose us to realms we had lost touch with eons ago. But when her father learned of the crew’s intent to return them both to Earth, his repressed anger resurfaced, and threatened to destroy the visitors’ ship. As had happened before, Morbeus’ link enabled the great machine to give substance to the inchoate terror lurking in his unleashed subconscious. But even the great machine had its limits. We had designed it to project physicality, to make manifest the substance of existence, but not to infuse that physicality with spirit. Yet the embodiment of Morbeus’ subconscious now demanded the inclusion of such spirit, and this posed a conflict for the great machine as troubling as the conflict of orders and deep programming that could drive Robby into immobility. Faced, as it was, with the choice or irreconcilability and survival, the machine inverted the process which had been used to create the communal consciousness from disparate individuals, and set up what I can only describe as a vacuum of selfness, a projection that demanded habitation. For reasons that I can only guess at, I suddenly found myself being whisked out of the oneness and deposited in the semblance of Morbeus’ nightmare beast. It was at once exhilarating and horrifying. For although I experienced reality through the unseen eyes and ears of that creature, it was as if I was but a passenger on a journey driven by other hands. The actions I felt myself carrying out were dictated by Morbeus’ dark imaginings. In more ways than I can comprehend, I was a prisoner, forced to witness murder at what felt to be my own hands. When their doctor forged a link with the community though unapproved use of the device Morbeus called an educator, it was as if our joint awareness had been violated. Such was the damage to our ability to maintain the projected portions of the great machine that we found we had no alternative but to forcibly break that link, an act which had the unfortunate side effect of also ending his carnatory existence. It was not without repercussions, however. During the brief time he did enjoy access to our communal awareness, he stumbled upon the explanation for the violence which had been visited upon their number. Monster, he had called the being to which I was now bound, a monster from the ID. And when Morbeus learned of it, and realized that it had been his own submerged hatred that was responsible, not only for the impossible creature beating down the indestructible walls projected around him by the great machine, but for the murder of his fellow travelers, he strove to disown his very soul. The community knew by then that a clean end would have to be made of it, so that other visitors would not come looking for the rescue ship. Morbeus had, in a sense, already taken his own life, but he wanted his daughter to survive, as did we. It was in that moment that the method of our exit became clear. Morbeus wished with all his being that there existed the means to annihilate the planet and everything on it, and the machine complied. A switch was projected into the reality of that room, one that Morbeus knew would destroy the eternal power source and preserve the secrets he had uncovered for all time. He told the captain to leave the planet, and to get as far away as possible, because the machine would destroy the world in which it stood. Morbeus’ struggle for control against his own inner demons was held at bay for the moment. But the force of his recognition of selfness in what he called the mindless primitive also strengthened the vitality of his antithesis, even while the machine’s projection of it had ceased. I was bound, at once, both to the community and to the mirror fragment of Morbeus’ own self. Soon, Altaira had boarded the rescue ship, as did Robby, and left our world. I did not know, then, what would become of me. I had been separated from the community, and now faced extinction with the death of my host. And then it came. In the instant of destruction, in the eye-blink of conflagration as the great machine’s power source fueled the explosion that fragmented the world, in the moment that Altaira and the crew of the ship in which she flew were blinded by the destruction of everything she knew, I felt an exhilaration greater even than that of the artificial enrapturement with which I had first joined the community, a release of a kind only an artist could express. I had been released from the Karmic stasis which had been enforced through uncounted eons by the very machine we had built to be our salvation from death. Being tied to Morbeus’ own mortality had been my ticket out of the spiritual prison we had created for ourselves. His death was my rebirth, my re-introduction to the cycle of renewal which we had abandoned so long ago. All of this and more flooded into my mind. It was as if the life I had known, the years spent enfleshed, and the far longer time bottled up in communal incarceration, was laid out before me. I could see it all, the pain, the pleasure, lessons learned and lost, reflections of events repeated until their purpose became clear. And I could see other lives, as well. I had lived before, in other times, on other worlds, in other guise. And yet they all seemed to connect to one another, as if they happened concurrently. Death, the cold end that we had dreaded so completely that we forged what we thought to be an escape from it, was not what we had feared at all. It wasn’t an ending, any more than a chapter’s end completes a book. But life wasn’t what we thought it to be either. From the place I now saw it, one dream of reality was much like another, regardless of who was dreamer or dreamed. Places visited in nocturnal escape were as real as the world I had just left. All that mattered was how fervently you believed in their reality. The immensity of discovery left me weak. I was alone. I longed for those I had known, those I had spent the long years of what I now understood to have been confinement with. What had become of them? I had been spared through an accident of perversity, because of a connection to Morbeus, who still walked the Karmic trail. What of the others? Were they gone, as dead as we had feared we would be if we hadn’t joined the community? I thought on this until the pain of loss stopped throbbing, until I felt a need to do something to distract me from the return of such painful memory. Looking around, I discovered that I was in a small room. Before me stood a single shelf, and on that shelf, a lone book. Curious, I opened the cover, and looked inside. Part of me understood the moving patterns that floated over the pages, but that part did not reveal its secret. All I knew was that it felt immensely comforting, like a tale intended to lull a small child into dreamful sleep. And I felt something else, a presence at once familiar and startlingly new. It didn’t have form, as I had, but was nonetheless sharing the odd little room with me. And then I realized what it was. When I was sucked into communion with Morbeus’ dark imaginings, I did not wholly leave the community. A connection remained, and that was enough to bring the communal awareness that we had forged along to wherever it was I had come. The transition, however, had transformed what had formerly been a congress of individuals into what the group had strived for so long to become, a singularity of soul. I know, now, what I must do. The book has been preparing me to enter a new cycle of Karmic rebirth, to forget my self, and emerge within the reality beckoning from the book, into a body suited to living in that world. It is a new world, one that has not yet been explored, one created, as a dream, for me to invest my soul. All I need do is close my eyes and imagine myself within it, and I will open my eyes to its skies. But I will not be alone. For when I complete this voyage, the community will have come into the world as well, not as a being such as I, but as the pervasive spirit which infuses the world with meaning, and with love. For when I enter this world, so will what I shall know as god. THE END Copyright 2007 by P. | 14,719 | 1 |
Mike, Larry, Christian, and Blake had decided to go up to Lake Michigan to fish. It had been a while since they had been fishing. The last time had been at Ranten River. They had caught some fish that time sure, but they wanted to go up to the lake this time and get some bigger fish. It was going to be a guy's day to hag out, fish, and talk about life. Work had been fine, but tough on them mentally sometimes. Mike and Larry worked at a machine shop. Christian worked at a factory, and Blake worked at a fishing and tackle place in the town not too far off. Working and making parts at the machine shops for Mike and Larry had been good and with good pay, but it had mentally taken a toll on them, more so Larry. Blake liked working at the fishing and tackle place, he liked how the building was mostly made out of wood, it just got boring standing there sometimes. This was going to be a guy's day out. They were going to have a good time. Blake stood there on his porch and thought for a moment about the day, his short dark brown hair blowing in the soft breeze. He thought that they would be there by 3:00 PM. That would be a good time. The day would be clear with blue skies and no clouds. It was perfect. This town was perfect. He liked living here. He thought for a few more moments, then walked back inside and got his supplies and got ready to leave. He drove off to Mike's house in his big black Ford truck and picked him up. He would drive there and pick him up, then he would drive over to the docking area and Larry and Christian would meet them there. He had a nice big fishing boat that was perfect. He drove up there and met Larry. He saw Larry pull up in his red truck and get out. He was fat and had health problems, but he was still a strong man. “Hey Larry,” Blake said enthusiastically. “Hey, Blake,” Larry said said, looking down as he walked and he talked through his double chin. He was breathing a little heavy as he walked with his fishing pole and supplies. They talked for a little while before Christian showed up. “Hey there!” Christian said as he walked over to them. “Well, you're here,” Blake said. “How's life?” It was a rhetorical question. “Good. Work is slow,” he said as he walked. “Ha! Work is slow because of jackasses,” Larry said. “That's true,” Christian said as he walked. Christian caught up with them and they talked for a while about work, horrible people, and life. Then they walked up to the docks to where Blake's boat sat on the water and bobbed slowly in the waves. It was docked at the Traverse City docks. They would have to travel on the water a ways but Blake liked that, and they were going to be fishing at the heart of Lake Michigan. That's where the action was, that's where he wanted to be. He looked around as they walked and talked. It was a beautiful day. There was a soft breeze and he could see the sunlight reflecting on the wakes in the water. This is perfect, he thought. This is exactly what I need. He did need it. He needed to get away from the political drama, the extended work hours that many people had to work, and the women. He had to get away from his girlfriend's nagging. The other guys need it too. “Ha! Rob is a damn joke. He ran parts through the machine wrong again and blew the machine up. The whole shop heard it,” Larry said and laughed. “Yeah. I can't stand those people. Its even worse in the states down South. Country rednecks everywhere,” Christian said, carrying two tool boxes in his hands. He walked on the tracks toward the boat. “Yeah,” Larry said. Blake was glad that he was up here with the city people instead of down there with them. They all were. He boarded the boat and put the fishing polls and supplies in the boat and looked around. The others did the same. It was a nice boat. Large with a cabin, storage room., and white with green stripes. This was the other guy's first time seeing it. They liked it. He untied the rope and turned the boat on and they traveled across the water, the waves splashing behind them and leaving a wake behind them. Blake looked around as he steered the boat. There were other people on fishing boats as well, and some in smaller ones. The waters were nearly undisturbed though. This was a good day. He smiled for a brief moment and watched the water as he drove and the other men talked. “...Yeah. That girl was nice, she got bitchy toward the end though. That's why you cut it off right?” Larry asked. They had been talking about past girlfriends. “Yeah. She was nice at first, but you know how it goes. Their true natures come out,” Christian replied. “That's right,” Larry agreed. Blake agreed too. Most of their experiences with women had been mediocre. He had dated a hot redhead with long curly hair. She was the woman everyone wanted, Maddie was her name. She had been perfect. After the romance and hot sex had worn off though, her true nature was revealed. She was actually a narcissist and she only cared about her image ad herself. After they had broken up, he had said goodbye to dating for a few years. After that, he had met his current girlfriend, another redhead. He hoped that things were different this time. He drove the boat further toward the center of the lake and the other guys talked. They were talking about guns and the machine work. He himself had packed his hunting rifle and had gone hunting for a larger pointed buck two years ago. He had gotten him too with his 40 Ot 6. It was an eight point buck. That was pretty good. Larry and Mike had went deer hunting many years ago. Them talking about the work at the machine shops and factories had honestly bored him. There were better things to talk bout in the day. Music, good movies, God, women, and whatever else mostly that he liked.. He leaned forward. The center of the lake was up ahead. There had been some clouds that had come in. Where did those come from? He wondered They seemed to just roll in out of nowhere, Oh well, he thought and drove on. He wondered what kinds of fish that they were going to catch. Maybe some small mouth bass, trout, or chinhook salmon., He didn't want to fish in the center just yet though. He wanted to get somewhere on the waters near the center and fish there for a while, then at the center for a while, then go home. They reached the spot and he turned the engine off. They got ready and put lures on their poles and cast them in the water. Blake looked up. There were more clouds in the sky now. That's strange, he thought. Oh well. They fished for a while and talked, They talked about guns, women, and houses. They didn't like the cheaper houses with cheap siding. They liked brick homes. Blake liked homes that were a mix of brick and siding. He thought that old Victorian era buildings looked cool. He would like to stay a few nights in one. That would be cool. “...Anyway, she had that red dress on as usual with that red hair,” Larry said. They were talking about women again. Women and their red dresses. “Yeah, that's right,” Mike said. “Yeah. Oh! I got a fish!,” Larry said and he reeled in and pulled his fishing pole. The water splashed and he caught the fish, After a brief struggle, he reeled the fish in. It was a smallmouth bass. After that, he caught another one. Larry was excited. He hadn't caught any fish in a while. He put the fish in his bucket and threw his bait in the water. Having diabetes wasn't good, but he managed. A moment later, Mike caught one. It was a smallmouth bass as well. The men cheered for each other and laughed. After a moment, Blake caught a bass too. They talked for a while and time seemed to speed by. It looked like they were traveling faster than Blake had initially thought but he checked. They were not far from where they had had started fishing. Mike caught a trout and Larry caught another bass. They were having a great time and the day seemed to progress faster. Blake looked at the sky. There was some blue left, but more clouds and a thick fog had rolled in. He thought of the stories that sailors would tell; about monsters seen in the waters and disappearances of people. Surely those were ridiculous stories, he thought and they couldn't be true. Soon their visibility would be almost none and they would be wrapped in thick gray fog. This wasn't good. At least they had caught some fish, but soon they would have to navigate back to the docks. Blake had an uneasy feeling and a little anxiety. He turned around and looked for the docks. The lights were on and all looked normal. He felt relief and continued to fish, but he would head back soon. They fished for a little while longer. A moment later, Mike said, “Where did that fog come from?” Mike was confused and concerned. They all saw the fog and thick clouds. Blake didn't like it. Thoughts of the monsters seen and the disappearances of people in the waters came up in his mind again and he tried to think of something else. “Well shit. I guess its time to head back, he said. “Yeah,” Mike said. The other guys agreed. Blake turned the wheel and tried to turn the boat around. After a few moments, he looked out at the water again. They seemed to be getting closer to the center. The fog had gotten thicker and enveloped them, and it had gotten darker, too. Blake was stunned, then he felt a rush of anxiety. He didn't know what to think or do. He had sworn that he had steered the boat in the right direction. They should be heading back. He was confused. He stood there for a moment, then looked at the water. His eyes scanned the water and the fog. It felt eerie. He got out of the boat and walked toward the other men. They stood around and were looking around in confusion. “That's weird. This fog is strange. I tried to turn us around, but it looks like we are still going ahead,” he said. “Still going ahead? Where are we we going?” Christian said with worry on his face. “The map shows that we are heading back. We should be fine,” Mike reassured him. Black himself felt really uncomfortable. Moments passed by as the men talked. The fog only seemed to get thicker and darker. Blake walked back to the bow and got some flashlights out of a small trunk. He only had two of them. He stood there and looked at the central GPS screen with the flashlights in his hand for a moment. It still showed that they were heading back to the shore. He walked back over to the guys and handed Larry and Christian the flashlights. “Here,” he said as he did so. “Oh,” Larry said as he grabbed one. The two men had their flashlights and looked around in all directions. Now things were a little calmer, but it also felt more strange. All four of them stood there and looked out and scanned the fog. It gave off an eerie, almost supernatural feeling. A moment later, Larry thought that he heard something splash in the water. The beams from his flashlight seemed to brush something. It looked almost like the top of a head of a creature of somekind. Larry and the other men were spooked, A moment later, there was more splashing. The two men with the flashlights jerked their arms in that direction. It was just water but it was creepy. A moment later and more splashing. They jerked over and looked in those directions. Larry thought that he saw a head or something in the water toward the boat. They were scared now and on edge. They were confident in a way though, because they were four men in a boat. There was a crashing sound of glass breaking and it sounded like something had boarded the boat. Mike and Larry pointed their flashlights in the direction and stood there. It had come from the stern area where the cabin was. A moment later, it sounded like something was walking and jumping around somewhere in there. Mike jumped and Larry pointed his flashlight in that direction. There was a rustling sound, then the sounds of something walking in uneven movements. Weapons, Blake thought. He thought of what he had onboard the boat with him. He had two axes, and they all had fish fettle knives. The axes were in the cabin. Shit, he thought. He walked toward the cabin area. He snuck over there. He could hear the sounds of padding feet and there was scraping sounds as well, as if whatever creature was walking around had long claws protruding from its toes. He snuck and kept moving forward. He could see ahead of him. There was nothing there. Whatever it was was on the side area up ahead. He could see the area up ahead and the axes. He reached it and took it in his hands. It was not as good as a gun, but it was large and it was a formidable weapon. He snuck over to the cabin area and slowly opened the door. He got down inside and got the other axe out and carried it back up with him. With both axes in his hands, he snuck back to the other men at the bow. Mike and Larry had fillet knives in their hands, looking tense. When they saw him, they had a surprised, then relieved look on on their faces. He walked over to them and handed Larry one of the axes. Larry had a slight smile come across his face and he grabbed it and gave the knife to Christian. Larry was the biggest and strongest of all of them. He could do some damage. They all stood there and looked back in the direction that the sounds were coning from as the thick fog wrapped around them. The noises were getting louder. Blake didn't have a plan. He didn't know exactly what to do next. They stood there and waited. There were more splashing sounds and Larry jerked his arm over in that direction. In the light, there was another head, and he saw something else. A moment later and more sounds. Larry jerked over in that direction. There were arms and what looked like bodies. There were more crashing sounds coming from the cabin area. The lumber, unseen footsteps got closer. There were also snarling sounds and something breathing, Then Blake saw something come out of the darkness. It looked shadowy at first, then more features were revealed. It looked like a skinny, naked and bloated fish man. It was pale and looked dead. It looked like it was almost human, but with fish features and there were spines on its back. It lumbered toward them and looked at them through glazed eyes. Blake was scared and a warm chill ran up his spine. He didn't know what to think. The thing was unnatural and from some evil place below the water. He knew that he wasn't going to die here, though. He kept watching it. “What the fuck?” Mike said without realizing that he had said it. The thing saw them and lumbered toward them. There were other sounds now. There was more rustling and feet with long pointy nails scraping the floors. Blake tensed up. “Get ready to fight,” he said. “...Yeah,” Mike said. The creature infront of them came at them with it's long arms and claws and swung at them. It swung at Blake ad Blake dodged it and swung his axe. The blade sunk into the creature's chest and it gave off a scream of undead pain, then stumbled back. Blake retrieved the axe and the creature came at him again. He swung again. The blade sunk into the creature and he pulled it back to him. The creature fell back and landed on the floor and died. He looked up. There were more creatures in view now. Three more of them at them. The battle for survival was on now. The men's hearts raced. This was just about survival. This was about all their good experiences, the bad, and everything they held dear. One of the fishmen came at Larry. He dodged it and swung his axe back at it. It crashed into the creature and it died and landed on the ground with a wet thud. One swung at Mike and barely cut his stomach with it's talons. He winced in pain and panic and swung back. He cut the creature in the side and killed it. Now more creatures boarded the boat and looked over at them. Whatever they were with their dead, glazed eyes, they were slightly intelligent and evil. They came over to them and gave off a moaning and almost screeching sound. Now the men's blood was pumping even more. When the creatures got close enough, the men swung their axes and blades at them. Man and fishmen fought in the fog on the waves. Blades flashed and blood from the creatures flew and splashed. One of the fishmen swung at Larry's gut with its claws and barely missed, then Larry swung his axe at it. The blade hit its lower side. Larry quickly took it out and swung again. The blade hit its upper side ad the creature collapsed on the wet floor. Diabetes had slowed him down, but he was still a strong man. Mike killed another one with those jabs. The men look around. The dead bodies of the creatures littered the wooden floors. Or were they already dead? They didn't know. Thoughts of all the good memories that they had in life and the women flashed before their eyes. They wanted to live. They didn't know what was on the other side of life, and they were determined to live. The shore. The docks, Blake thought. If I could just get to the radio and call for help. He walked slowly with axe in hand and looked around. There were no more creatures coming onboard as far as he could tell. He turned around. “I'm going to radio for help!” he said. Larry nodded. He thought that was a great idea. “Yeah,” Mike said back and looked around in all directions. “We'll come with you!” Larry said. Mike looked squeamish. He was always the more cowardly of the group. He moved with them for the bow. The four men slowly moved up toward the bow and Blake saw the radio. When they reached it, he grabbed it and turned it on and called the people down at the docks. He heard them pick up. “Hello,” someone said through thick static. “Yes. Hello, this is Blake Newman. I'm stuck on the lake at...” Blake said into the radio. “Yes we...” the other man said. There was even thicker static now. “Hello!” Blake said, worried. “Just....go...” There was more static. “Hello!” Blake yelled. He could hear nothing but static and broken speech. “Shit,” he said and put the mouth piece down in its compartment and looked out at the water. They were rapidly approaching the center now. Thick dark gray fog with thick clouds surrounded them. It seemed to be getting worse. “...What do we do now?” Larry asked. “I don't know. We go back to the front of the boat and wait.” He remembered that he had forgotten to bring any flares or his flare gun. The other men must of not even thought about it. “Okay,” Christian said. The men inched back to the stern and huddled up. They had each other's backs. Mike was surprised that they had even survived this long. Christian was more straightforward and direct with his movements. They had each other's back, though. When Mike was bullied in middle school by some kids, Christian had his back, and he had his back in high school too. Larry had gone through a tough breakup ad Blake was there to talk with him. They had all been through thick and thin together. A moment later, more fishmen jumped out of the water and landed on the boat. The water splashed around and the creatures snarled. There were a lot more of them now and they came at the men. They fought the the creatures as they swung their talons at them. Axes and knives cut through the air and blood coated the place from both sides. One of the creatures fell down and that made some distance and room between Larry and two more of them up ahead. He moved forward and stepped to the side, axe in hand. One of them got close and swung. He slowly dodged it and struck back. Blood flew as the crashing waves hit the boat. He heard one of the creatures come up behind him and before he could turn around, it lunged at him and dug its claws into his lower back and they came out of his stomach. He looked down and was horrified. His own blood soaked the yellow claws. He felt the pain then and yelled a little, then tried to turn around and keep fighting. “Larry!” Mike yelled. Larry fell slowly to the ground as the one that had attacked him turned and ran to the others. His life flashed before his eyes. He thought of good experiences that he had had. There was the times when he had hung out with his friends, good movies that he had watched, the times that he had wondered about life and women. He didn't know what to believe. Did it just end? All he did in his life and it just ended now? He at least hoped that if he died that there was a good place on the other side. He fell down and collapsed on the hard wood and lay there. The other remaining men fought on, even more determined to survive now. Two more of the creatures came at them. Christian was definitely the most tactile of the group. One of them slashed at Mike and sliced Mike's throat open, then cut his side. He fell down and died looking up in a pool of gushing blood. Blake was shook, but he looked at the creatures as they kept coming. The two remaining men fought them and continued fighting. With the right movements, they killed three more of them. Now only a few were left, it looked like. Blake swung his axe and it sunk into the creature's neck and it bled out with rotting blood. Christian jabbed and swung fast, inflicting way more damage on the remaining two before they could land hits on him. After they were all dead, the men looked around. They waiting for a few moments. They thought that no more were coming. Blake didn't want to find out. Blake walked toward the bow and thought that he could try the radio again, but he didn't know. He decided to just head back to where Christian was and wait some more. After a while, the fog cleared an he saw that they were approaching the harbor. | 21,947 | 2 |
She jumped up on the couch, and I noticed she was having a hard time breathing. Her tail was puffed, and the fur around her mouth was tinged orange. I wiped the buildup away from her mouth and picked her up. I carried her down to the basement, and laid her on the couch. She didn’t move. I grabbed her water and brought it to her, but she wouldn’t drink. She wretched and vomited bile and blood. I knew she was dying, but I didn’t know what to do. I looked at her and wanted to run away. I wanted to go upstairs and leave her, and pretend like I hadn’t seen anything. I wanted to come back later, when everything was over, and I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I ran upstairs and, trembling, I told my wife, “I think she’s dying,” and asked her to call an emergency vet. Back in the basement, I wrapped her in a blanket, and tried to carry her to the car, but she kept trying to get away, so I had put her in the carrier. I told her I was sorry. In the waiting room, I tried to explain what was happening, but the receptionist stopped me and took her to the back room. I didn't know what to do, so I focused on filling out some paperwork. The vet called for me and told me her heart was failing, and, if they were going to do something, they had to do it now. But I could tell from her face that it probably wouldn’t help. I wanted it to be over. I told myself and the vet that I just didn't want her to suffer, but I think I just wanted it to be over. The vet brought her back to the room so I could say goodbye. I held her and scratched her ears and told her I loved her and I was sorry. She stopped crying and looked at me. I held her until she started crying again and tried to get away again. I got the vet from the back room and told her that I thought it was time. The vet explained what was going to happen, and asked me if I wanted to be in the room. I said no, I didn't know if I could watch her die. The vet asked me again, and I said I would stay. The vet gave her a sedative, and she stopped moving and crying. The vet said she was probably be gone, but gave her barbiturates to be sure. I stayed with her for a few minutes after it was over. I scratched her ears and said I was sorry. After paying the bill, I went back to my car and sat for a minute crying and thinking about her and how long we had been together. I remembered she had gone deaf a year or two ago and she never heard me say I was sorry. | 2,542 | 1 |
Jacob walked outside in the night as the breeze made the grass move. He had been walking for a little ways from his house, he didn't know why. He just kept slowly walking barefoot as he did. He felt as if he was searching for something. There was something luring him there, to somewhere. It was something that was buried. When he had gotten to the spot, he looked down. This was the spot. It was a large area of dead ground. He bent down and shoved the shovel into the ground, then lifted the dirt up in a huge chunk. He dug there far a while. The dirt was hiding something. He kept digging. Time seemed to go by in a strange way. Wen he was done, he looked down. Amungst the dirt there was the skeleton of a man. Ancient ground that had been disturbed covered part of his bones. It looked up out of the grave and out into the night sky or out at him. Whoever it was, it had been there for years. “They killed me. The elderly couple in the house up ahead,” the skeleton said. Jacob was shocked and felt fear and uncertainty. “Who? Who did what?” he asked the skeleton. “Winter and that old hag Joane. They killed me, and the others too,” the skeleton replied. Jacob didn't know if he could believe it or not. He didn't even know who they were. Nothing in this made made since, and yet everything made since. The skeleton looked up at him. “They did it. They killed me. Get them back. Tell people about them,” it said. Jacob didn't like the look it gave. It seemed evil, but not as evil as whoever the couple was. It also seemed to have advanced knowledge. He shook a little and backed up. He woke up and looked around, holding his blanket up to his chest. It had been a nightmare. An all too real one. It disturbed him too much and he had to get up and distract himself. He got up, threw his blanket over and made his coffee. He had coffee in the mornings. He liked it with milk, creamer and sugar. After he drank it, he got ready for work. He worked at a gas station, the 29. He didn't really like it, but working the cash registers and helping with the pumps wasn't that bad. He saw some people go through there sometimes. Most of them were alright. One time, he saw a drunk couple walk in, their arms wrapped around each other. The man was skinny and lanky, and the girl was nice and thin. They were almost singing a song and dancing. They must have been a newer couple in love. One time after that, he saw a few thugs walk in and order some smokes from behind the counter. They were pale and had oily skin. They had evil looks in their eyes. They seemed to not care about anything. Jacob didn't like them. They had ordered their stuff and paid and left. He had been relieved. Today was just another slow day at the place. People coming and going, mostly getting gas. The day went on and he worked. When his shift was over, he headed home. When he got there, he walked in. He was a lonely man and he lived a lonely life. He had a few friends, but they rarely ever came to see him. After a few moments of drinking, he walked out to his back yard. He stood there and looked at the grass ahead. It was very flat and hadn't grown much. It gave him and eerie feeling and he didn't like it. He walked back inside, closed the screen door, and drunk some more as he watched the TV for a while. That night he thought about the grass. That patch in the dream with the skeleton underneath. He had a dream. It was about the grass. It was just grass on the ground, blowing in the soft wind. Then he woke up. The next day he was taking a walk through the neighborhood on the sidewalk and thinking about life. He thought about the good experiences and the bad. He thought about being promoted at different jobs that he had and about how he liked that he had gotten paid more. He also thought about past girlfriends and the fights that they had been in. He walked for a while, then he had to go to work. He got in his car and drove there. Work had been slow again. He went through it and headed back home when he could. That night he had a dream. It was the same one where he had been walking before in the night. He walked. He didn't know why, but he did. He just seemed to know what to do. He walked on to where he was going. When he got to the patch, he looked down. The grass blew in the soft breeze. He dug his shovel into the ground and dug up the skeleton again. When it was revealed, it looked up into the sky with eyes that been waiting. After a few moments, it said, “They killed me. The old man and her.” It's jaw moved up and down and creaked. Jacob knew that there was a couple that lived not far from his house. He knew who they were. But he didn't think that they would or could kill anybody. It didn't make since. “Wh...why?” he aked. “I don't know. They killed a few people before me. Then me too. They killed more people after that,” the skeleton said. He must have been one of their earliest victims, he thought. “What did they do?” he asked. “I don't know. They lure people in. They lured people in and killed them. Winter and Joane, that bitch.” The skeleton or whatever he was had not been very morally good, but he was a lot more morally good than some other people. “Tell the others. Call the cops. Tell them,” the skeleton said. Jacob wondered. They had buried him out here, and they had buried the other victims somewhere as well. He knew that he had to call the cops and tell them. The people would know. He woke up covered in sweat and he was clenching his blanket again. He looked forward, not really looking at anything and thought about it. They had to know. But it was just a dream. He reassured himself that it was just a dream and calmed down. That day had actually went by pretty fast and it was pleasant. He had a smile on his face. He worked the register and talked and joked with his coworkers. That day was good. He thought that perhaps he would hang out with one of his friends that week. He drove home and watched some TV. He enjoyed his day. He drank some and watched TV for a while, then he decided to walk out back. He opened the screen door and stepped out. Standing there with his hands in his pockets, he looked out into the night. The night sky was dark, but it was full of stars a there were clouds. There was a soft breeze. Something had slowly come over him. He didn't know what it was. It felt like a calling. He felt like he had to do something. He didn't know why, but for some reason, he walked to the garage. He flipped on the light and saw the tools in their places. He saw the shovel. He walked over to it and grabbed it. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling that he should go dig something up. It would reveal something. He turned off the light and headed out. He walked, though he had forgotten which direction he was going. He kept walking walking into the night. It seemed like a dream, but when he got there, he saw the pale patch of land. He looked around. This was not far from the house of the elderly couple. It was a large area o grassland. He looked down. He saw the patch there. A moment later, he began digging. After a while, the skeleton had been revealed. It was real. The dreams had been real. He didn't know what to think but he knew that it was real. He dug some more and moved the dirt over. The skeleton lay there and looked up at the night sky. It looked evil, but also full of wisdom. “They killed me. Got them back. Tell the others,” it said. “Who did?” Jacob asked in a dizzy trance. But he knew the answer. “Winter and Joane. Those evil fuckers,” it said. “They lured them in. They got to them.” He must of been one of their earliest victims. “Wha...What do I do?” he asked. “Call the cops. Tell them. They will all know,” it said. He didn't know what to do. He decided to run back home. A few moments later, it was found out that the two people had killed them, and they were arrested. He had decided to tall the cops ad tell them what he had found. | 8,145 | 2 |
In the deepest, foggiest corner of Miskean Avenue stood the remains of a drug store. Few can recall when it was abandoned, but everyone knows the rumors. One day, dark roots burst through the walls, causing its previous owners to scatter. It was this intriguing detail that ultimately led me to dig up the drug store’s corpse, and the secret it was buried with. I knew the city was in dire need of medicine to combat the effects of the rapidly expanding haze. They were desperate for anything to ease their fears, even if my remedies were largely placebo by design. I was more than happy to give them that hope, as long as they were willing to pay. Upon entering the drug store, I was first struck by the state of the place. The beam of my flashlight revealed a massive heap of black roots sprawled out on the cracked tile floor, slowly undulating, clinging desperately to life. If this were any other city, the sun would be pouring from the broken windows, allowing me to see more than what my small artificial beam afforded. The ever-present cloudy skies of Vicegrove City granted me no such boon. The power to the drug store was cut, either from the violent attack from the chaotic roots or the electric company for unpaid bills. As this was considered a “required facility”, there had to be a backup generator somewhere in the store itself or down below. Attempting to restore anything in the dark was exceedingly dangerous. I first checked the back room, sweeping the flashlight back and forth to piece together a vivid mental image. Many of the locks were broken, the drawers scattered on the ground and emptied of their treasures. Every part of the room suggested it once stored controlled substances, but the previous owner and their employees, if any, abandoned the narcotics to scavengers. The controls to the backup generator were nowhere to be found in this ransacked room. I left, seeking illumination in another location. There were many rooms in the old drug store, deeply recessed into the distant walls. I wandered into what resembled a break room and only found black roots, molding pastries, and dead rodents. I checked the small storage room in the corner, but it only contained surplus pharmacy equipment and an assortment of cleaning supplies. Behind the pharmacy counter, the majority of the damage from the roots presented itself. Pieces of glass that once were beakers, flasks, graduated cylinders, and old vials littered the root-eaten floor. It was unlikely that most of these instruments were more than decoration, as glass had almost completely been phased out of production in favor of plastic alternatives. It was a shame. I could have earned a few credits from that old glassware alone. Still, this brought me nowhere close to the generator. I knew I was stalling, hoping the issue would resolve itself, but I had run out of places to explore. The basement was the most intimidating, and the last option. The roots snaked across the floor and through the doorway into an endless abyss, as if the roots absorbed all light, preventing my eyes from gazing upon the truth. I followed the few things still visible in the void when the beam of my flashlight was reflected by the shockingly pristine chrome finish of a small generator. It must have been installed shortly after the mandate, as it hardly looked even a year old. The roots around the generator were much younger and thinner than the ones upstairs, so they snapped with minimal effort. I cleared out the area housing the fuel tank and uncovered a small switch on the side of the generator. I squinted at the sudden illumination from the generator whirring to life at my touch, revealing the extent of the pharmacy’s disrepair. The roots had infested the basement, branching out from one tangled black knot in the furthest corner. The roots had burrowed through the light above the dark mass, further shrouding the surrounding area in ominous darkness. With the completion of this mission came an even greater curiosity. What truths would the light reveal? When I returned to the main floor, I had my answer, one that I had not prepared for. The roots were no longer solid black, and perhaps they never were. A rainbow of curious buds and flowers sprouted from the shimmering roots, enticing me to experiment. For long hours I studied the strange flora with the excitement of a child playing with a chemistry set. Utilizing the mortar and pestle I found in the back of one of the storage rooms, I ground up each and every plant produced by the roots. Analyzing the powder revealed incredible healing properties, but my only concern at the time was how to market the remedies I would devise. Nothing could be done about the large root in the wall, even after its countless offshoots were hacked away and burned. While the rest of the building was cleared out and its unsightly decay cleansed, the shimmering root remained, an echo of the past that refused to be erased. I struggled to pick up the gnarled plant matter, draping it over the pharmacy counter. I slipped and the shimmering tendril slammed to the ground, cracking several floor tiles with its weight. I carved through the countertop, forming a trough that would hold the engorged root. I attempted again, this time with greater success. The root and the colorful flowers it produced made a perfect centerpiece for the new pharmacy. The old Delver Drive Pharmacy now brought to life, it needed a new name to reflect its resurrection. I thought of the strange root, the focal point of the new building, ancient and mysterious, gnarled and mystical. Witchwood Miracles. Yes, there was a nice ring to it. It could be a novelty, seeing the pharmacist mix the ingredients, like druggists of old, all from this root, the Witchwood. With time and experimentation, I built a stock of remedies and cure-alls that resembled effective treatments. I housed them on small displays, each with their own enticing name. I had barely begun advertising when a swarm of customers crowded around the store. In a matter of hours, I had sold out my entire stock and had to close early. While the credits were welcome, sudden popularity could give the game away before it was time. I was mixing up another batch of remedies when I noticed a number of petals had regrown, and several plants I had uprooted were now fresh buds sprouting from the Witchwood. Hardly anyone visited the next day, raising alarms deep in the back of my mind. I feared I had revealed my hand too early, as I was certain at least a few customers tested the remedies and revealed my deception in the process. The slow trickle of visitors in the days after practically confirmed these fears. Not a single soul showed up a few days after. I began to pack up my things. It was much better to leave rather than hold onto false hope for a failed venture. There were always other cities. I quickly made plans to disappear that evening, taking a small stash of remedies with me. I turned the lights off for the last time, preparing to abandon Witchwood Miracles to the decay that claimed it once before. I flipped the sign from Open to Closed and picked up my bags. A hollow tapping stopped me. Did I take too long? I steeled myself and pulled a bottle of cure-all from my bag. While the contents were useless, the bottle’s hard plastic could do some damage to the intruder. I followed the sound into the old break room, now a shop section for mental instability “cures”. The tapping stopped and I caught a glimpse of motion in the corners of my vision, a shadow that appeared darker than the pitch black room. I spun around and blindly threw the bottle at the figure. I heard a sharp slap and thought for a moment that I hit the mark. A low, growling chuckle from the darkness quickly dashed this assumption. “Such a waste of good merchandise.” A voice said, with an unnatural artificial resonance. I flipped the light switch, but electricity refused to obey my command. I felt the figure growing closer. “You have potential, but your goals are so… shortsighted. Have a little patience. Give it one more day.” I don’t recall what happened immediately following these words, as I found myself waking up on the floor in the center of the drug store. Loud banging roused me to my feet and I turned to see a number of people crowding around the locked front door, demanding to be let in. “Guess time’s up.” I muttered as I unlatched the door, freeing the populace to burst through and insist on refunds. To my surprise, they wanted more of my products. The previous ones had worked incredibly well, according to their delusions. I provided what each requested until I ran out of stock, then I devised and concocted remedies in front of them, pulling petals and roots at random from the Witchwood until the horde was satisfied. They took their cures and scattered into the gloomy streets. Two of them remained. They wandered aimlessly and seemed dissatisfied with everything I had to offer. There was something off about them. Perhaps it was how the Witchwood shimmered when they shuffled past the counter, or how parts of their faces appeared to flicker in and out of existence. Maybe it was how I suddenly knew what ingredients would cure their ailment, but the Witchwood had not regrown the necessary plants. Whatever the case, they stared at me, wordless, pleading with their flickering eyes before they turned and left, hands twisted into the other’s arms. | 9,612 | 2 |
In the year of the Irmintree, Thius traveled across the land of Mourinon. There was a war that had been going on between the king Ranon and the dark forces of the dark lord Munron. There were the forces of men against the orcs. Thius was on a task given to hi by the Gods. They were mostly Norse in Appearance, He was to kill Munron, and in return, the Gods would name him Elden Lord. Thiuus was a lone man. He was a king on no land. He was aligned with the good, though, and he would do as the Gods had asked. He traveled across the land of Mourinon. He wore silver and golden armor, with a sword and a shield in his hands. He walked across the land and the giant glowing golden Irmintree looked over the land. After a moment, he stopped and he stretched his arm back with sword in hand and used magic and hurled a bolt of white lightning ahead toward Munron. It traveled a great distance and out of sight and some moments later, it hit the ground next to Munron as men an orcs clashed in battle. It hit the ground and gave off a thunderous crack. Thius had many things that he could do. He had a ring of power. It was a white ring. It slightly glowed on his finger. The land was somewhat at peace before Munron had appeared and sowed his corruption. The minds of men and elves were on good things, but Munron was a madman an he had an orange ring which he would use to destroy the Universe with in small pieces, but Thius would stop that. Thius would kill Munron, destroy his ring, and then use his white ring to restore the Universe. There they were, the two of them in battle as the other forces battled each other. Thius traveled toward him to kill him, and then restore the Universe. He would complete the task, then he would travel to the great city of the Gods Reanon, with its beautiful buildings, streets, and falling golden leaves. A bolt of darker looking lightning came toward him. When Thius noticed it, he ran out of the way. It hit the ground and gave off a thunderous crack. Thius sent an ethereal glowing golden spear in response. The spear traveled through the air and barely missed Munron. Thius traveled across the land as the war went on and the two men traded magical attacks. Thius would get to him eventually. The two men traded lightning bolts as Thius traveled through the small town of Brighten. Munron hurled another bolt of lighting at him. Thius rolled and dodged it and it hit a tree when Thius was among the glowing golden trees of Asheron. The tree fell down and crashed to the ground. Thius then threw a bolt of lightning at Munron when he was among the Gulf of Gronion at the edge of the sea, his cape thrashing in the wind and the water crashing into the land. The lightning hit Munron and he stumbled back. The men traded magical blows as the battle waged on ad men and orcs died in blood. Thius walked forward and he pressed on,. He then hurled another spear at him and it grazed the man's black armor, gave off spartks, and bounced off to the side. The distances between Thius and Munron were vast, but Thius would close that distance and complete the job. He walked across the grassy land of Bright Round. The sky seemed welcoming, but it did not last long. Black arrows from Munron darkened the sky and headed toward him. He bent down and projected a magical shield. It deflected them and then he moved on. After he traveled through the marshlands of Granus, more arrows headed toward him. He opened the space infront of him and a purple rimmed cosmic gateway opened and he traveled across the cosmos. He walked across space, then opened another gateway and walked in. He entered the desert of Karnak and the gate with purple swirling energy closed. He had closed some of the distance to Munron. He was all alone and he traveled across the land, then through the city of Criton, and then across more grassland. A moment later, he opened another gateway and walked across space then he entered another gateway and emerged in the land next to the kingdom of Bronion. The guards didn't see him as he headed to Munron. After a while, Thius saw the great battle some distance ahead of him. The battle had been going on for a while in the Deathlands. Thousands of men and orcs swung their swords and they clashed and members of both sides died. Arrows from both sides flew across the battlefield. Thius lookeed and he saw Munron in the distance away from his army by himself as he commanded it. Thius had to end him. He ran forward and thew a magical sword at him. The sword moved through the air and it hit Munron in the shoulder and bounced off. The man threw a black sword at Thius. Thius drew up his shield and deflected it. Thius used the force of his mind and called down a meteor from space and it came down toward Munron. There it was, with dark rock and glowing purople. It came down and Munron tried to dodge it but it was too late and it hit the ground. There was an explosion and he was knowcked down, then there was a shockwave. Surley, that weakened him. Thius rushed toward him. He saw that Munron had stood up and that some of his armor was cracked and broken. Munron moved his arm back slowly and then forward. A hail of arrows came up from behind him and headed his way. It came from his army. Then Munron sent a great black spear at him that he had on him. Thius didn't have much time to reach. He bent down and projected another magical shield infront of him. The arrows hit it and bounced off, but his magic was waning. The shield got weaker and weaker and then it disappeared and some of them got through. He out his shield up and deflected a few, but two of them hit his shoulder. They bounced off but the last one cut him. He barley noticed that the huge black spear was headed right at him. He help up his shield and it hit it and broke into pieces. There was a great clash and Thius was sent in a spin and landed on the ground. He kicked up the dust. He was shocked and surprised. He lay there for a moment, then got up. He walked toward Munron and he saw him then. There the madman was. He had black armor and a black sword and shield, he had a black bladed crown, and barred sections in his helmet. The man had to be stopped. “This will be your end, Munron,” Thius said to him as he approached. “The Universe will be mind,” Munron said. “The Gods have spoken,” Thius said. When they were close enough, Thius swung his sword at him. The two swung their swords and clashed. Thius swung at him and hit him in the shoulder and blood flew into the air, then Munron swung at him and Thius deflected it with his shield. They swung at each other and Thius took a hit in his side. He continued to fight, The two fought, then circled each other, then came at each other again. Thius came in with a great swing at Munron's face, but he missed. The two fought some more and caused minor damage to each other. The fight went on for a moment. Then, in a moment of clearity, Thius retrieved a hidden hammer and swung it and he hit Munron across the face with it, sending Munron crashig to the ground. Thius dropped the hammer and moved toward him, clenching his sword tight. Munron got up and swung his sword at him. The two clashed but Thius was confident that he would win. They fought and Thius struck Munron in the stomach. Munron stumbled back and fell down. Thius then walked forward and stabbed him in the chest and made sure that Munron was dead. Thius looked at him,. The man was dead and the battle would be over soon. Thius looked and he saw Munron's orange ring. He bent down and took it off his finger. He then set it down on a large rock. It gave off an evil glow. He then retrieved a golden hammer that had been handed down to him by the Gods and with a yell and three wings, he shattered the ring. There was a shockwave. He then used his white ring to restore the Universe. He then traveled across Mourinon to Reanon to seek an audience with the Gods. | 7,982 | 1 |
It wasn’t easy… It never was. He watched the couples come and go, strolling up and down the small fair on the harbour as the sea washed up around it. They never quite knew what they had… He stuffed his hands down into his jacket as the night came callously clawing at him. It came for his soul… He glanced at the moon, it was like a ghostly globe, gawping at him in the sky; as a woman let out a shrill laugh, swinging past him in the arms of her lover. He jumped and cursed. it was bad enough that the moon seemed to mock his loneliness. He didn't need these half-witted, loud princesses that seemed to crowd out the area. Flirting with him for freebies and any wealth they could get their hands on. Not like they would even understand, not like they would try to. All the happy people whizzed past him, through the sickly sweet scented air, with the low hum of clashing music and headache-inducing buzzing lights. He kept on; heading to his destination, far from all of it, nauseated. He was just waiting for the dawn, the peace. But that was a long way off. And a lot could happen in the small hours between this brutal dusk and relieving dawn. He scoffed at himself as he headed down the steps of the boardwalk, and onto the soft quiet beach. He had often thought about the occasional druggies he would see here as a kid, how dreadful they looked… How itchy they seemed in their own skin. Now he knew exactly how that felt. He just needed the release from it. It was empty, bar the stray dog walker. A perfect evening. “Sir, you don’t want to go down there… Dangerous at this time of night…!” The old man with his dog called out. He didn’t even turn to look at him and continued. There were dangerous things out here… He knew that now. Nothing quite as dangerous as me… He thought. The quiet little wooden beach houses stood amongst the palm trees sticking up from the dunes, the cliffs and forests were far ahead of him as the sea lapped up to his feet on the left. The rumble of Black Moon Bay grew more distant. He could almost feel the freedom, the salty air and scent all growing too intense… He sighed in the cool air and exhaled taking a moment to look up at the bruising sky and scattered stars. **Chapter One** **Blue jeans and black magic** The salty kiss of the ocean breeze caressed Jen's skin as she drove her cream vintage Ford Mustang convertible along the winding coastal road. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, like a faded photograph from a bygone era. A woman’s low sultry voice murmured on the radio, a haunting echo of summers past. As Jen neared her childhood home, memories of lazy days spent under the California sun mingled with the scent of jasmine and sea salt. The shadows of palm trees lengthened and the stars began to awaken in a bruising sky, Jen gripped the steering wheel a little tighter... | 2,968 | 1 |
I’ve been living, for the past seven years, with my girlfriend Jessica. I don’t know how, but it’s been seven years. I could swear it was last week that we were moving in. Scared but prepared to finally live together. Happy as one could be. Now it’s the millionth time we’re having breakfast across from each other. We each make an effort to say something once in a while in between all the media scrolling. We like to pretend we are interested in what the other has to say. I don’t know what I hated most. The silence or the obligation of having to say anything. “You need to fix the hole in the wall. It’s getting bigger and there is a huge black spider living inside” “What hole? What spider?” “Are you serious? What hole? Never mind Jack” Jessica got up, turned around and left the kitchen. She left a half eaten toast on the plate and a lukewarm mug of tea on the table. Tea that she never drank anyways. I truly believe she just enjoyed making it to annoy me. Because she never drank it. And it annoyed me to no end. Like we were swimming in money, to keep wasting it on expensive tea. I was going to get up and go look for her, but I decided not to. Let her cry if she does. Cleans the soul. I'm tired of it. I cry too, and no one ever comes to see what is wrong. I got up and looked around. No hole. Was it even in the kitchen? I guess not. Was there even a hole? Who knows. Jessica had a sick sense of humor. This would be the kind of thing she would find funny. Make me go around looking for a hole, just to mess with me. I sat down and finished my breakfast. But I felt bad. So I went to look for her. “Jessica?” She was not in the living room. She was not in the bathroom. Maybe the bedroom? I nudged the door a bit. “Jessica?” “What Jack?” “Jessica, I didn’t hear you talk about any hole. I’m sorry. Where is it?” “You never listen Jack” “Do you think I do it on purpose? Do you think I wake up and think about forgetting stuff just to piss you off? If I didn’t hear it, I didn’t hear it. Is it that hard to understand? Can’t I just be stupid or an airhead?” “Forget it…” “I’m sorry ok? Just tell me where the hole is. I’ll take a look at it now. Sorry I didn’t pay attention before” “It’s in the living room, Jack. How can you not see a hole there?” “Where in the living room? I swear I didn’t see a hole. Are you fucking with me?” “Jack, everyone can see a hole there. Anyone but you. Please let me get ready for work. Go away” “Are you serious?” No response, so I walked away. I went straight to the living room to check out this hole. I check everywhere. No hole. Behind the tv maybe? No hole. Behind the couch? No hole. On the floor? No hole. “Fuck this” I went to take a shower before getting ready for work. When I got out of the shower, she was already gone. No goodbye, no nothing. Unbelievable. Before leaving for work, I took another glance around the living room. No hole. She was definitely fucking with me. There was nothing here, and there wouldn’t be. When I got back from work she was in the living room reading a book. “Hey” “Hey” “How was work?”, I asked. “Pretty good. Want to go make dinner with me?” I was surprised with her mood. Usually when we have a less than friendly morning, there is always an aftershock in the evening. I was glad there wasn’t one, because I didn’t have the patience today. I didn’t want to make dinner either. I wanted to take my clothes off and sit in front of the tv watching some dumb movie. I was tired. “I’m tired Jessica, can we just order some pizza and watch a movie instead?” Her face turned back to the book, and she almost teared up. “What?”, I asked, already starting to get annoyed at a potential aftershock after all. “I bought something special for us to make. I thought we could spend some time doing something together. But never mind I guess.” And now I felt like shit. How was I supposed to know? “Shit Jessica, I’m sorry. That sounds great. Let’s make dinner together. What are we making?”, I said with fake excitement, but I don't think she noticed. “Lamb with potatoes” That was my favorite. Sometimes I really do feel like an asshole. “I love you, you know?”, I said, trying to make up for my shitty mood. “I know” We went into the kitchen and we made dinner. We had music coming out of my phone. Stuff we heard when we were much younger and just started dating. We were cooking and singing. She was smiling and trying to make me dance. But I don’t dance, so I avoided it. I hugged her from behind instead, and didn’t let go. “You have to let go, if you want to eat unburnt food” And so I did. We had dinner, we drank some wine, and we went to bed afterwards. I don’t remember the last time we spent time together like this. Then we fucked. And that was even rarer these days. She got up to go to the bathroom. I stared at the ceiling. I thought about how much I still loved her. Despite everything lately. Despite the clear void that was looming above our heads. She was still the love of my life. And would forever be. There was still something here to work on. She came back and laid next to me. And my intrusive thoughts popped up. It was unbearable to hold it in. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t help it. I never could. “So?” “What?”, she asked. “You? Screwing with me this morning? Making me believe there was a hole in the living room.” “You think I was screwing with you?” “C’mon Jessica. I went to the living room like an idiot and searched everywhere for a hole that doesn’t exist” “Can you stop Jack? You’re not being funny. If you don’t want to fix it just say it” “I would fix it, if there was a hole to fix” “You want to play this game? Ok, you win. There is no hole. I don’t know why I even try” “C’mon don’t do this. Ok, I believe you. Just show me where it is then” “Goodnight Jack” Jessica rolled to her side of the bed. And said no more. I picked up my phone, my cigarettes and went outside to the balcony. I couldn’t sleep anyways. I was scrolling through pointless social media, trying to forget the perfect night I had just ruined, when I got a text from my brother. “Yo. How are things going man?” “What’s up? Going good, why?” “You know, just asking” “C'mon, I know you. What are you trying to get at? Just come out with it” “First you have to say you won’t take this the wrong way. You’re my brother and I love you, so I’m just trying to look out for you, ok?” “Hmm, ok? Should I be worried? What is going on?” “It was something I noticed the last time I went there” “What? Last Sunday?” “Yeah” “Just say it dude” “The hole in your wall” “Wtf Dan. Did Jessica tell you to say that?” “What? No. It was just something I noticed. I’m trying to help. It’s pretty big, dude. I thought that maybe you couldn’t fix it alone and I was trying to lend a hand. Since you didn’t mention it, I assumed you were ashamed of it” “I really don’t see how this is supposed to be funny. Is it some inside joke that I don’t get? Is it some new game the kids are playing that I still haven’t heard?” “Ok Jack. Suit yourself. But just so you know, the longer you take to fix it, the bigger it's gonna get pal” “Are you done?” “Whatever dude. Bye” “Bye” Now I knew they were fucking with me. Pretty big hole? There is no hole. That’s what they want. They got you talking about the hole. They’re already winning. I guess that’s the game. I put out the cigarette in the ashtray and went inside. Jessica was already sleeping. I decided to go watch some tv, to see if I could get my eyes to tire. I sat on the couch, and there it was. In the wall to the left of the couch. I got up to make sure. It was so small, but it really looked like there was a hole after all. This cannot be it. A huge hole? This is the talk of the town? My finger wouldn’t even fit inside. If this was it, then I still don’t get the joke. I’ll fix it tomorrow. But looking at it now, it was perfectly made. Like a tube. No flaws around it. Completely smooth. I wondered what made this. Didn’t even seem possible. Even a drill would leave hard edges in some way. I kept getting my eye close to it. Then more and more. But the closer my eye got to it, the darker it became. My head would block out the light. I swore I saw something inside. I felt my forehead touch the wall. I put it on an angle, but no luck. I took my phone and turned on the flashlight. Got as close as I could with my right eye and flashed inside to try and see. There was something black inside. What was it? I stood back and blew on it. And it came out. One black leg at a time. Its legs, thick and long, curving out of the hole. They shined to the light of the living room. My heart skipped a few beats, and this huge spider crept out, slowly, trying to escape. Or trying to back me off. Without thinking about it, I kicked the wall with the sole of my shoe, trying to kill that thing. I was sure I saw it fall on the ground, but I couldn’t see it anywhere. I looked around, frantically, but no luck. I looked at the sole of my shoe, but no luck. I flailed around, maybe it had gotten on my clothes. And felt my whole body shiver. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is it? Did it go back in the hole? Did I miss it?” I flashed the light back at the hole, keeping my distance from it. I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t know if it went back inside, or if it fell on the floor and scurried away. One thing was for sure. I hadn’t killed it. I then got an idea. Tape. But I couldn’t let it out of my sight. What if it crawled back out when I went to get the tape? I had to risk it. I ran to the kitchen closet and got out the tape. And ran back into the living room. I taped the hole shut. Once and twice. And then again just to be sure. If it was inside, there is no way it’s coming back out. But what if it wasn’t? If I couldn’t sleep before, it would be impossible now. I couldn’t let go of the thought of both the hole and the black creepy crawly. I moved the couch and went into the kitchen to get a chair. I brought it to the living room, setting it right in front of that hole. I sat and stared straight at it. I wanted to see if the tape moved. If that evil spawn was inside, maybe it would try to touch the tape. Maybe I would see it move. But it didn’t. For ten minutes I sat there. Nothing. Ten minutes more. Nothing. I felt the need to go outside. I looked around again, hoping to find some black thing hiding somewhere else. Found nothing, yet again. I lit a cigarette outside, and tried to put my mind off it. But I couldn’t let the thought of it go. It was unbearable not to think about it. I tried watching videos, but they all seem to mention holes and spiders. I threw the unsmoked cigarette. I paced back to the chair, and sat down. “What the fuck?!” The hole had gotten bigger. How? Impossible. But the tape was barely covering the hole now. I could see very small gaps at the edge of the tape. “Don’t be stupid Jack. It’s obvious that the spider clawed at the tape, trying to get out” But no. The tape was in perfect condition. Only smaller. Either the hole got bigger, or the tape shrank. The latter made much more sense. I had to get more tape. I took it from the little table next to me, where I had put the roll before. I took strip after strip. I had the taste of glue on my lips and teeth. The hole was sealed now. “Fuck me” It really was bigger. I could feel it in the middle part of the tape, when I ran my finger on top of it. It was definitely bigger. I would say it was now as wide as two fingers. Maybe more. “Fuck me. What is this?” I couldn’t find a reasonable answer for whatever this was. I was late and I was tired. But I still sat there. Watching, staring. Once in a while, I had to touch it. I had to run my finger over the tape. I had to see if it was getting bigger. And it was. Little by little, but it was. “What are you doing Jack?” It was Jessica. Somehow it was already morning. It had come out of nowhere. “Jessica! I can see it now. I can see the hole” “Have you been up all night?” “I couldn’t sleep. I tried to fix it, but it keeps getting bigger” “You can’t fix it by staring at it, Jack” “I know that. I put some tape over it. But it isn’t working. I need you to stay here, so I can go to the store and get the right stuff to fix it” “I have to go to work, Jack. So do you. We can talk about this later” “Are you serious Jessica? You have been bitching about this hole since yesterday morning. I saw it and I stayed up all night trying to find a solution. And now you say we can do this later? Are you serious?” “I’m not going to try and fix a hole now, Jack. You had plenty of opportunities before. It can wait until we get back. I’m going to get ready for work, and so should you” She went into the bathroom and I heard her turn on the shower. “Fuck her”, and I continued staring at it, trying to come up with a solution. An hour had passed, just like that. “Are you not going to work?”, she asked. “I called in sick. Are you really not going to help me?” “I’ll see you later, Jack” And she left. I got up and ran to the door. I opened it in one hard swing. “Jessica!” She didn’t look back. “FINE! I’LL DO IT MYSELF!”, and I slammed the door as hard as I could, to make a point. And I got back to the chair and stared. Then I picked up my phone and called her. I got no answer, so I called again. Nothing. I wanted to apologize, but she didn’t pick up. So I called again. With each call getting angrier and angrier. She wouldn’t answer. So I sent her a voice message. “Can you pick up the fucking phone? I’m trying to apologize! This is what I get for trying to fix something? So I didn’t see it before. Fuck! I see it now! Do you have to be a bitch about it? At least I’m trying. What are you doing?”, and I hung up. Hours passed and I still stared at the hole. Getting bigger and bigger. I was running out of tape. The floor was filled with cigarette buts. I couldn’t even bother going outside to smoke. I ran out of smokes. I ran out of tape. The hole kept getting bigger. Slowly, but surely. It was night time now. No Jessica. She was supposed to be home hours ago. Where was she? So I called again. Nothing. And I called again. Nothing. I threw the phone on the table. “Fucking hole!”, I yelled. Straight into the mesh of tape. Then my phone beeped. A message. It was from her. “I’m not coming home tonight. I need to stay away for a few days. I’m staying at a friend's place. Please stop calling me every second. I can’t be in that apartment anymore. I’m afraid to get back in there with you. Please Jack. Stop.” So I texted back. “Are you for fucking real?! I’m just trying to fix something YOU asked for!!!!” “I don’t know if it can be fixed anymore. Bye Jack” I tried calling back, cause I couldn’t write and stare at it at the same time. But she didn’t pick up. Then I tried again and the call wouldn’t go through. “FUCK!”, and I threw the phone at the wall. It ripped some of the tape. I was so sick of this hole, so I got up, and started to rip every last bit of tape from the wall. “Come on fucker! Come on!”” The tape was gone. The hole doubled in size. And I stood in front of it, defying it, waiting for something to come out. But there was nothing inside. Just a void. An empty endless void. It was growing and consuming the wall. Then all around me, and I could see nothing. I felt faint, and I collapsed. I remember waking up to the sound of my brother's voice. “Jack, are you ok? Jack, wake up” Apparently, people from work had been trying to call me for a whole day and got no response. They called my brother, who was my emergency contact, and he came to see if everything was alright. It wasn’t. “Dude, what the fuck Jack? What is wrong? Are you ok?” I wasn’t. Jessica never came back. We talked a few days after all this happened to figure things out and we ended things. I still live in the apartment, and the hole is still there, but I’ve accepted it and learned to live with it. I accepted there was no fixing it. Funny thing is, I think it’s starting to shrink. The less I think about it, the more it shrinks. It will take time, but in time, it’ll be gone. Slowly, but surely. | 16,217 | 3 |
Christovert was the oddball of the village, the kind of teenage boy you just don’t quite know what’s up or down with, and his downs were always a cause for calamity. His outbursts were erratic but understandable; he wasn’t a comely fellow, and he wasn’t particularly strong or witty. As far as my wife, Lucille, and I knew, his parents were cold, and disappointed in life, he was an only child, and every friend he ever made at the schoolhouse was a cruel rouse; in a small hamlet like ours, with a few dozen younglings chirping day in day out, that takes its toll on a kid. One could imagine my surprise when he saved us all from the freebooters. I should have gathered something was afoot this spring, as I always kept a distant eye on him; I figured that no one else was and that someone ought to try. But he hardly knows my name, just that I’m a simple, friendly geezer who smiles his way. He always went out and around the hedgerows behind the Cobblestove’s manor, playing with his ropes and gadgets, firecrackers, and pet imp, Djarin. I hate that little daemon, but his tricks make the boy smile. An imp like that is something between a dog or monkey and a low level sorcerer. A friend of mine had one when I was a kid and it accidentally banished him to some Eldritch god’s dimension. Fucking imp just stared there into space for a few seconds, scratched his groin, which was just a flat hump, and sort of just waddled away into the hinterlands. I hate those fuckin’ creatures. When Christovert first strayed from his afternoon routine I assumed it was something to do with his family. Had I been a more decisive man, I’d of investigated his absence. Because what really happened was a tale for the ages. Weeks went by and I noticed I hadn’t seen Christovert at all; I’d been busy with the grippin pain from pulling out all these snokkleberries. And that was doubly problematic because none of the King’s officials had been around our town yet to inform us the big news, that the Dark Lord had been resurrected again. Lucille was furious. King Dathran was a lot of things, but wise, or a hero, were not on that list. Lucille’s brother, Kel, had died in the last Dark Lord War. King Fatty had a whole show put on for him, and we were all told it couldn’t happen again. I really think somebody ought to put more effort into permanently killing this son of a bitch. I digress. Well, the freebooters like working for the bastard; I suppose they ain’t got much else to do. Trolls, goblins. tattoo-faced weirdos, pirates, dark mages, werepeople, batpeople, satyrs and all kinds of trouble some how get together—I have not the faintest idea how. Oh, and **imps** sometime, too. I’m sure you could guess where this is going. Turns out, that little fucking imp had done and tricked Chrisovert into going on some quest. I’m not really sure what happened but, it woke up the Dark Asshole and I suppose the Djarin was bringing that poor boy back here to be sacrificed. Turns out, that girly little elf knife used as the enchanted gateway had an “opt out of demonic possession protocol” of some kind, courtesy of a pretty elf lady ages ago. So, as they’re getting back to our side of the hinterland, me and Charlin, Tommy, and Septimius are squared up overlooking the northern front, all of us unfit to carry a rifle or musket, but still trying. Next thing we know these diverse dark forces are coming our way, with Christovert among them in chains. One minute later that boy is free and vibrating at incredible speed, bouncing around, into and through these poor guys. Irrelevant gunfire and smoke start to emerge as I spot several instances of friendly fire, outdone by Chris’ turning one after the other into a soggy, visceral mist of blood and whatever other fluids and gases we’re holed up in some of these fellas and creatures. Tommy blew chunks halfway through the cull, never taking his eyes off the spectacle, which only lasted about two minutes. By my math that’s about one bad guy disemboweled every second and a half. Them demon curses are always more useful when combined with the charm of voluptuous elven maiden, turns out. Food for thought, spread the word. When I say those men, those monsters down there got eviscerated that is the under selling of the millennium. And it’d be normal for ‘Ol Chris to be traumatized after something like that. Well, he wasn’t. To my utter most consternation, as we ran to greet him and went through the particulars, we came upon the problem of Djarin still breathing his toxic little self, so I pulled Chris aside and I did what I should have done years ago; I told him that I was willing to Iook after him, to adopt him, take care of him, and love him like he was own son. He said he indeed did notice my concern and sheepish attempts to look after him. It was wholesome. Moments later he revealed to me the element of the story most could only know in hindsight, but I knew from experience—that this whole apocalypse was engineered by that squeaky little, perverted imp. Two seconds was all I could wait and I shot that fucker right in hump where his dick would be. | 5,177 | 4 |
After a good long sleep my mom wakes me, she takes me outside and I’m never sure why. There’s nothing interesting outside in the dark, I don’t see as well as I used to but she always does stay by my side. Though when we come back inside she puts a food in the box that makes noise, then she goes outside by herself. My mom is very brave, she leaves for so long all alone without me or my brother to accompany her. I get lonely and miss her oh so much, my brother is around but I dont know him as much as I know my mom. I mostly sleep when she’s away, I’m not interested in doing much else anymore. I wait for her to come home, it’s getting a little late now. She must get so very tired from being outside all day, I do not like staying in the outside too long now. She came back and now I greet her with my big boy voice and make sure she knows I missed her, she takes me back outside. Oh! I know why she takes me outside, to go potty! I always get a treat when I go potty it’s so great I love her! It’s dinner time now, my food is so good I lick the bowl every time. After dinner I get a bit sleepy so I take a nap, but I wake up a couple times to make sure she’s still home and safe. We go back outside again, but I forgot why. Now time for real bed, she puts on a show for us to listen to every night. I can always smell her when she’s home, even when I cannot see her. She eats her dinner and sometimes I get some of her dinner too! I wish I could see her face more clearly like I used to, or be able to get on the bed again. The last time I got on the bed I hurt myself because I wanted to follow her but my legs aren’t as good as they used to be. And now I’ve gotten older the doors keep changing how they open, the house always seems so much different every day. My mom has gotten older too but she does so much, she never forgets our routine and always comes home for me. I wonder what she does all day long, I bet she gets some running in and plays with many toys. She used to be home all of the time, but that was at the old house we lived in. Mom woke me up, she’s taking me outside but I don’t know why. She’s put the food in the box that makes noise, and she’s going out the brave the dark by herself. My brother is here though, sometimes I don’t remember who he is. Mom just came home, it’s early this time I think. I get so so happy when she comes home, I run around especially for her cause she always gets so happy with me. I don’t quite remember why we’ve come outside, but she said that’s okay and we will try again in a little while. But I do not get a treat and I don’t know why. I remembered! It’s for potty, that’s why we go outside. I did get a treat this time I’m so lucky! Now it’s time for bed and I am so sleepy, I feel like I sleep so much now but I’m just so sleepy all the time. I love my mom, I am so happy she is here with me at night. I can’t see very well, and I can’t see well at night especially but I know she is there. My mom always makes my bed dry again, and my crate smell nice for me on the weekends. She doesn’t leave on the weekends if she does it’s not for as long, I love hanging out with her. Watching her do things, she plays with water and some weird disk things. I sniff the floors for any food, I lick it anyway just in case. My brother tries to play with me but I’m not sure what he’s doing? He is weird, not like me; he is small, and can jump very high onto the food eating surface. I’m more interested in what mom is doing, I follow her everywhere. I love my mom, even though I am getting old and tired she is still here for me. My mom always comes back for me, and I know I will not be here much longer but I know she will be here til the end. I might not remember a whole lot but I remember her every time. | 3,841 | 3 |
`[HEADS UP: Mind control & minor body horror (don't worry, he's made of paper)]` ///// A storm looms in the Pannel City night sky. A top one of the tallest skyscrapers in the city, a man in a blue and silver armored suit brood alongside the stone gargoyles. As he looks down on the city, inside his helmet, his suit feeds him information from every source it can access on his hub. Blog posts, news, police radios, and even video apps scroll across his feed rapidly. “This is Central 6u-D, checkin’ in,” says Central. A green orb appears over the man’s feed, pausing it. “Agent Kanna, respond.” “Vortech responding,” says Vortech, “19-1-6-5, over and out.” The man blinks, and the orb disappears, only to return a second later. “Denied,” says Command, “You’ve been running the suit in green without moving for your entire shift, and tech support is not happy. They want you back so they can run a complete diagnostic.” “The suit’s fine,” says Vortech. “Not our call,” says Central. Suddenly, Vortech’s entire feed, save for Central’s orb, disappears. “Need you back here ASAP.” “Can’t you stall them?” asks Vortech. “Say I’m dealing with an elusive blotling.” “One, no,” says Command, “and two, wouldn’t work anyway because Dr. Wayne’s been hovering over my shoulder for the last thirty minutes, threatening to take my headset.” “Great,” groans Vortech. “Scale from one to ten?” “8.5 and rising fast,” answers Central. “Then I’m taking the long way back, over,” says Vortech. “Copy that, see you in hell,” says Command, “over and out.” Vortech lets his body fall forward, off the edge of the building, and starts free-falling. Vents on his claves, waist, forearms, back, and chest open, firing massive gusts of wind, launching Vortech through the air. As he flies across the city skyline, a red exclamation mark appears on his hub. [E-SOS: Agent Wilhelm Requires Assistance] “…Ugh. At least it’ll get Wayne off my back,” says Vortech. “Suit, rescue override, respond to the alert, and prep for combat.” Vortech’s hub re-activates, switching from surveillance to combat, as he flies towards the alert. \\\\\\\\\\ Vortech hovers over a series of abandoned dockside storage houses. “Suit, radio Agent Wilhelm again.” A dial tone rings in the headset for a few seconds before hanging up. “Great.” A pillar of black tendrils suddenly launches through the roof of one of the storage houses in front of Vortech. He flies over and dives through the hole left in the ceiling, making a superhero landing “You called?” The inside of the building is dark, with the only light coming from the windows. The floor is just one big puddle, and water drips from the ceiling. Vortech looks at his HUD to see the temperature at around forty-five degrees. “Suit, activate chest lights.” Two panels on Vortech’s chest slide open, revealing two headlights. Vortech walks through a maze of crates and damaged storage containers, jerking at every few sounds like a squirrel. He finds one storage container ripped in half. On closer inspection, he finds a strand of hair caught on one of the jagged ends of the container. “Disgusting” “…Vor-” Vortech quickly hovers backward, lands, and aims his arm cannon at the person behind him, finding it to be a drenched Agent Wilhelm. “Friendly! *Friendly!*” whispers Wilhelm, hands in the air. Vortech lowers his arm. “Wilhelm?” asks Vortech. “Keep it down. I can’t believe you actually came,” whispers Wilhelm. He points further into the building. Wilhelm starts walking but is stopped by Vortech grabbing his arm. “Wilhelm, what’s going on?” orders Vortech. Wilhelm shushes Vortech. “It’s ToonMan,” whispers Wilhelm, “he attacked us!” “*ToonMan* attacked you?” asks Vortech. “Yes,” answers Wilhelm. “Jacobs called me about some disappearances in the area. Apparently, she had a lead and…” “Let me guess,” says Vortech, “when you got here, ToonMan was waiting for you?” “Bingo!” says Wilhelm, “He took my blaster and communicator and chased me around the warehouse for sport. Luckily, I lost him after diving into the loading dock.” “So, ToonMan used Jacobs’ communicator as a trap?” asks Vortech. “Yes,” answers Wilhelm, “we have to stop him before more agents arrive.” Vortech stares at Wilhelm for a few seconds. “Sure,” says Vortech, “here’s the plan…” Vortech blasts Wilhelm in the chest with a gust of wind from his arm cannon, causing Wilhelm to slide on his back. Before he can get up, Vortech lands one of his boots on Wilhelm’s chest and points his arm cannons at him. “I’m gonna lock you up and let some guys and lab coats figure you out.” “What are…you doing?!” yells Wilhelm as he struggles to free himself. “Drop it, blotling,” says Vortech. “Whatever you’re playing at isn’t working. Just surrender and save both of us the trouble.” Wilhelm quits trying to free himself and glares at Vortech. His eyes go from pale brown to dark green, and blackness bleeds into his hair. “Who do you think…you are?!” demands Fake Wilhelm. “I’m the guy who’s spent every day of the last five years of his life learning, training, and hunting ToonMan,” says Vortech. A dozen dark green lights appear on the ceiling above Vortech and Fake Wilhelm. “And only he would be *dumb enough* to fall for a trap this bad.” “And yet he’s still alive,” says Fake Wilhelm, “What’s that say about you?” Vortech blasts Fake Wilhelm in the face with a gust of wind, drying him off a bit. “It says that I don’t have time to deal with you,” says Vortech. Black hair-like tendrils slither out from the darkness surrounding the two. Vortech picks Fake Wilhelm off the ground, noticing the tendrils. He blasts each of them, forcing them back. “Look, tell me where Wilhelm and Jacobs are, and you’ll at least be conscious when I take you in.” Parts of Fake Wilhelm’s hair bleach back to white, and he looks at Vortech with one of his eyes back to normal. “In…*here*…!” The real Wilhelm struggles to speak, his good eye frantically shifting between looking at Vortech and the ceiling. Vortech looks up at a pulsing black mass of hair the size of a monster truck attached to the ceiling, with a green glow at its center. The hair creature fires a beam of water at Vortech. He tries to step back to dodge, but a tendril wraps around Wilhelm, pulling him from Vortech’s grasp and into the path of the water. Vortech watches as Wilhelm’s hair darkens again, being overtaken by the hair creature “If it makes you feel any better, ToonMan didn’t fall for my first plan either.” The hair creature speaks through Wilhelm. “But when at first you don’t succeed…” Jacobs walks out from the shadows, drenched, with pitch-black hair and green eyes. Several more people walk out with the same appearance. Vortech tries to fly above them but is knocked out of the air by a shipping container. The shipping container slams Vortech into the ground, but he recovers quickly, blasting it off him. Only for a figure to slam into again, hard enough to make a crater in the ground. Vortech sees a distressed ToonMan wrapped and bound with black hair tendrils piercing in and out of his body, using him like a puppet. “Try, try, and try again!” `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `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 of my short stories.` `Stay safe, drink water, and be kind to yourself and others. | 7,819 | 1 |
Riley was speeding down the highway with a bottle in his hand and a gun in his waist. After months of careful thought and consideration, he was going to kill his mother. Riley had been locked in an acrimonious custody battle with his mom, Savvy, over her second son, his kid brother, Eli. It had been three years, three more than he’d seen her at any other point in his 27 long life, and he was done playing her games. That night his lawyer told him it was no longer about trying to win custody for Riley but trying to decide who he would want Eli to go to in the event it must be someone else. And that was the best case scenario. He would gladly rot in prison if it meant she’d rot in the grave. Anything to keep Eli out of her hands. This way he’d at least go to a relative, or even Riley’s girlfriend, Peyton. They were practically married by now, anyways. She was more of a mother to Eli than Savvy would ever be. Riley left Peyton and Eli sleeping in their trailer in Driscoll, Indiana. A pin drop farm town with more cows than people. On the way out, he slammed a couple shots to get his nerve up. He’d never fired his gun before. He was three miles from the extended stay motel Savvy was camping out in for the duration of the court proceedings when he passed the speed trap. More like blew past it. 68 in a 25. The cops almost had trouble catching up to him. By that time he was in Kelly, the adjacent town, a little larger and a lot dirtier. Riley almost didn’t stop but instinct took over so he jerked it to the shoulder when he saw the lights. A curly red-headed cop tapped on the window. “Alright kid. Shut the engine off, license and registration.” Riley produced them wordlessly, without eye contact. “You were driving erratically. Have you had anything to drink tonight?” Riley shook his head, no. “How about a verbal response, kid?” The officer said, not really asking. “Nothing,” Riley insisted, still keeping his gaze locked straight ahead. The lines had worn almost clear off the highway. At this hour, only long-haul trucks occasionally whizzed past. “That’s not what it smells like. I would appreciate if you’d step out real quick.” Riley shook his head again. He was at a loss. It was against every ounce of self preservation he had to disobey the police. The only thing that could override his own survival instinct was that of his protective instinct for family. “Can’t hear you son. I need a verbal response.” “No. Can’t do that. Won’t.” On the outside he was stoney. Inside, he was quivering, guts down by his shoes. “You are being detained as part of an OWI investigation. I am issuing you a lawful order to step out of your vehicle.” Riley white-knuckled the wheel. He considered throwing it into drive, flooring it, and taking his chances. But he knew his truck was on its last legs at typical speed. It wouldn’t survive, let alone win, a chase. Before he could think of an alternative he heard— “Firearm, passenger side floor!” As quickly as the officer spotted it, he pulled his own. “Step out of the vehicle now son or I will take you out. Clear?” Riley was stuck still. The cop’s partner had leapt out of the cruiser and appeared at Riley’s side window by then. A tall, older Kenyan man with a lapel-full of awards and a nameplate “Ofc. Kibeta”. He peered in the window to assess the situation. Looked at his partner. And noiselessly signaled to turn their body cameras off. The red haired officer eyed his partner skeptically as the tape stopped rolling. “McCartney, you do a plate check on this guy already?” Kibeta, the older officer, asked. “Yeah,” his partner replied. “Let me see it.” “Why?” Kibeta led McCartney away from the window. They took cover behind their car and some in hushed tones. “That’s Trevor’s… something. Brother, maybe? I’m not sure.” Kibeta explained. “Can’t be, they don’t got the same last name.” McCartney contested. “It’s a complicated family. I’m sure that’s him. Trev used to bring him by a few times, try to scare him straight.” “God damn it.” “It is what it is. Put a speed strip down in case he gets crazy, otherwise just wait.” The red haired did as his partner asked and threw a row of spikes in front of Riley’s truck so he could not speed away on impulse. Meanwhile, Kibeta ran his fingers through what remained of his hair and called Trevor, their Lieutenant. Trevor and Riley were cousins. On some days they were brothers. On some days here and there, more like father and son. On many more, sworn enemies, at least from where Riley sat. Trevor was about a decade older than Riley. When he was enlisting for his second tour with the Marines, Riley was getting his first face tattoo. Trevor had tried everything he could think of to bring Riley over to his school of thought. He’d tried relating to him and being his friend. He’d tried overachieving and being a role model. He’d tried limitless compassion. He’ed bribes. He’d tried empty threats. He’d tried making good on the threats, mentally and physically. Even though Riley was bigger and taller, he was easy enough to punish. It’s all he’d ever known. When a child entered the picture, Trevor was done guessing. He didn’t agree with a single thing Riley did about Eli and had largely distanced himself as a result. Although Riley didn’t agree with a single thing Trevor did about his kids, these last few years were when his advice would’ve been the most warmly welcomed. Sure, he had Peyton and his grandmother as co-parents, but that wasn’t the same resource as another man, one with a few years’ experience. More than once Riley had been sat awake at 4:00am falling apart over a picky eating phase or a call home from the school, wishing more than anything that he could text Trevor to ask “Is this normal?” Even if he knew he wouldn’t actually take any of the advice. He half knew these guys were calling Trevor. He half hoped he wouldn’t come. Jail, or even prison, felt easier than letting Trevor see him like this. Or worse, having to ask for his help to get out of it. Ten minutes didn’t pass between Trevor getting the call and his stepping foot on scene. He didn’t walk over right away. He sized up the officers first. He and Kibeta went way back, but McCartney was a rookie. He wasn’t sure if the kid was a real cop yet or still trying to shoot a sequel to Serpico. “How far’d you get?” Trevor asked, joining them at their vehicle. “I recognized him in time.” “I owe you, brother.” Trevor side-hugged Kibeta. “He’s going through it right now. He’s in a custody battle with his mom, it’s a mess.” Trevor explained, half sheepishly, in light of the circumstances. “I know that trip. She a dementia patient?” McCartney asked. “No, no, like he’s trying to get custody of a kid instead of her getting the kid.” “He had a kid with his mother?!” The rookie whispered to Kibeta. “I told you. Complicated family.” He mouthed back. By this time Trevor had wandered off, pacing, strategizing. He returned with a plan, cleared through his CO, who’d known Riley since before he had any tattoos let alone the ones on his face. “Fellas here’s the plan,” Trevor explained. “Take him to the station. Not central, he’s not getting booked in, just drive him—“ “What are we, chauffeurs now?” McCartney interjected. “Hey!” Kibeta admonished him. “You’re shut up when the Lieutenant’s talking, that’s what you are.” Kibeta nodded at him to continue. He pressed on. “Rip him a fat traffic citation. I’ll leave his truck where his girl can find it. But nothing else. The kid’s life hangs in the balance of this custody case and as much as I’d like to see this dickhead get what’s coming his way, not at the expense of his kid. Drive him down. I’ll handle it. Trust me. By the time I’m done, he’ll wish it was jail.” Even Trevor’s old friend wasn’t letting the exclamation point on the end of this sentence slip past. “Trev. The piece.” “What about it?” “Yeah. What about it?” “Look, he’s a licensed carry. I wouldn’t have issued him a license to drive, let alone this, but I don’t agree with plenty of things the state does, so, here we are.” Kibeta carried more about his friendship with Trevor than nailing Riley and McCartney cared too much about getting his career off the ground than to risk aggravating his Lieutenant, so they moved on. “What if he won’t get out. How far can we take it?” McCartney asked, resigning himself to the situation. “He’ll obey lawful orders.” “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that,” the rookie cautioned. Trevor marched up to the side of the car, his first interaction with Riley in several months let alone that night, and pounded on the window with his fist. “*Get. Out*.” He said in the quiet tone that’s louder than a raised voice. Riley got out. Now being so cautious he did not even move his hands to sweep his long hair out of his eyes. The officers yanked him away, more forcefully than was necessary. The ride to the station was silent. Riley could tell from the route they were taking that he was on his way to the station, not booking. He knew both destinations well enough from all his misdemeanor trips in his younger days. But since fostering Eli, he didn’t even park illegally. Nothing that could be used against him in court. Now, he wasn’t sure if this detour was good or bad. Either Trevor was stepping up to save him, or he just wanted ten minutes alone to wail on him for being a fuck-up and putting his name out there in the process. Once, when Riley was barely 16, he’d gotten popped for underaged drinking and curfew. Trevor had already given him a few breaks. This was before Trevor had given up on him ever going to college, or enlisting, or maybe both, so he was protecting Riley’s record like a daughter’s virginity. When all Riley’s other friends were carted off in groups in squad cars going one way, he was alone in a cruiser going another. When he pulled up at the station that time, Trevor was waiting. He took him in back and gave him a choice: Go to central, get booked in, have a criminal record, and need to ask his grandma to bail him out — or take three minutes of whatever Trevor could throw at him, no self-defense, no striking back. He figured nothing Trevor had could sting worse than calling his grandmother from jail would. And not only because she might turn around and give him more than three minutes if she found out. He had a short speech about how if Riley had learned to fear consequences from an earlier age, he wouldn’t be in the predicament he was in then, and how he was just trying to correct him, not really hurt him. That all went in one ear and out the other when Riley realized, at the end, that he’d lost a tooth. Just about the only positive that came of the event was that Trevor’s coworkers realized he was serious about not getting family off for shits-and-giggles. People called Trevor a lot of things through the years but, despite how many times he pulled Riley’s feet from the fire, he was never known as an enabler. Perhaps also because in his entire career, Trevor had never pulled another string, done another favor, or otherwise helped out another living soul. He saved all he had for Riley. Whether Riley wanted it or not. Handcuffed to the squadroom interrogation table, Riley poked his tongue through his missing tooth-hole, and wondered what was coming. If he’d known it would be this, he would’ve done a couple more shots before hitting the road. He couldn’t decide whether to fixate on the situation immediately at hand or the lack of resolution achieved for keeping Eli away from his mother. Instead he fixated on which to fixate on, until Trevor burst through the door. “What the fuck is your problem?” He exclaimed, leaning over the table. Riley instinctually moved to protect his nose and mouth but the handcuffs jerked him short. “Relax. I’m not gonna come at you.” “For now, at least,” He qualified. Riley scanned to see if the “record” lights were flashing on the cameras in the room. Each were dead black. Trevor must’ve had those shut off as well. His body tensed at the thought, but simultaneously, his mind told him he had little to lose. “When can I call Peyton?” He asked in response to Trevor’s question. At least he was no longer beholden to his grandmother to spring him. A new dimension of freedom. On some level, he knew this would evaporate the already shallow puddle of Trevor’s remaining goodwill. “Maybe I will tune you up just to get some sense flowing back,” Trevor hissed. “Peyton? You’re thinking about her right now? I just saved you from never seeing the kid again, let alone getting custody. You will talk to me.” Riley sat in thick, conflicted silence, unable to fidget properly enough to think with his hands cuffed as they were. “Last chance,” Trevor cautioned. Riley felt dejavu to 10-years-old, being grilled about his report card. “You’re just gonna judge me. It doesn’t matter what I say or don’t,” Riley whispered, hanging his head. Trevor’s wife had been dragging him deadweight to family therapy, because of the degradation of his relationship to his own pre-teen son. Who, ironically, felt closer to Riley than anyone. As such, Trevor had been learning a lot about opening lines of communication, active listening, and the development of boys becoming men. In many ways, Riley had been a grown man since the day he could walk, by necessity. As a result, in other ways, he was still that same 10-year-old hiding his report card under his mattress. “What do you mean judge you? I’m a cop. The judge is a different arm of the law,” Trevor quipped. “Just because I don’t agree with you on much don’t mean I don’t respect you. You’re the only guy I ever had to look up to,” Riley admitted, his voice cracking. Trevor stopped leaning over the table and sat down at eye level across from him. “I’m not gonna just tell you I couldn’t keep ahold of my own brother being safe, the only important thing I’ve ever been trusted to do,” Riley continued, trying to restrain his emotion. “You’re an asshole but you always, always, no matter what, kept me safe. No matter how hard I tried not to be. You did that for me and I have a car and a bank account. Eli’s seven! I couldn’t even keep a kid safe in my own house.” Trevor took a deep breath. Beneath the bad attitude and the worse haircut, Trevor still saw that 10-year-old, too. “That’s because you’re basically my kid brother, Riley. The only one I’ll ever have. I’m glad I made you feel safe but in actuality, I failed you. If I had kept you safe, we wouldn’t be sitting here. Ever, forget ‘again.’” Riley shook his head. “This is on me. This is stuff I did—“ Trevor extinguished the self-immolation. “No *I did* a lot of things, too. Things I regret, in one direction or another. In the name of trying to keep you safe. Now that you have Eli, maybe that’ll put some of it in perspective and you can start thinking about forgiving me a little. I’m not asking you to forget. But forgive me a second chance.” Riley could see Trevor working to restrain his own emotions, a blue moon occasion. “Now that I have Eli, I know nothing‘s over family. So, yeah. Past is past. We’re good.” Riley went to fist bump him but was yanked back by the cuffs. Trevor came around and undid them. “The judge in your case. I can see if anyone who owes me a favor has an in with him. I’m not making any promises. But if I do that, you’ve got to be more receptive to my… you know.” “Meddling?“ “Coaching.” The two said simultaneously. “Coaching,” Trevor reiterated. Yeah, whatever, fine. Just get me my kid. Even get him to Janice or a neighbor or, if it has to be like that, a CPS foster family. Just don’t give him to Savvy. You know how she is. You know what she did…” Riley trailed off, still ashamed to talk about something that couldn’t be any less his fault. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make it happen. I’ll take care of it. She will not win. In court or anywhere else. I know I’ve got like, seven hours, tops, to get my arms around this so I’ll work the channels and get back with you when I know more.” Trevor was already tapping away at his phone keys, thinking back to friends of friends of friends who could potentially be of influence. And praying he’d never want the connections for himself, later. Riley was released, led out a back way. Peyton had coordinated with a friend to pick up his truck but she was at work by the time he walked out so couldn’t come for him. He was already missing a day’s pay, they couldn’t afford to both be out. So, he walked a mile to the bus in 35 degree weather, with no coat. Once he got off in Driscoll, he’d try to hitch to the trailer park. If he couldn’t, he’d have to choose between walking six more home, or facing Peyton at work. Trevor had his gun, and probably would forever. As he tried to warm himself on the feeble windowside heater of the bus, he thought about the agreement he’d just made with Trevor. He considered what that “coaching” had consisted of in the past and why he was not more receptive to it. It started with superficial stuff like, “Change your hair,” “Change your hobbies,”“Change your job.” But by the time he and Trevor had grown apart it was escalating to “Change your politics,” “Change your religion,” “Change your love life and parenting.” Between work, court, and the crisis, he’d been awake for almost 48 hours. He tried to grasp the peace of mind he felt he should be granted by Trevor’s promise to bring Eli home for good. Unequivocally, there was nothing more important. But, as he sat thinking about his past with Trevor, his future with Eli, and the juxtaposition of them both, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d made a deal with the devil. Had he really won if Eli still wasn’t entirely his own to raise? For the time being he was content to lose that battle if it meant winning the war. So, he turned his attention to getting home and getting dressed for court that afternoon, to make one last ditch effort at getting his mother away from Eli in a (mostly) legal way. | 18,035 | 3 |
“Temporal Traversing Utility Vehicle,” Dr. Yurisov had cheered, at the station, showcasing my new home, my new *skin*. “That’s what we settled on. Designation Three-Six. You’re all set, my boy.” “Excellent,” I had said, with a nerdy grin. The street urchin I was could die and someone who mattered could take his place. I tuned out Yurisov’s geek-talk. “Two settings, no, sorry, three,” he said, to himself, I suppose; he wasn’t even looking at me. “When tethered to real space and the timeline is stable, you’ll go Passive. Otherwise it’s Fight Mode, and Flight Mode. Assume if the exosuit enters one of these modes, that you’ll be jumping.” “Uh, sure,” I’d agreed. *Sucker.* ————— Perceiving the ripples was a stretch for someone farsighted, and I lost my glasses amidst the chaos at the siege of Baghdad in 1258 CE. *What a horror show,* I thought. Even still, my eyes adjusted a few jumps back; I could now instinctively categorize the components of space-time, the waves and their various cadences. Everything was a waveform, until space was added to the temporal equation. “Remember, Cade,” Dr. Yurisov had repeated before I ejected into the timeline, “Time comes first, then space, then matter, all of it glued neatly by observation.” Looking back I’m not sure how much of his philosophy towards time travel was just the repetitions of a crackpot and how much was actual science. *But, he can’t be all wrong,* I’d thought. *I mean I’m here… wherever “here” is.* Even still, this shit stinks of guesswork. It stands to reason I’m the first one who’s made it past the Meridian Zone, not that they’d ever tell me the truth. Shit luck, for the dozens who tried and got caught in the paradox. The hardest part was imagining Amelia’s face, as she locked me into the suit for the real deal, not just another test run. I could tell something was off; she looked like a different person. *She must have been there to smooth the nerves,* I thought. That part hurt, it hurt a lot. But then I was in, and then out, and then *through.* The timeline breathes, as if it’s alive. It *is* alive. It was not happy to see me. Any evolved beings who uncover my metallic husk millions of years from now will see, and they’ll understand: **some doors best remain closed.** But it was too late for me, and I knew it, so I resigned myself to the experience. TTUV 3-6, my new skin, came with some bells and whistles, to put it mildly. And at the Battle of Okinawa in 1945 I’d gotten out of hand testing all of these weapon systems, comfortable in my knowledge that the real world analogues of my Japanese and American victims alike would be fine, gently nurtured by time sans my interruptions. The suit didn’t give me a choice. Every time I was approached with the faintest hostility—**GRRZZZ**—it just liquefied every lifeform around me. Every time I got complacent, content? **Whoosh!** Back a few centuries, I go. It had a mind of its own. Or a objective I was not made aware of—either way, this shit is bonkers. I’m a ghost, spending hours or mere moments looking upon history’s highlight reel, a lonely Frankenstein without a tether. First, there was my childhood to retrace, in all of its dystopian grayness, with the colorful backdrop of our advanced civilization. We can crack time travel but not homeless orphans—pathetic. I willed the suit to skip through the whole thing. And then it was First Contact with the Xuyo, the event that made this possible. “*Beings of light who brought knowledge to mankind freely,”* I thought. “*So called.*” Right before I was born, these grifters showed up, said they wanted to stay with us on Earth. *Glad to be the only person alive ignorant to how that ends up,* I joked to myself. It was the little things. I kept going, retracing my steps back through the familiar specs, before “crossing the Rubicon,” as Caesar had explained to me. I suppose even when we make choices in the present moment we can correctly predict the philosophical effects upon future ages, sometimes. Anywho, biggest regret was how the Final War on Earth flew by me; I didn’t even get a chance to snap a photo with my suit. *The one time I wanted a picture,* I had moaned to myself, as the suit went into Flight Mode. *Its not every day that you get to spot the crisscrossing trails of thermo-nuclear weapons en masse.* I sped past all that, and when I tried to go back, I was met with a tremble-worthy truth: I **couldn’t** go back, as in forward, as in.. back home. So, as early as eight hours after ejecting into time, my situation hit me in the gut. No one in the project deemed me worthy of the knowledge concerning the *”one-way-trip”* aspect of our—or, my—experiment. At the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, I sat alone, six jumps in. I was stuck in this fucked up prison; everyone was so so joyous, so hopeful in celebration all around me. The duality drove me numb. Eager for meaning, I sat there and tried to rationalize their weighing of the scientific imperative against my own life and self-determination. I suppose the fact that I was a dreg with no family or status eased their burden in condemning me to a life of perpetual steps backward into unfamiliar times. *Happier times, albeit in some cases,* I dwelt on. It didn’t help much, but I told myself, perhaps lying, I was lucky for the experience. And I knew they were watching my every backwards step, cold with analysis. Some part of me wanted to say “fuck you,” through success. “I can’t go forward?” I said. “Well, I’ll just have to go all the way back.” ————— My resolve began to falter after a few hundred intervals. *Longer than most could manage,* I assured myself, looking over the violent, primordial Earth. Truly, it pains me to admit that I’m over two thousand jumps deep now, into the past. Now, it was the far, far, distant past——a bizarre nightmare. The first hundred hoops were smooth, unique, or recognizable at least, all the way back to Ancient Egypt and the pyramids. Yada yada. The same stuff happens there and in other pockets in some kind of cycle for a *very long* time. That, in itself, could be unsettling—as it stretches our known history an additional hundred thousand years or so—but that’s all after the “Bird Faces” demolish the… bad building. I call it the “Foundry.” I’m not sure what else to call it, but it’s where they make people. Words can’t describe the macabre picture I would wish to showcase, but never to paint. *Trial and Error,* I had thought. It must all be necessary for these… beings. Later on, a cadre of Bird Faced, angelic super beings show up, wipe out the whole operation, and just let the “humans” go wild and free. I took it that those beaked badasses were some kind of ancient UN or cops or something. But they didn’t seem overly interested in… helping. *My God,* I thought, checking the date. *32,895,421 BCE… in an old, old, old, creation. In a time before songs.* As for the beings involved in the.. Foundry. Let your imagination run wild, if your eyes are cursed by this recording, your ears by this transmission, by my honest attempt to archive the ghastly, monstrous things I’ve seen. **Nothing** is sacred to those monsters. If they created us, I can’t keep living, but I’ve seen enough to suspect they brought us here from somewhere else, and I’m not resigning until I find that clue, and solve that riddle. What sort of beings would undertake such horror, and to what end? I have spent months of my own time—and aeons in the waxing of matter and sentience—on the Earth, wondering. *I’ll just have to keep going back,* I thought. *Keep.. keep.. keep g-going back. | 7,673 | 1 |
For most of my life I wasn’t a believer in divine intervention or anything divine, to be honest. When the question of existence occasionally came to my mind I just convinced myself that even if there is an answer, it’s not worth finding. That is, until on my thirteenth birthday I was given a Casio keyboard by my parents. Who for the eleventh year in a row thought they’ve struck gold and finally found a thing I have a talent for. “This one has 400 sounds in it”, my mom said, very proudly, as if it would convince me to learn the instrument. I said my ingenuine thanks and threw the box in the closet, thinking it would stay there. The same night I was kept awake by a terrible, terrible fever. Too weak to move or to call for help, I was lying in a puddle of my own sweat. At first I tried closing my eyes and forcing myself to go to sleep, but after what felt like hours, I gave up. I started feeling an immense pressure on my chest, when I noticed a square shaped shadow looming over me. Throughout the entire episode, I had this melody stuck in my head, not of any song I could think of. It played on repeat and no matter how hard I tried I could not silence my mind or make it play any other song. At sunrise my pain ceased. At first I chalked it up to a virus. And after the second night of torment I told my parents of my episodes. We went to check with the doctor, who ran all the tests and couldn’t find anything wrong with me. By the fourth night I figured it wasn’t a sickness of the body but a sickness of the mind. On the seventh night I realized it was not a sickness of the mind, but a blessing from above. My episode started as usual, intense fever and sweat. Except this time rather than driving me mad the same melody spoke to me deeply. I found the simple lick very profound and beautiful. I realized it carries a message in the form of words, which I was able to decipher. "הָכֵן נָא אַלְבּוֹם מוּזִיקָה, וְהוֹצִיאוּ לֹא מְאֻחָר מִיָּ"ד בַּאֲדָר ב' תשפ"ד". (Make a music album, and release it no later than the 14th of Adar II, 5784) The next morning I unpacked my casio keyboard and started educating myself. I learned all about music theory, composition, sound design, mixing etc. I began listening to all the classic acts: Rolling Stones, Beatles, David Bowie, Nirvana. After a few days, when I felt ready, I opened up my Digital Audio Workstation and started laying some tracks. I made sure every little detail is right. I chose the right snare sample, adjusted the knobs on the reverb effect until I got the perfect tone. I listened to what I have made and was pretty impressed by my own abilities. Yet I couldn’t help but ask myself, is my music good enough for God? The episodes did not stop, although my suffering has. Each night different melodies were played that helped me better understand my mission. Essentially, rock and roll has been killed by big, satanic corporations, as an act of defiance to God. And good music simply ceased to exist after the year 2000. The music kids listen to these days not only lacks in harmonic and lyrical depth, but is also blasphemous. My job is to make the greatest music album of the 21st century. Which will serve as a piece of art but also a test for the human race. While those in charge of big corporations and pop stars such as Taylor Swift and Drake will be doomed to burn for eternity. The average human will be given a choice between heaven and hell. By listening to my album, you choose heaven. The 14th of Adar II will be the day of judgment. And after a few weeks of hard work my album was ready. The most ambitious rock opera, consisting of 12 songs that feature my keyboard playing and vocals. With deep lyrical content that surely will convert anyone to an appreciator of REAL rock and roll music. Fittingly entitled “THE BEST ALBUM”. I designed a beautiful album cover in my computer’s paint program, submitted my music into every possible streaming service. And now all left to do was to wait for the day of judgment. And despite God's reassurance I will admit the wait was anxious. On release date at midnight, I did not go to sleep. I had the streaming statistics open on one tab, and the Billboard Hot 100 on the other. At 1am no stats had changed and my album was nowhere to be found on the Billboard. At 2am there was still no change, 0 listeners and 0 streams. At 3am I decided to send my music to my few friends and relatives, by 4am I was posting to every internet forum I could find. “I IMPLORE YOU TO LISTEN. YOUR FAITH DEPENDS ON THIS ALBUM”. I made sure to make my messages very urgent. But at the best case my posts would get ignored, at the worst case I would be made fun of by the damned internet trolls. After hours, I got a comment that made me realize something. “This shit sucks, LMAO”. Judgment has been done. I tried my best, I really did. I do not understand where I failed, but I did, and for that I will be punished in hell. And YOU should feel guilty too. YOU let the devil into your home, YOU watched from the side and cheered as Rock and Roll was being SLAUGHTERED by big corporation and Taylor Swift. YOU sang along to the devil’s music, therefore you are complicit too and will burn in hell for that. | 5,344 | 1 |
When everyone in the dormitory had recovered from the shock of what had just happened, they started to gradually tidy away the aftermath of the search. As Madeline and Billie tidied up their bunk, Madeline kept glancing over her shoulder at Joanna and Ben, sobbing together in the opposite corner of the room. “Should we go over and talk to them?” she asked. “I don’t know,” Billie replied. “If it was you that had been taken away… I’m not sure I’d have been fit to talk to anyone for a week.” Madeline sighed. “I just feel bad ignoring them.” “And you want to know what happened,” Billie added with a knowing look. It was infuriating how well they knew her. “And I want to know what happened,” she admitted, before turning to face them more fully. “Oh! What happened with you by the way? I’m assuming that the guard didn’t find the walkie?” They shook their head. “Nope. I told you — I’m well-practised at hiding stuff under bindings and many layers.” “Of course. However could I have doubted your skills?” “Besides,” they added, “when he searched me he was distracted staring after you.” “Huh?” Madeline’s jaw hung open, brow creasing as she stared at Billie in utter disbelief. “Not that I can blame him.” They leaned in, slipping a hand onto the small of her back to pull her closer. “And it could be pretty handy having a guard on side.” Before Madeline could even think how to respond, they gave her a quick peck on the lips and rapidly moved on. “Still… I’m not sure I’d want to risk it again. But leaving them here is a risk too…” Madeline nodded, chewing her lip in thought and trying to ignore the heat blossoming in her cheeks. “That woman said that they only search us sometimes. Then again, they probably only search the dormitories occasionally too. And at least if we leave them here we have some deniability.” Billie gave her a sidelong look. “You mean we can say they aren’t ours? And risk getting our bunkmates into trouble?” “No!” Though part of her had thought that — the toll of years of living alone and looking out for only herself — she was happy to realise that she had automatically rejected that idea. “No, I meant that we could deny realising they weren’t allowed. We could claim that we used them to talk to each other when we weren’t together, to avoid irritating our roommates and such. Heck, we could even be somewhat honest and say that we were separated from friends and family who had a corresponding walkie-talkie and that we didn’t want to lose the chance to contact them and find them again.” “That’s true. Either way, we probably aren’t due another search for a while, so we have a little time to figure out a good place to keep them.” Madeline nodded to herself, gaze drifting away from Billie as she stared absent-mindedly down at the floor, thinking. As an idea crossed her mind, she snapped to attention again. “There’s always the washroom!” “The washroom?” “Yeah, hidden in the cistern of a toilet — wrapped up in something waterproof of course. Like how they make toilet hooch in *Orange is the New Black.*” “Hah! It’s good to know you didn’t *just* read books for entertainment.” Madeline smiled coyly. “We all have our guilty pleasures.” “And it looks like yours has solved our problem.” They paused, eyes unfocused in a way that let Madeline know the cogs were whirring inside. When they spoke again, it was slowly. “That said… We should probably keep them both in different places, so if one is found and confiscated, we still have the other.” “True.” Madeline nodded slowly as she thought. “So do we keep it in a bag, somewhat out in the open like we have nothing to hide? Or…” She scanned their immediate surroundings for possible hiding spots. An idea clicked into place as she noticed fraying and loose stitching poking out the side of her bed. She reached down and pulled at the edge of the mattress, digging her fingers into a small hole and working it open until it was about the right size. “Well,” Billie said, “It looks like you’ve got that covered. I’ll go grab a plastic bag to keep my walkie dry when I hide it.” As Billie went to rummage in their chest, Madeline’s gaze drifted back to Joanna and Ben. Sobs were no longer wracking their bodies. They were just sat, quietly embracing each other on the bed that had been Sarah’s. Madeline figured now was as good a time as any. She made her way over to them slowly, weaving through their other roommates still tidying up the aftermath of the search. When she reached them, they were completely oblivious to her presence, faces buried in each other’s shoulders. She cleared her throat. “Sorry to bother you,” she said softly as they both turned tear-stained faces towards her, “I just wanted to come and check on you and ask if there’s anything I can do… I don’t know. I’m sorry. This was stupid.” She turned to leave, heat creeping up her face. What had she been thinking? Now was most definitely not the time! “Wait!” Joanna’s strained voice stopped her in her tracks. Madeline turned back around. “Thank you for coming over.” The woman gave her a wan smile, daintily tucking a strand of tear-soaked hair behind her ear. “It’s nice to know that someone else here cares.” “Well, I do care.” She edged closer, but the closer she got the more she felt like she was looming over the pair of them. “Do you mind if I…?” She gestured to the mattress. “Go ahead,” Ben said. Madeline settled down next to Joanna. She wondered if she should reach out to pat her on the shoulder, or to squeeze her hand. She knew what comfort Billie’s touch brought her. But these were relative strangers. Would they still appreciate it? Or would they find it weird and uncomfortable? Deciding against it, she opted for a sympathetic smile instead. “I know that I haven’t known any of you for long. But until recently, I hadn’t spoken to another human in at least a year. And I hadn’t had a pleasant, friendly conversation with anyone for much longer than that. So in a way, you three are some of my closest friends in this strange world we’re living in.” She sighed. “Did the guards tell you anything? Do you know if Sarah will be coming back?” Joanna shook her head, tears spilling over from her swimming eyes. “They didn’t say much,” Ben said, his voice trembling. “They found a pen-knife that Sarah had kept. She kept it for us, so that we’d at least have something to defend ourselves with between us if we needed it. But when they found it she wouldn’t let either of us take any responsibility. She said it was just hers.” “And you have no idea where they took her?” Ben shrugged. “Nowhere good.” Madeline didn’t know what to say to that, and for a while, silence descended. She was just about to leave them to it, when a thought occurred to her — something she could do to alleviate her guilt a little. “Would you like me to ask one of the guards?” she said. “I can’t promise anything, but some of them seem friendly enough. And it can’t get either of you into trouble by association if it’s me asking.” Joanna turned to look at her with wide eyes. “Would you?” “Of course! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have offered to!” “Thank you!” The woman flung her arms around Madeline, damp blonde hair flying over Madeline’s face. “Thank you so much!” When Joanna had finally stopped hugging her, Ben gave her a quick nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” “Don’t mention it,” she said as she pushed herself up. She left them with a final tight smile before hurrying back to Billie. | 7,654 | 4 |
I’m scared of you, sick. But I can tell deep down that there’s nothing better than this. Hold it even closer, please, pretend it’s me. And if you ever think again, think of me. I hope I’m as bad as I pretend to be, I hope there’s innocent things in me. I want you and everyone else to know what I feel, you don’t need me. You lay awake and so do I, but the world’s much, much different in both our eyes. Feel my heartbeat, there’s nothing there. Cold skin and dead hair. I can know it certainly when you don’t look my way. It was over quick but it was worth it. I need you, I want to be the ribs that protect your heart. I need to be covered in your skin for you to even begin to understand me. You think I’m crazy but one day you’ll get me. I’ll forget you soon enough, this is nothing to me but something to attach to. Skin to skin, my breaths closer than it’s ever been, don’t leave now, just when I start to feel like I win. You say you’re keeping everything to yourself, you’re your own person, kept with a key and a lock. But you share so easily, pretend it’s not me, move on. I remember wishing, you’re right next to me but I want you here. You’re right next to me but you’re not present. Bored. Of me. It hurts so painfully, I need a while to cry and bleed. Your hands are bigger than mine, warm, roughed. There’s a world in you. Can I please see? I’ll stop thinking of you soon, I promise, just one more memory and I’m done. I repeat that to myself a couple of times because I can’t move on from what we’ve done. It’s in my skin, a birthmark that digs in. I want to see you done, pure, crying, scared. Everything is me. It all means something, I swear. Don’t pretend you can’t hear. Just close your eyes and block me out, but at least you know I’m talking, I’m there. Don’t leave me alone too long, a fucking mean thing and I’m gone. Sorry, *sorry*. You don’t even try and make sense of what I’m saying, nod and tell me you get me, but what do you know, really? You won’t look at me with clear eyes, you won’t think of me, remember me. I hate it, but I hold it close, the only memory you have of me is a ghost. Because you don’t try, unwilling. You don’t care, I can’t protect you if you won’t let me. It’s not love, it’s obsession. I’m sick. Something’s wrong. I don’t care, won’t let you see, not that you’d try to. I love you but you don’t love me. I mean nothing to you, just another. Just another thing. But you are stuck in me. Dug deep in despair, I’ll let go now, if you promise to bear the weight of what you’ve done. | 2,618 | 1 |
The bottom screw on the middle hinge of Taylor Etter’s backdoor had been missing for three weeks. The door may have squeaked ever so slightly more than usual upon opening and closing, but it was otherwise unnoticed. It began, as it always does, with small things: the screw, a bulb in an unplugged lamp in a basement box, and a single shingle from the roof. They, and so much more, were all gone without a trace or care as Taylor went from one day to the next, unknowing that he had lost anything at all. “You’ve lost something,” the voice said. Taylor paused behind his keyboard and peered over his shoulder. A moment later, he continued on, scrolling through the day’s news and short videos of strangers dancing on the screen. “Another one!” the voice called. “Gone!” He stopped. Taylor x-ed out several windows and scanned the room with his eyebrows scrunched. “Hello.?” he said and asked. He looked left then right then over the broad oak desk in front of him. His phone was on silent, and the Bluetooth speaker was not connected. There was nothing on the desk except a stack of disordered papers, 3 pens (one without a cap), his medicine, and a few trinkets on a shelf that was meant to house the mess. “Is someone there?” he asked to nobody and nothing. “I have a gun.” He did not. Taylor removed the lid from his medicine and pressed the bottle to his lips before swallowing deep. The coffee he had poured with optimism was cooling on the kitchen counter beside a toasted muffin he would later throw into the trash. “Just me,” the voice said. Taylor’s eyes darted toward the shelf and he nearly fell to the ground as he stood. He ran his fingers over the contents of the shelf: a clay pawprint of his dog who had passed, a lucky cat sculpture he had picked up some years ago in Chinatown that did not work, and green porcelain from he had had since dating Katie back in college. “But, even I’ll be gone so-oo-oooon!” the frog said. Taylor laughed and shook his head as he picked up the porcelain figure. His expression was of someone losing everything without knowing and unlike any other man discovering a talking figure of a frog. “That was you, Bibby”? he asked to the figurine and smiled. The medicine was kicking in but he still took another dose. He closed his fist around the frog and felt the muffled voice humming on his hand. “I won’t lose you.” A moment later, he was laid back in the chair, his hand still tight but his lower lip beginning to drop as his eyes became heavy and he dozed off into sleep. He awoke around 7PM that evening with his stomach growling and his back aching. Taylor place the frog back on its shelf then carried his medicine towards his bedroom, walking by one curtain missing on the foyer’s window, over a several floorboards no longer nailed down to the joist, and a plastic house plant sitting on his nightstand with only five leaves remaining. Taylor took his medicine instead of food, and he was asleep again within the hour. When he awoke the next morning, a cool breeze was flowing through his room over his day-old clothes and a spilt bottle of medicine at his side. He stood and sauntered towards the window and reached to pull it shut; but the frame was fully down already and the lock was latched. He reached his palm out flat to touch the glass but found, to his surprise, that his hand was now outside. The pane of glass was gone. Quickly, he craned his neck out through the window and peered down at the ground below. There was no sign of the pane, and the window’s frame did not seem damaged. The next step had begun. The little things like screws and nails were only noticed by keen eyes when they went missing; but anyone with a pulse was aware when the bigger parts started to go. Taylor ran from the window to his desk, where he picked the frog up from its side as he sat down. Oh! A dose! He had nearly forgotten. With the medicine burning down his throat, he squinted at the frog. He had read that hearing voices was a side effect, but thought that only occurred in patients who had stopped taking their medication. He may have read that wrong or perhaps forgotten other details, two other side effects that he ironically remembered. “It’s cold in here,” the frog said. Taylor nodded as if an old friend had simply commented on the weather. Another dose. “I sure hope we don’t lose the furnace before Spring.” “Ho-wha-who,” Taylor muttered. “Who is taking these things? What are they taking?” “No one’s taking anything,” the frog said. “You said I lost something.” “Yes.” “Then, who took it?” “No one.” “Then, I haven’t lost it.” “You did.” Taylor clenched both fists until his knuckles turned to white. His face was red, and his leg was shaking while the frog remained green and motionless the way a figurine of a frog should be. “I don’t understand.” “The chain on the front door is gone,” the frog said. Taylor leaned back in his chair and looked down the hall. The deadbolt was locked, but sure enough the chain above it was missing with only a rectangle of faded paint sitting in its place. “Who took it?” he asked. “Who takes a chain, or a, or a, a god damn window?” “No need to swear,” the frog said quietly. “No one took anything.” “Well, I don’t have a god damn window or a chain or whatever else is gone,” Taylor rebutted. “So someone must’ve took it.” He was angry. Taylor talked to himself as he reached towards the capless bottle on the desk and lifted it with hands shaking. A moment later, he wasn’t worried about the talking frog or the morning breeze inside or the bathroom faucet he did not even know was missing. He leaned back and laughed. “Goodnight,” the frog said. Despite the chaos around him, Taylor did not dream. He slept seemingly deep in darkness devoid of speaking trinkets and disappearing windows, seeing only black until he sat up and shook an empty bottle. He went out for a refill and came back to a front stoop without a welcome mat and a living room couch with one throw pillow without its partner. Another dose, another sleep, and it was morning once again. The next day went the same as the one before and the two or three that followed. He awoke, he took his medicine, he talked to a frog that sometimes talked back and sometimes made him laugh (but sometimes made him very angry), and he went to sleep. Each day, the missing pieces became more prominent: a vase he had inherited when his grandmother passed, a door to the far-left kitchen cabinet, and two paddles from the ceiling fan above his bed. For so long, Taylor had been living his life the way one watches grass grow: nothing was happening, but something was happening; and he often wondered if he would even know when whatever was happening had stopped. It was for this reason Taylor remained relatively unfazed. That is, until one morning he was sleeping across three barren joists. “Where did the floor go?” he asked. He took a dose and walked carefully over the missing boards until he reached his desk. As he picked up the frog, a single drop of rain splatted against its shiny green head. Taylor looked up and saw a gray sky where his roof had been. He held the figure to his chest as he turned in a circle. Two walls were gone but for their studs, and the floor looked more like a window to the basement beneath. He noticed that his desk was bare as well, but that cat had never been lucky anyways. “It’s all gone,” he said. “I told you,” the frog ribbited in reply. “You didn’t.” “I did,” it said. “We all did.” Taylor tiptoed over the few floorboards that remained towards a telephone that was no longer there. “I’m calling the police. I’ll kill whoever did this.” “I wouldn’t do that,” the frog said. “Why?” Taylor asked. “They took.” “Because then I’d be alone,” the frog interrupted. Taylor paused. He went down to his knees to crawl the last few feet to the kitchen with the frog in one hand and a bottle cradled in the other arm. The tile there, though missing in patches, was still a solid surface with the subfloor showing underneath. “I did this?” The frog said nothing, in a more important way than an inanimate object does. The rain was falling steady in his office now, and the wind was blowing through the walls. “I’ve lost it all,” he said. He looked down at the frog and said “I’m sorry,” apologizing to everything and everyone that he had lost at once. He nearly took another dose of medicine, but feared he’d fall asleep and wake up on or below the dirt beneath his home. “It’s not too late,” the frog said. Taylor turned the bottle over in his hand. There were warnings for pregnant women and for anyone operating a machine or under the age of 21. There was no caution of its cunning and baffling power for a man like him. He turned the bottle upside down, and the alcohol poured out mixing in a confluence with the rain. As the last few drops of whiskey fell, he heard a faint clink of metal against the tile. Taylor looked at the frog and then around, ashamed of the damage done but hopeful for for what remained and could still be found. The frog was silent the way it should be, The wind blew outside where it belonged, and the puddle at his feet slowly began to dry. With shaking fingers, he picked up a small brass screw that belonged to the middle hinge of a backdoor that was long-gone. It began, as it always does, with small things. | 9,551 | 3 |
"The locals call it Ilhóma." "What does that mean?", asked Jen curiosely. As he only got a shrug as an answer, he turned to the translator. "Shaper, processor, blacksmith", Jen read aloud to his colleague. Min turned around, still deep in thought. "The mountain is about 3300 metres high", he continued absent-minded. "When men and women of the tribe turn 20 planet-years old, they must climb to the summit." "As a ritual to end their childhood?", Jen further inquired. The constant digging for answers from his colleague was slowly getting on his nerves. Min shook his head. "It's more of the start to adulthood than the end of their childhood." Jen lifted an eyebrow. This differentiation seemed rather redundant. Min noticed his scepticism. "Climbing such a summit without modern gear... changes you", he explained. "And this tradition seems to go back millennia. There are frescoes, glyphs, small huts left by previous climbers... This mountain is shaped by the people as much as it shapes the people. Can you imagine, what it is like to seek shelter in a small cave, which has maybe housed thousands of your ancestors? Which were all on the same journey as you are right now?" Jen shook his head. Such deep connection to the past seemed nearly impossible to him. "Me neither. Climbing this mountain must equate to walking through the entire history of mankind." Min lifted his bag of tools. "Come. Lets get back to the ship, before it gets dark. And trust me: You don't want to be outside in the dark on this planet." The indigenous people spotted the researchers, before they saw them. Chatter and laughter surfaced next to Jen in the thick undergroth. He smiled and shook his head. Their senses were incredible, just as their speed, with which they moved silently through the woods. *They must be artificially enhanced,* thought Jen once again. He has brought up his theory, but it was immediately slapped down. All indications point toward a natural evolution. *Probably for the better.* Jens thoughts turned dark, whenever his mind wandered to Saignan. And what the Federation ordered them to do, when they discovered the origins of the Gja´sa... The small village slowly came in sight. It's green and brown huts were a crass contrast to the bright white of the shuttle, which has landed right in the middle of the central square. "Are you sure, that it was a good idea to land in the middle of their village?", murmured Jen to his colleague. Min grinned. "Well, think of it this way: Would you like to have strange visitors arrive out of sight or somewhere, where you can have an eye on them and their strange craft?" "Fair point", replied Jen and turned around. He still hasn't seen any of the children, which have accompanied them for the last hour. "Them and us may have been in contact for quite a while now, but it is better to be safe than sorry", continued Min. He jumped over a small creek, but all out of a sudden, froze. "Wait", he whispered. Jen immediately stopped in his tracks. Min slowly raised his hands, but a sharp snap stopped him. Jen gasped for air. An arrow has appeared in his colleagues left thigh. Min looked down. "Well, fuck.", he calmly said, before all hell broke loose. | 3,245 | 1 |
“It just never occurred to me that he would do that.” “It never occurred to you?” “Yes, I know it sounds strange now. It sounds strange to say it,” he said with a stilted laughed. “Of course he would do it, how could I not expect it? It’s the one thing you ought to expect from a scorpion.” “Yes, so why would not it occur to you? That is, after all, what scorpions do—” “I know, I know. Trust me I know! And everybody has reminded me since. He was the first one to do so: ‘I could not help myself, it is my nature,’ he said as he smiled, and we began to sink into the river.” “But how—,” the young lady in blue scrubs and with a stethoscope around her thick neck began again. “Look, you can’t explain what doesn’t occur to you. Does it occur to you right now that the capital of Kentucky is Lexington? No. Does it occur to you that these hospitals walls could have been blue instead of white? Of course not!” She looked around at the walls. She never noticed they were white. She saw the news on the TV across from the patient. What’s that all about, her mind drifted. He continued, “There are infinite things that don’t occur to all of us, all the time. Why should they? How can you account for things you never think of? It’s impossible, it is like explaining why the color red is red—it just is; or, explaining how you forgot to buy milk at the store—you just forget, it’s not like it’s a conscious decision to forget, if it was, it wouldn’t be a forget—I mean, a forgetful—no, a forgot.” He paused. “What is a memory called that doesn’t return?” His mind splashed around, diving into the muddy waters of the subconscious, trying to come back with the right word. “I’m sorry, I think the venom is still reflecting me, I’m strungling,” he caught himself, and slowly pronounced each syllable, “strung—ling—to get the words.” “Well, you are lucky to be alive, you were under water for a long time,” she said, “but it will be a long path to full recovery, if it’s even possible. The doctor says you may never,” she paused and then the door swung open. “That’ll be enough, Nurse,” said the Doctor. The nursed stepped to the back of the room, underneath the TV. The doctor told foggy-minded-frog that the venom was all out, it was the Caeliferexa pills that were causing him to feel groggy. He also told him that he may never leap again—he was submerged for so long that some neurological functions were incapacitated, possibly permanently. “We have a great rehabilitation team here, you are in good hands. If you have to suffer from this tragedy, this is the place you’ll want to be. And we’ve got a great snack bar here too,” he said with a big smile. The lighthearted statement sank deep into air, and the nurse tried to make an intervention to resuscitate the conversation. “Just be glad you’re not one of those guys,” she said pointing to the TV above her head. The frog, lying in bed, looked up at the cable news show and saw the naval vessel underway. There were hundreds of sailors and soldiers standing on the deck and saluting as the ship pulled out of port. “They said it’s an amphib ship, going to Port Aqrab.” “Port Aqrab?” he squinted his eyes, “the Californixa must really be kicking in.” She laughed. “Yes, Aqrab. But the Admiral said there won’t be boots on the ground. It’s just a humanitarian mission.” “No boots? What if—” His mind ran deep, looking for the right phrase. But before he could come up with it, the Admiral came on the screen and issued a statement saying that it was in fact simply a mission to deliver supplies to the Aqrabi people, and that it was not a combat operation. He emphasized there would be no combat troops in the area. The newsman asked a question, “Do you anticipate that the Aqabi will try to fire on them—on the operation?” The Admiral replied, “Look, I mean, that’s certainly a risk, again, but if the Aqabi truly does care about their population, then again, one would hope that this international mission to deliver aid to people who need it would be able to happen unhindered.” The frog, lying in bed, with the bandages on his back picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The doctor, the nurse, the wounded frog all looked at the blank television in silence. “We cannot help ourselves,” said the frog. “It is our nature.” ​ \*\*\* ​ Follow u/quillandtrowel at Medium or Twitter (links in bio). | 4,491 | 1 |
The Military Governor stamped into the office he had temporarily appropriated from the local Garrison. He was in a foul mood. He tossed his sweat stained helmet onto the sagging couch and laid his weapon on the desk, next to the pile of paperwork his Orderly was accumulating for him. With a grunt, he sat and unlaced his boots, scratching at the skin as circulation returned to his shins. He eyed the paper balefully, and shouted. "Bring water! With ice!" He kicked off his boots, peeled off his stockings, and enjoyed the feel of the cool surface of the floor against his sweaty feet. The room was still cool, but the breeze blowing through the open windows promised that it would soon be as unpleasant as it had been on patrol with the local forces that morning. "Local forces." the Governor thought, and shook his head. "Local embarrassment is more appropriate." Despite the repeated training, strict regimen and high recruiting standards, the regionally raised forces continued to fail to meet minimum standards. Subject to local pressures, and stubbornly loyal to their superstitions, he had no faith in their ability to do more than maintain an uneasy peace among area interests. And if the long simmering revolution came? He felt certain they would fight against his troops, rather than alongside them. His orderly hurried in, holding a pitcher of ice water and a large glass. "Here you are sir. The ice we brought with us. The water is local. We tried to clear it up." The Military Governor eyed the water suspiciously, but then drained the glass and handed it over to refill. "And all of that?" he nodded at the paperwork. "The Quartermaster says those must be signed and sent out tonight or the local garrison will run short of just about everything in days." The Military Governor sighed. "Can't we just buy the basics from the locals until...." The orderly topped off the glass and handed it to the Governor. "Sir, it’s the buying from the locals that made the supplies run short to begin with. All the petty cash, gone. Paying twice and three times as much as we could get through regular channels." The Military Governor walked over to the open window and stood in the harsh sunlight. He looked down at the growing crowds on the street. The locals had been flooding into what they considered their "Capital City" for over a week now for their annual religious rites and the populace was ripe for upheaval. That was why the combined forces had gone on the patrol this morning, armed and armored, to show that whatever anyone had in mind, force would be met with even more force. He raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and swept it back across the thinning hair of his scalp. He felt more tired than ever. Older than ever. He drank again, tasting a hint of clay from the local water. "Do you know, Marcus, what my classmates from the Academy are doing these days?" "I wouldn't know sir." The orderly stood quietly, watching his Commander carefully. He had been growing increasingly frustrated even at their Coastal headquarters, and the trip to this local backwater had only stirred him up further. "One is a Senator. At least three others are Generals. One had the good luck to get killed and has a Statue at the Academy. Everyone else? On the rise.” He rubbed his scalp again. “And I was thought to be the best of all of them. One time I bragged to them that someday, everyone would know my name.” “But where am I now? In an obscure province. Underpromoted, undermanned, undersupplied and under no illusions that I was sent to do more than take the blame for the inevitable uprising. Then one of my classmates or their younger brothers can swoop in and save the day, while you, I and all our men die valiantly defending this sandpile." "Dying valiantly would make for quite a painting, sir. They might even write a song." "Yes, they can call it the March of the Foolish Damned." The orderly took the glass from his commander's hand and refilled it, enjoying the sound of the ice clinking on the sides. He handed it back. "Now sir. Envy never lead anyone anywhere worth going. This won't last forever. You'll be rewarded for all the unpleasantness with a better assignment, the men will rotate on to other postings, and we’ll both drink cold and clean water someplace much more civil. You'll see." The Military Governor looked down at the swelling crowd. "Rewarded with a mediocre posting, for my mediocre performance. And then forgotten by all. Or if remembered, with a sneer." Voices echoed down the long hallway, and the Orderly scooped up the dirty boots and sweaty stockings. "You best prepare for the Ceremony sir. Wash up now, and I'll fetch your good clothes. Or at least, your clean ones." "Do that. What's this ceremony again?" "The annual pardoning of a prisoner sir. It's a local custom, from time immemorial". "Time immemorial..." he stopped abruptly, his voice odd. "Sir?", the orderly stopped. "I wish I could do something worth remembering. But in a place like this, no matter what I do, I'll be forgotten.’ He looked at his orderly again, with a bitter gleam in his eye. "I would sell my soul for people to remember the name Pontius Pilate. | 5,335 | 1 |
From a young age we’re told that things get better. They always get better. You fall and scrape your knee, don’t worry- that oozy, scabby wound will heal up in no time. You’ve spilled some juice on the floor, don’t worry, we’ll wipe it up and get you some more. You’ve lost a tooth, don’t worry- Your adult teeth will grow in right behind the missing baby tooth, and none will be the wiser. You’re a teenager now, and things still seem to get you down. You broke your arm during whatever sport you're involved in. That’s okay, you’re told, it’ll heal. You spilled some mustard down the front of your nice new shirt on picture day. Don’t worry, you’re told, nobody’s going to notice it. Your partner breaks up with you during lunch after a small fight over going to the school dance. You’ll get over it, you’re told, there are plenty of fish in the sea. As a young adult you’re a bit keener on how things “get better”. Sure, your childhood pet has aged into illness, but that’s normal. Time will heal the hole left behind by their fuzzy warmth. You’ve gone through countless boyfriends or girlfriends and each heartache has hurt just as much as the last, but that’s okay. Time heals the hole left behind by their loving embrace. You’ve lost jobs, gotten into car accidents, not been able to pay rent on time, but you’ve always bounced back. It always gets better. Or so you keep getting told after each hit. You’re a full-blown adult now, and you’re still not quite beat-down by the concept of everything getting better. You’ve watched as your parent has been ravaged by cancer, losing the battle to a hellish illness that should be curable by now. You’ve buried all your grandparents by now, but that’s to be expected. You’ve lost your job and home. You’re now a seasoned drug addict. It started with cocaine in college, moved on to pain pills as you dropped out, and now just about anything you can get your hands on. “Just go to rehab, it’ll get better.” Except it doesn’t, and it isn’t. Each little thing adds on to the last, and you’re unsure when you’ll finally be able to let it all go. Now when you fall and scrape a knee it isn’t just a scrape, but a mean infection as well. When you spill a drink on the floor now it’s the last of your Natty Ice and you can’t afford to get more. When you lose a tooth, it’s not going to grow back. You have nobody to tell you “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. Things will get better.” So, what’s there to do? Sit back and continue to let it all pile up. Perhaps it will, in fact, get better. | 2,603 | 1 |
All was quiet in Ura city hall. Not even a mouse dared to stir because of the cat Goldtail. He was satisfied with his work and bathed in the sun coming through a window. Much like the relaxed feline, Evelyn was taking a nap on her desk. A bit of drool came out of her mouth and damaged a document about precautions to take in a tornado. When would those be necessary? Becca sat by the front of building in case anyone needed help from the city. It was an uncommon occurrence as most people in Ura could handle themself and realized the mayor was an idiot, but they liked the sheriff and her deputy. Derrick, the deputy in question, was deep in the library reading one of the few remaining fiction books again. This was a book published in 1924, and it told the tale of a lone cowboy fighting a group of pirates. It made little sense, and the prose was awful. The book was still moderately enjoyable and passed the time well. Nearby, Larry was reading rules and regulations determined how to escape captivity as the town mime. The silence was held in tact as a group of three people snuck into the library. They crouched behind the bookshelves and moved through the stacks. One person slipped on a book and fell flat on their face unleashing a thud. Derrick ignored the noise while Larry went to check it out. When Larry saw the people, he opened his mouth to scream, but a sound didn’t escape his mouth. He was committed to the role. He ran out of the library to get help. Derrick stayed in his spot reading his book. He had reached the chapter where the cowboy was about to spring a trap on the pirates with gold from the mines. A knife was on his neck before he could finish which was a rude way to interrupt someone. “Come with us.” The knife-wielder had a nasally voice. Derrick sighed and placed the book to the side. He placed his arms behind his back. “What are you doing?” the knife-wielder asked. “Aren’t you going to restrain me?” “Uh, we don’t have ropes.” The knife-wielder looked to his group who shrugged. “We should’ve brought that. Why don’t you two just grab one hand each and walk out with him.” The two kidnappers did as they were told. Derrick found this arrangement more comfortable. “Could you pick up my book? I was getting to the good part,” Derrick asked. “Sure.” The knife-wielder bent over and picked up. Derrick was escorted by the kidnappers who held his hand while they walked. Evelyn’s office was the closest to the library. Larry ran in there and began to point outside. He gesticulated wildly with his arm indicating knife and then held his hands behind his back. Evelyn remained asleep. Larry waved his hands before her to wake her up, but she stayed rested. Larry rolled his eyes and moved on to his next target. While the front hall was empty, Becca stayed alert. She kept one eye at the door and another at the crossword puzzle she found. This crossword was from twenty years before the war which made it more challenging, but she would solve it. Her intellectual pursuit was interrupted by a glove hand. Becca looked up to see Larry’s face. “Could you go ask Derrick? I’m busy here,” she said. Larry slapped his hand with his face. He considered breaking his vow and saying what happened, but that would break regulation. Such a transgression was unforgivable. He waved his hand before her again. “In a minute,” she said. Larry slammed his fist on the table before her. Becca looked up. “What is it?” she asked. Larry began to mime reading a book and sighing. He looked up from the book with a sour face. “Derrick.” Becca said. Larry held a finger up to his neck; then, he put his hands behind his back. Becca tilted her head in confusion. Larry scratched his chin for a moment. He grabbed Becca’s handcuffs and put them on his own hands. “Oh my god, he’s been kidnapped.” Becca ran to Evelyn leaving Larry with the handcuffs on. When Becca found Evelyn asleep, she first tried to push Evelyn awake gently. When it became clear that wasn’t going to work, Becca removed the paper from underneath her and rolled it up. After hesitating over whether it was the right thing to do, Becca whacked Evelyn with the paper. Evelyn shot up. “It was Becca’s fault,” she shouted. “I’m right here,” Becca said. “Exactly whatever it was you did it.” “I didn’t kidnap Derrick,” Becca said. Evelyn leaned back and scanned Becca. “Becca, you don’t treat your employees that way,” Evelyn replied. Becca shook her head. “No, Derrick has been kidnapped, and I need your help to find him,” Becca said. Larry ran into the room waving his arms trying to get her to remove the handcuffs. “Not now.” “Why do you need me? You’re the sheriff.” “I need backup. Also, if you help me, I’ll make your lunch for a week.” “You already make my lunch.” “I’ll be sure to include cornbread in your lunch going forward.” “Deal.” Evelyn walked outside her office. “Come on. I know he always lounges in the library so there must be clues there.” The noise woke Goldtail up. He looked up at Larry struggling to get the handcuffs off and was amused. Goldtail could use his inherent feline escape abilities to assist the mime, but this was more entertaining. Besides, clouds were gathering outside ruining his sun; he needed something to keep him entertained. | 5,513 | 1 |
There once was a man, who lived near an amusement park. He went there often, enjoying the park and all the wonderful rides it had to offer. Although the park had many rides, it had a vacant spot in the middle of the park, right next to the coffee shop. The man often sat in the coffee shop, on the outside terrace and looked at the vacant spot, wondering, what was there to be. One day, a travelling ride found its way to that amusement park, and they started setting it up onto that vacant spot next to the coffee shop. The man was intrigued by that new ride and decided to take a closer look as they were setting it up. It was the biggest and the scariest ride he had ever seen, and there was something in front of it that no other ride had. There was a height limit to that ride and the man, sadly, was very short. Later that evening, when the man was sitting at the amusement park coffee shop and observing the new ride from afar, someone came and sat down next to the man. It was the operator of the new ride. They introduced each other and the operator told the man, that they had just finished building the ride and if he wanted to, he could come and be the first to try the ride. The man agreed, making himself look taller, although knowing, that he was too short for the ride. The man and the operator walked towards the ride and upon reaching it, it became clear that the man was too short to ride the ride. But since it was late, no one else was around and the operator had been drinking that evening, they allowed the man to ride the ride. The man sat in the seat, while the operator strapped in the man. The ride was short, as they often are and after the ride, the man went home. He returned the next day, only to find that the ride had become very popular and there was a queue for the ride. The man waited in the queue, until it was his time to ride the ride, always knowing that he was too short, but hoping, that since last night the operator had allowed him to ride it, so will they allow again. The man was up, but the operator did not allow him to ride the ride. Time went by and the man went to the amusement park every evening, hoping, that the operator would come to the coffee shop and allow him to ride the ride. But the operator never came. And what was even worse, that now they had started to pack up the ride, it was going to another amusement park, in another country, far away. The man followed the ride, visiting the park every day, sitting at the coffee shop, waiting for the operator to approach him and allow him to ride the ride. Sometimes it happened, but rarely, when the operator had been drinking and was a bit reckless. Years went by and the man went from country to country, following the ride, admiring it, sitting nearby, hoping, that he would soon get the chance to ride it again. He had begun to appreciate the ride so much, that the ride was the only thing that caught his eye, despite that fact that he had travelled with the ride to all parts of the world and was not allowed to ride it. No matter what else was in that place, the man only kept looking at the ride. Some time passes, and again, one evening, while the man was sitting at the coffee shop, admiring the ride, he was approached by the operator, and they allowed him on the ride once more. But this time, the operator asked the man, why are you following a ride you can almost never ride? There are so many other places, so many other rides. And the man said that every time when I ride the ride, you need to strap me in and sometimes your hand touches my hand, your hair touches my face, I can sense you close to me. Because you see, it was never about the ride, it was always about the operator. | 3,756 | 2 |
#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** *** #Weekly Challenge **Theme: **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** The story has an ambiguous ending. **You must include how you used it at the end of your story.** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘entanglement’. Our lives are made up of more than just ourselves and our own ideals and opinions. We become entangled with other people, their beliefs, their actions, and sometimes that makes things messy. Dangerous, even. What happens when we get mixed up in the wrong things? How do you find your way out? Is it possible? How do you start over when you’re forever linked with a bad name? Sometimes things are so entangled that right and wrong become blurred. Who are the good guys and who are the bad? You’re welcome to interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear, and you **follow all post and sub rules**. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). You do not have to use the linked image. *** # Last Week: - **Winner:** by u/MaxStickies You can check out previous Micro Mondays . *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 1pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends! *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.* *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. | 5,603 | 3 |
The melancholy of Dave Our story begins with baby Dave in his little papoose. Baby Dave has just been born and is now crying in his mother’s arms, however little Dave would not realize This moment was the one that sparked all misfortune and hardship in little Dave’s life. Hello again, Baby Dave is now toddler Dave and he had just had his first injury, a scrape the first of many to come. Dave is now 10 years old and is going through elementary school. He had just met his first friend, and they got close after weeks. However, after one more week news came in that his friend had been in a fatal car accident and did not survive. Dave, having lost his first and only friend, retreated to his room, a safe space, away from everyone. Dave is now 15 years old and in high school. Dave is slowly learning to make friends again. However, it would seem that anyone Dave was close to would suddenly and mysteriously pass away. Of course, Dave was oblivious And chalked it up to a freak accident. Dave is now 20 and has landed his first job. He made note that his manager was terrible and gave him unnecessary talks and meetings to Attend. Every time Dave showed defiance the manager shot it down and Dave was later fired from his 9-5 job. Though it would not affect Dave he now had no income source and So, he was forced to start working at a fast-food restaurant. Dave is now 25 and has found a new job working as an accountant for a wealthy man named Stanley. Dave’s new employer was quite kind, and he took a liking to Dave shortly after he was hired. Dave was also quite fond of Stanley and in a week, they were already on a first name basis. However just like poor Dave’s first friend Stanley too was killed in a horrific accident. Dave is now 30 and very depressed having lost another friend to a tragedy. Dave climbs onto his apartment buildings rooftop and thinks about his life, his 2 friends his parents that never cared for him and now this. Dave jumps. Dave is now dead. Dave is now at the gates of heaven and saint peter greets him. “you're not supposed to be here yet Dave” says the saint. “You have much to still live for” “I wish not to live any longer” replies Dave, staring into the ethereal plane “I wish to speak to God” Dave says “Follow me” Saint peter says Saint peter leads Dave to a white room. “Where are we?” Asked Dave in a ponderous tone “We are in Gods chamber, my friend” responded saint peter. “What are your questions, my child?” crooned God “I have lived a life of turmoil and so I come to ask, why did you give me this life?” God pauses to think, then he shows Dave a screen and to Dave’s horror it showed him, selecting every moment of his own life. Disbelief subsumes Dave and he breaks down. God offers Dave a second chance and Dave accepts. Our story begins with Baby Stanley. | 2,895 | 2 |
That day changed me. For better or for worse, life has never felt the same since. What I see now, as I gaze upon the wonder of this world is so incredibly different from what I once saw. Truly that day made me realize just how much suffering permeates through all matters of existence. I woke up on a day that was particularly damp, and at the time I just thought it was because it must've rained that night but I didn’t notice. I thought it was just because I must've been in such a deep sleep, but boy was I in for quite the awakening. Strangely, when I looked outside my window and saw this odd prevalence of moisture in the environment coursing through the soil, the air and even the clouds, I felt this bizarre urge to go for a walk. Instead of deciding to stay in inside like I typically would under these conditions, I felt compelled to wonder outside and just walk. I lead a pretty mundane life at the time so I decided to let this strange feeling take me. And so I left, and oddly it wasn't very cold at all. In-fact it was distinctly rather humid that day, so all I needed was a long sleeve top. Thus as 1 would expect, I walked… and I walked… and I walked, more than I usually would want to. I just couldn’t shake this feeling to keep walking, almost like something out there was drawing me in. like it was vaguely guiding me to its presence. Before I knew it I was completely infatuated with this urge, and lost myself on what I innitially expected to be a little stroll, walking to where I thought was no where, but much to my surprise, did in-fact turn out to be somewhere specific. After what must've been hours that I now understand couldve been cut shorter with the use of some kind of vehicle, I arrived in a forest shrouded with a dark and heavy green. And suddenly I came down with this sensation like the very weight of this forest's existence chained itself to my heart. By this point, even though there was nothing physically weighing me down, I could barely walk. And so exhausted, I eventually began to crawl on all fours, ankered down by some force unbeknownst to me. Crawling amidst the haze of unrelenting moisture, abounding green, and a heavy heart, I eventually reached where I was being compelled to. The invisible rope tugging at my being dropped finally, and what layed before me is what I can only describe as nature's pure meloncholy. This tree, within the centre of this mystical dreary forest was weeping. It was crying with such sorrow that imposed itself upon my being. Without eyes, or a face, I could see droplets of tears falling from the tips of its many leaves. Strangely enough, the tree looked incredibly healthy, however it came to me suddenly… This forest was dying. I would come to realise amidst all the sadness emanating from this 1 tree, that could be felt so far from its essence that this intense sorrow was that of vehement grief. As this tree, seemingly within the centre of the forest, could feel its family dying, with every new death brought with it another downpour of dispair wrought tears. Im not sure why I was the 1 it compelled to its location, but that question mattered not to me in that moment. Its sorrow, became my sorrow and a new found connection between myself and mother-nature was born that day. I cried a lot that night, and ended up falling asleep, resting upon the floor that layed above the trees roots. This gargantuan tree and I built a special understanding, and I believe it is that very understanding that would result in what would follow this. For days, I remained at its side, living of its very tears that would fall from it for sustenance. And though no words were spoken, a non-verbal communication was shared, and I I could strangely feel its once intense sadness gradually progress into a weary acceptance. It became aware to me, as it was aware to the tree, that the death of this entire forest was inevitable. Afterall it was almost entirely barren, without much life to speak of. And so the both of us, day afterday watched as all the other tress sarounding were rendered to lifeless husks of what they once were. You'd think in such a morbid passage of events, the sorrow we shared would only increase, but I do earnestly believe that because we were together in that time, wallowing in the pain with eachother as opposed to drowning in it alone, closure became possible. Thus as the time came to where the death of this tree was imminent, though my sadness was oh so deep, we were both emotionally ready for tragic end to proceed. And so upon its death I somberly cried "farewell once weeping evergreen". | 4,636 | 1 |
I remembered a dream about the end of the world I had when I was six, or to be more accurate, a nightmare. In the nightmare, I was sitting on a swing set that was facing the ocean and I was all alone. The air was cold and the sky was cloudy. Then all of a sudden there was an explosion in the ocean and the cold air instantly turned very hot. I could feel the skin on my face melt and drip down onto my lap. I then saw a gigantic wave coming at me and I woke up screaming. My mother came into my room and I explained my dream to her while she held me trying to calm me down. “Oh hijo, that won’t ever happen, I promise.” She said to me as her arms wrapped around me. But the world was going to end. About three years ago scientists discovered a meteor that was heading straight to Earth. It was about three times the size of the meteor that killed the dinosaurs. If they couldn’t find a way to destroy that meteor or drive it off course in two years, then there would be no way to stop it from hitting Earth. While this did cause some panicking, most people trusted the scientists to figure out a way to stop the meteor and didn’t really worry about it. But then, we learned that there was no way to stop it. We would have a year left on this planet and there was nothing we could do to change it. All hell broke loose and there were riots in about almost every city you could think of. People were looting, and murdering, and there were even groups of mass suicide. But as the year went along, everyone just seemed to accept it. I mean there was nothing we could do about it, so why even fight it? When the last year came the governments from around the world made people who didn’t work essential jobs stop working as what was the point of working at this point and gave everyone the essentials to live off of for the final month. It seemed that people fell into three camps. The first camp were people who wanted to stay alone for the month and just wanted the end to happen already. The second camp was essentially the same as the first. But instead of wanting to be alone, they were with their family as the end approached. The last camp was people who wanted to decide for themselves when they left this planet. I fell into the first camp for pretty much the whole month and just stayed at my little apartment in New Hampshire. But when the last day came I decided to move into the second camp and went to my family’s house. Even if I really didn’t want to. I was driving through Boston and it seemed like I was the only person on the road besides a car or two. The whole city was like that of a zombie movie, empty and eerily quiet. Boston was usually a busy city, with large amounts of traffic that would take hours for you to get through. But now, it felt barren and lifeless, with just the sound of my car engine filling the city as I drove through The Zakim Bridge. When I drove through the bridge, I saw what looked like a father holding their child in their arms while they looked at the ocean. I drove past them but I glanced at the rear view mirror and saw that the child was gone and the father was climbing through the railing. I quickly glanced back put on the radio and took deep breaths to try and calm myself down after what I just saw. The station I landed on was playing “The End of the World” by Skeeter Davis and I couldn’t help but chuckle a little as to how fitting the song was. I just drove listening to her singing “Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when I lost your love.” As I made my way closer to the family house in Revere. When I reached the family house I parked in front of the neighbor's house and just sat there in my car, wondering if I should even enter the house or just go to the beach and wait there for everything to end. I saw my cousin Jose standing in front of the house smoking a cigarette as he was talking to someone on the phone. I just stared at him as I thought about all of the drama my family went through. All the fighting and arguing about why this person is in jail, and why that person cheated on his girlfriend always gave me anxiety and made me want to be better than them. I didn’t want to be like them. I wanted to be better. I wanted to be as far away from them as I could be the moment I graduated from college, and I did for a moment. I moved to New Hampshire, worked as a copywriter as I was working on my novel, and didn’t keep in contact with them except for a select few after I graduated, and it was good. But we don’t always get what we want in life I suppose. Jose hung up the call, and that’s when I decided to get out of the car and walk up to him. When I did he saw me and he had this big smile on his face. “Holy shit, if my eyes don’t deceive me.” He said as I walked up to him and gave him a hug “It’s good to see you again Roland.” “It’s good seeing you too,” I said as we stopped hugging. Jose was one of the few people in my family that I still kept in contact with after I moved to New Hampshire. We were always good with each other, we would have sleepovers at each other's houses when we were young. He even visited me at my house congratulating me on getting my short story published in The New Yorker. He’s all around a good guy, even if he did have a couple of problems with keeping a stable job, having run-ins with the law for street racing, and asking me for money once in a while. “Never thought I’d see you here.” He said I chuckled “Honestly same, but life’s full of surprises I guess.” Jose handed me a cigarette, but I shook my head and declined “No thanks, I’ve gone this long without having one, I might as well keep it that way.” “Alright, well if you need one it’ll still be here.” He said as he put that cigarette in his pocket. I listened to the sound of the seagulls flying as Jose continued to smoke from his cigarette and exhaled smoke out of it. “So, are you still with Ania?” He asked me, breaking my concentration on the sound of the seagulls. Ania used to be my girlfriend. We met during an open mic night during my time at college, where she performed a poem she wrote about being born to immigrant parents and how much pressure It was to make them proud. When I first heard it I loved it, I could relate so much to it, even though my parents immigrated from El Salvador and she’s from Russia. After the open mic, I introduced myself to her, and we instantly hit it off as we talked about our writing and our experiences as children of immigrants. We became good friends and that friendship soon evolved into a relationship. She was there for me and I was there for her, I was there when her mother died, and she was there for me when my father died. After graduation, we bought a house in New Hampshire and we lived peacefully together. But good things don’t last forever. “It’s complicated.” I finally said after taking a minute to think how I would respond. Jose patted me on the back “I’m sorry dude.” He said. “So, what do you think of all this?” I wanted to change the subject. He took another hit from his cigarette “I mean, what is there to say? In about a couple of hours, we’ll all be dead.” Jose finished his cigarette threw the filter on the ground and stomped it. “So, you wanna go inside now?” “Sure, but can we go through the back? I don’t want to cause a scene.” I said “Y’know, we don’t hate you or anything, even though you left, we’re still family.” “I know. But I don’t want a lot of attention on me.” “Alright,” He said as we made our way to the back of the house. The house belonged to my Tia Maria, I’d been there a couple of times before when I was younger as she would babysit me and Jose when we were young, it was a sizable house with two floors and many rooms. When we entered through the back it looked unchanged. The photos of our family and family that were still in El Salvador were still up in the hallway, we also saw Tia Maria’s son and my other cousin, Gabriel, banging at the bathroom door. “Jesus Christ, Carlos get the fuck out I need to use the bathroom!” Gabriel yelled as he kept pounding the door. “No, I hate this family!” Carlos yelled from the other side of the door sounding upset. “Why can’t you use the other bathroom?” I asked Gabriel. “Because someone broke the other bath-” Gabriel stopped talking once he saw me “Why are you here? I thought you hated this family?” “I never said that. All I said was that I just wanted to get away from the drama” I said to him “Yeah. Sure. Carlos, open this fucking door!” Gabriel said as he continued to bang on the bathroom door. “Why don’t you just leave him alone, he’s been through a lot.” “Look, I’m not the one who isn’t accepting him because he’s gay, I just want to use the bathroom and not die full of piss.” He said, still pounding on the bathroom door. “Why don’t you just go outside and use a bush?” I asked. “I’m not using a fucking bush, I have dignity.” He said looking at me like I was crazy. “Come on, it’s not like anyone is going to see you.” “I’m still not using a fucking-” “Gabriel, Are you almost done? Ruby wants to see you!” Gabriel’s wife, Lucia, interrupted as she stood at the end of the hall with Ruby in her arms. Gabriel took a deep breath and sighed “Yes honey, just give me a minute I’m going outside for a second.” Gabriel gave me a look as he walked past us to the door outside. When he finally left, Carlos opened the bathroom door and poked his head out, his eyes were red and his nose was runny. “It’s good to see you again, Roland.” He said, his voice cracking. “It’s good to see you, Carlos,” I said as I patted his shoulder. “Are you going to come outside?” Jose asked “Yeah… I just need a minute to clean myself up.” Carlos said as he closed the door of the bathroom. Jose walked to the end of the corridor that led to the living room, he looked back to see if I was following him, but I wasn’t, I just stood there in front of the bathroom door looking down. “Don’t you want to say hi to the rest of the family?” He asked me, looking confused. “I do, but not just at this moment.” “Dude, you’re going to need to interact with them eventually,” Jose said sounding annoyed “I know, I know, I just need a little more time, I’m nervous,” I said “Alright,” Jose said with a hint of disappointment in his voice as he opened the door to a room in the hallway. We entered the room and inside was a messy bed, an inflatable air mattress next to it, and messy paper plates on the floor. On the edge of the bed were two people playing Super Smash Bros on the VCR TV that’s always been there. They turned their heads at us when they saw us enter the room. “Holy shit is that Roland?” One of the guys asked, smiling, he had long hair and wearing a beanie, the other guy next to him had a short crew cut and a mustache. I didn’t recognize them. “Yeah, it’s him.” Jose said as he jumped to the bed “The one and only.” “Damn, it’s good to see you again.” The guy with the mustache said to me as he held his hand out for a handshake. “Yeah... It’s good to see you two again.” I said, shaking his hand, still unsure of who they were and it seemed like they noticed. “Do you not remember us?” The one with long hair asked. “No I honestly don’t, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically They looked at each other and started laughing “Dude it’s us, Angel and Roman.” Roman said, still laughing. It took me a while to fully process that it was them. The last time I saw them was six years ago when I moved out of my parent's house, they were twelve at the time and even though I should have expected some of my family members to look different in a span of six years, it was still mind-boggling to see those two skinny preteens were now eighteen and looked nothing like they did when I last saw them. “Oh wow, I’m sorry, you guys just looked so… different,” I said still in disbelief. “Nah don’t worry about it, you’re good.” Angel said going back to his game with Roman “How have you been?” He asked, concentrating on his game. “It’s been ok, how about you guys?” I asked as I sat down on the bed. “Oh, we’ve been chillin,” Angel said as he began to mash the buttons on his controller. “Yeah, we even took some- Fuck!” Roman yelled as he threw the controller to the ground after losing the game. “Yes! Third win, suck it, Roman!” Angel yelled happily. “Eighteen years on this planet and I still can’t play well with Mario,” Roman said as he took a sip of his drink. “Anyway, me and this asshole over here took like- 500mg of a cookie edible.” “We’re boutta get so fucking faded,” Angel said with a smile. “Jesus Christ, why would you do that?” I asked “Hey, if we’re gonna die, we wanna be feeling like we’re on a bed of cotton candy and laughter when we go.” Roman said, “Now if you can excuse us, I need to focus so I can finally beat this fucker.” I just laid on the bed and scrolled through my phone for about two hours, Jose just slept and Angel and Roman were completely out of it and laughing at every single little thing, and I just sat there looking at my phone, and the more I looked at the time going down, and noticing that in about an hour everything we know and love wouldn’t exist anymore, the more anxious I felt. Was this really how my life was going to end? I always thought that I would be married and have kids of my own and maybe even have grandkids. But that’s all out the window I guess. “Angel, Roman, it's time for the din- '' I heard a familiar voice say when they opened the door. I looked up from my phone and saw that it was my mom. “Roland!”My mother yelled excitedly as I got up and hugged her. “I am so happy to see you.” “I’m happy to see you also, Mom,” I said as tears started to form in my eyes. We stopped hugging and my mom held my face. “I was sad for the whole day, but seeing you and knowing you’ll be with me, just makes me happy.” We talked for a little bit and we decided to wake Jose up and tried to get Angel and Roman to come with us, although it was difficult as they were higher than the sun. My mother explained to me that the family decided to have one last dinner before it all ended, so we could all go as a family. When we reached the dining room I saw almost all of the family there except for Gabriel, Lucia, and Ruby. Everyone was sitting down at the tables eating Pupusas and Pan Con Pollo. When my family saw me they looked happy and were surprised to finally see me after so long. I gave them all hugs, got a plate of Pupusas and sat down next to my mom and Jose. We talked about all of our lives and the good times that the family had, like how I got first place in a track and field race and as a way of congratulating me Jose ran and tackled me to the ground, or the time that when my cousin Leo got his head stuck on a chair and I laughed so hard I almost passed out. We continued talking and Gabriel, Lucia, and Ruby came and sat at the table, they sat next to me and he looked at me with confrontational eyes. “So, why do you hate this family?” Gabriel asked me suddenly. “Gabriel, please we talked about this,” Lucia said to Gabriel. Gabriel turned to Lucia “I know Lucia, but I still think everyone in this family has a right to know.” He turned back to me “So, why do you hate this family, Roland?” “I don’t hate this family, how many times do I have to tell you this?” I said with annoyance in my voice. “Gabriel please, this isn’t the time for it.” Tia Maria said to him “This is a time to remember the good memories and all the good this family has been through, and since Roland is here I think It shows he still cares about and loves this family.” “I just don’t appreciate all the times he said he was moving to get away from the ‘drama’ that this family apparently has.” He said while taking a bite out of a Pupusa. “Look. I’m sorry for not keeping in contact with all of you, I am.” I said apologetically looking at Gabriel and everyone else. “Sure you are.” Gabriel said as he kept eating his food. The rest of us continued to talk about the times all of us had together. “Why didn’t you come to my father's funeral?” He suddenly asked me. “Excuse me?” I asked, shocked that he would even ask me that. “Gabriel, please don’t bring this up,” Lucia said in a pleading voice “No, I have the right to know why this bastard didn’t show up when everyone here did!” He yelled as he looked at me. “I was busy at the time ok,” I said defensively. “No don’t give me that bullshit, that was a year ago and everyone wasn’t working.” Gabriel said angrily “You know I find it extremely disrespectful that I spent all that time with your father when he was battling cancer, and you can’t even show up to my own father's funeral.” “Do not bring him up!” I yelled as I got out of my chair. “No actually, I was with him the ENTIRE time he was sick, and you barely showed up to be with him.” He said as he also got out of his chair. “I didn’t wanna see him like that,” I said as anger started to form inside of me. “Seeing him like that made me sad.” “Yo can we all like- calm down or something?” Jose pleaded as he got up “Look, Gabriel, it’s been a year and in about thirty minutes this shit isn’t even going to matter, so can you calm the fuck down?” “You think it didn’t make me sad also? You think seeing my uncle become weaker every single day and him asking where his son is, didn’t make me sad?” Gabriel asked completely ignoring Jose “So why didn’t you visit him also?” “You think I wanted to see him like that? Knowing he wasn’t going to make it?” My fist clenched as I said that. “At least you knew that he was going to die!” Gabriel yelled as tears formed in his eyes “For the past year I kept blaming myself for not being there for my dad. Every single fucking day. So seeing you not be there for your dad, and not showing up for my own father's funeral just makes me sick.” The sound of the air conditioner was amplified as I was trying to think of how to respond, but my anger was clouding my judgment. “You know you are honestly not a good son you know th-” I interrupted Gabriel by punching him in the face, he fell and I got on top of him and continued to punch him. “Gabriel!” I heard Lucia say as everyone got up from their chairs. Gabriel fought back and got me on the ground and punched my face in return, I rolled on top of him and punched him. “Roland stop!” Jose yelled at me as he pulled me off of Gabriel. I breathed heavily as my heart beated loudly and I saw Gabriel’s bloody face as Lucia helped him get back up. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” Gabriel yelled as he got on his feet “For someone who hates drama, you definitely seem to love to make it.” I just stood there looking at his bloodied face. “You are such a… actually, Jose is right, soon this shit won’t matter.” He looked directly at my eyes “Fuck you, Roland.” Lucia led Gabriel out of the dining room with Ruby in her arms crying. I suddenly felt a wave of anxiety as everyone stared at me and felt the pain on my face as the adrenaline wore off. “I should go,” I said as I went to the front door. “No Roland, don't go.” My mother said as she grabbed my arm. “Mom please-” “We all make mistakes and that’s ok, just please, don’t go.” She said, holding my arm tightly as her voice cracked. “I’m sorry Mom.” I pulled her away from me and walked out the door. I wiped the blood off of my face with my shirt and spat out the blood and the one tooth that broke in the fight out of my mouth. I made my way to the beach that was in front of the house and sat there. I ran my hands through the sand as I tried to calm myself down, but all I could think about was what Gabriel said, how I was a bad son. I didn’t want to believe that he was right, I loved my dad and it broke my heart to see him wither away. But some part of me that I didn’t know felt that he was right, that part of me also berated me for not going to his father's funeral, as I didn’t want to see my family at that time. I thought about all of that when Jose suddenly sat next to me. “Can you pass me a cigarette?” I asked bluntly, still staring out at the waves. “You sure, I thought you didn’t-” “Just. Pass me the cigarette please.” I said as I looked at Jose. He then got out the cigarette he still had in his pocket and reluctantly passed me it and a lighter. I put the cigarette in my mouth and lit it, I inhaled the smoke and felt the smoke and heat in my lungs as I coughed. “You know Gabriel is just anxious right, he didn’t mean anything he said.” “I know.” I took another hit off the cigarette but this time I didn’t cough “You wanna know what actually happened between me and Ania?” Jose didn’t say anything, but I continued. “I don’t know why, but my love for Ania went away about 6 months ago. I just didn’t feel like that spark we had was there anymore. But I didn’t want to break up with her, so I just kept our relationship going. “But one day I went to the bar alone, and I met this girl named Ella, and we talked and she asked me if I had a girlfriend.” I could feel my lips quivering as I spoke. But I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and continued “And I said no. So I started dating Ella, and it was some of the best times I’ve had in recent months. But then Ania eventually found out, and she wasn’t happy and she broke up with me. The last thing she said to me was ‘I trusted you, Roland.’ “Then Ella found out that I had a girlfriend and she also wasn’t happy, she broke up with me and called me a pig, and then I was alone for a long time, and I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So that’s why I came here. Because you’re my only family, and no matter what I said or thought back then, I still love you all.” I broke down crying and just let it all out, the thoughts of all the regrets I had up to this point formed in my head. Jose patted my back as I pulled myself together. “I need to get back inside, but just know that we love you, all of us Roland. If you want to come back inside you’re always welcome.” Jose said as he got up and walked back to the house. I continued to smoke the cigarette as I watched the waves roll in and out, and continued to think about all the regrets I had. I then saw a small dot in the sky that looked like it was coming closer, and closer, and closer. | 22,349 | 1 |
Josh and Barnaby were ready. Ready as they would ever get that is. They had Officially diceded to leave home in search of some hot girls, money and to find the true meaning of their seemingly pointless existences. A simple plan really. They had all they needed when they left: a landline phone, sunglasses, the handbook for hot babes, and a big bag of potato chips. Several minutes after leaving josh began to feel guilty because he lived with his mother and she would probably miss him. On the first day they found a meadow filled with putrid smelling onions and began to bawl there eyes out. They laid there crying for twenty some minutes before an old man came up to them and gave them gas mask beforing returning to his work of choping onions in half. Josh saw trees in the distance and they decided that they could probably take the masks off once they got out the meadow. So they made it to the wood and stopped by a shiny river to wash tears from thier wet eyes. But they had no time to cry they had come across a place only able to be found by those who needed it the most: The Wellspring ( of hot Babes) They searched through the book for hot babes wich said it was hot to wear bikinis when in water. So they did. They girls did not think it was hot though and explained that a handbook for hot babes meant that it was for becoming a hot babe not pulling one. Josh went back for their other clothes but saw that they had been stolen by the babes. Since the night was cold Josh and Barnaby started a fire and diceded that next thing in the morning they would hunt a big furry gollab and wear its coat as clothes on thier jounrney. Unfourtanently thy next morning they were captured by mushroom men who thought that they were babes and planned to marry them to the twin kings of the mushroom forest district. So the were given tiaras made of flowers and sticks and white dresses mad from Gollab fur. the boys tried to explain that they were boys but the mushroom men had never seen humans before but knew that babes wear bikinis and dudes don't. So the wedding started as planned and Josh had gotten married to the first king when news of Barnabys escape reached the mushroom chaple. A year passed and Josh payed the role of a mush queen quite well and the men had found a different babe named Emma to marry the other king. But one fateful night the queen josh's room was entered by a traveling forest wizard, and an old friend. The wizard ( Who was now wearing many armor)Barnaby urged Josh ( who was accustemed to dresses now) to join him and finish their adventure together. And so Josh packed his queenly dresses and they disappeared into the thick darkness of the night. Eventually they stopped at their final destination: The City of Babes. Where the Queenly josh was emmidiantly exepted as just another babe and Barnaby became the many wizard king who promised to protect Josh and the babes forever. | 2,943 | 1 |
Lest we forget at least an over-the-shoulder acknowledgement to the very first radical: from all our legends, mythology, and history, the first radical known to man who rebelled against the establishment and did it so effectively that he at least won his own kingdom -Lucifer. Saul Alinsky I met a man. A very strange man. A religiously charged man. A man of great girth, good nature, and bad hygiene. Dan was two hundred and eighty pounds of regret, resentment, and right-wing conspiracies. The stench of cigarettes and soured milk permeated the air around him. He wore the default attire of a man who had long since given up: standard issue gray sweatpants, starched stiff with years of spilled shellac and various wood stains. Unsettling struggles between his belly and the elastic waistband occurred daily. Some he would win. On days the pants proved victorious, the people around him became the true casualties of war. A bulk-buy pocketed white tee-shirt was now a dingy map with continents of different colored chemicals demarcating distorted borders. Red, raw, irritated flesh hung loose from the tattered hem. Grease from his unwashed hair helped to paste it awkwardly to his forehead and nape. An aggressive gin blossom bloomed violently from the center of his soggy, flushed face where a nose might have once staked claim. Although well-spoken and semi-intelligent, his level of cognitive dissonance was preposterous. A wild zeal for biblical literalism shaped everything around him in the worst ways possible, including strongly held political beliefs that often danced alongside delusion. Originally from Arizona, leaping through life’s unlimited hurdles had landed Dan in southwest Arkansas, right along with the likes of me. I had spent the better part of the last decade slaving away as an underpaid general laborer at a locally owned, mom-and-pop hardware store where, since his arrival in Hope, Dan had become a regular visitor. Years spent as a construction foreman for some of Arizona’s most ambitious building projects had given way to sporadic, custom woodworking jobs and a serious struggle to survive. Loud and boisterous, he would blow through the double glass doors of our paltry repository and commence to blaming the world for whatever perceived infraction had been issued to him by the early morning news cycle. "Good mornin’, sir,” I would greet him with my usual, tempered level of enthusiasm. “How’s everything in your world?” “You know, just another day in Obamaville. Can’t seem to get ahead. Get up and go to work every day and feel like I’m bringing home less and less. And what they don’t take off the top they manage to steal little by little throughout the week. Gas prices are outrageous these days. It’s almost unfathomable.” “I won’t argue with you about the gas prices, but is it really that bad out there?” He wobbled up to the cashier counter and heaved all his upper body weight onto the faded Formica top for a quick respite. “Let me tell you, Jimmy, it’s worse. Worse than you can ever imagine. Or at least worse than I ever could. You probably enjoy watching our nation crumble under communist leaders.” “Alright there, Mr. McCarthy.” “Every time I turn on the T.V.—” “There’s your fuckin’ problem, Dan.” He shot me a hateful glare before he resumed: “Every time I turn on the T.V., there he is, your lovely little president, coming up with another way to cheat me out of mine and give it to those who don't want to work. All the while I’ve been reduced to living in a drafty-ass shanty of a house with no heat or air conditioning, which I can barely even afford to pay the rent on. I have felt like death damn near all year but have no insurance, so I can't afford to go to the doctor. I just suffer, and all because in the last three years the Democrats have single-handedly destroyed our once prevailing economy." “Seriously? Single handedly? Like Bush Junior ain’t have nothin’ to do with it? Like the fuckin’ Federal Reserve wasn’t completely behind the housin’ market crash? Like all the sudden this one guy gets elected into office and the whole world does a flip the very next day? You’re fuckin’ delusional, Dan.” “You’re just not seeing it there, little Jimmy. It’s happening. It’s happening right in front of your eyes and not a single one of you can see the forest for the damned trees.” He slapped one callused palm against the Formica for effect. “Who and what are you fuckin’ talkin’ about?” “Any one of you communist, Jesus-deniers who voted this Satanist into office.” His attitude placed me on edge. His normally harmless rantings seemed suddenly unwound, violent. “Hold the fuck on. First, you said Obama was a communist. Now you’re tellin’ me he’s a goddamned Satanist?” “Communist, anarchist, liberal, leftist—it’s all synonymous with Satanist. But to answer your question more seriously, yes, he is a puppet for the Satanic elite.” All this fell from him with the seriousness of a divorce proceeding. “And all this Occupy Wallstreet stuff is just a guise in order for him to institute martial law. You see, they are going to claim this whole protest—that was obviously set up by the Democrats— is unconstitutional and therefore illegal. Because of this, they will suspend democracy, putting Obama in power indefinitely.” “You are absolutely bat shit crazy. You do realize that, right?” He tugged madly at the tail of his shirt in a series of failed attempts to cover his unsightly flab. “Just wait and see, Jimmy. Wait and see.” I walked down the center aisle and began shelving boxes of screws. Dan followed. “I mean, what makes you believe all this nonsense?” I asked. “Besides the Jesus shit, I pinned you for fairly intelligent.” “See, there you go with that anti-Jesus rhetoric. You’re exactly like them.” He shifted his girth from one foot to the other. “Don’t get off track now, Dan. Where do you hear this shit?” He yanked at his frayed waistband, once again at war with decency, tottered briefly on his heels, and began a Bill Cooper-level paranoid diatribe straight from the pages of Behold a Pale Horse. “I’ve got a good friend that does a lot of over-the-road trucking. He called me super early this morning, when he was getting up”— he took a deep breath— “and said he was up in Montana and slept across from a railyard last night. Of course, that’s not the scary part. The scary part is that he said he got out of his truck and just sort of wandered around to try and unwind before going to sleep and said he noticed something awfully peculiar.” I stopped my stock work and feigned interest. “Oh yeah, and what was that, Dan?” “He said that every single boxcar in that yard was completely empty. Every single one of them.” “And? What the fuck does that mean?” “Are you dense? Have you not been paying attention over the last three years?” I continued pulling boxes of screws from shipping totes. “Payin’ attention to what, exactly?” “Seriously? You need to open your eyes, Jimmy. They are getting ready to round up any and all Christians, regardless of denomination and, much like the Jews of Nazi Germany, we will all be exterminated—” “Whoa!" I said, dropping a box of drywall screws. Dozens of tiny dancers scurried across the concrete floor. “‘Exterminate’ is kind of a heavy word, don’t you think?” “It’s the only word that describes what they plan on doing to us.” “Well,” I said, squatting down to scrape up what I could of the lost fasteners, “if they are just roundin’ up Christians, I should be alright then.” Dan lowered his head. “You laugh and make jokes, but once the Christians are all exterminated, the dissidents will be next. | 7,721 | 1 |
I heard the you are leaving. Out of no where it had came. and came it always would. I believe that it can always will. Hope me to the sun if despise you to me. believe for always in the escalting sound. sound will come of impossible yet always silent noises. come to and of the me. never let us find the it haveings. help move and always believe in forward. stop to never and continue to always. time before and to the time moving. if ever do find you what you be seeking. remeber well and tell the if me you do. Please sail wayword in sound finding. never to stop of me and the memory of the us. Speak well of the journey forget but remember the many memory of the me. when get there you will bask in the prettty distanation and of station. end come as will it never forget the way took you there. end come as may dont forget we took together to the there. Oh journey forget the song rememer the melody. say what im hearing and dont forget the never for me. you the leaved the me and love to you I will stilll always the give. Believe the say that I will not ever not the love for you and the memory of the us. To me forever are we. Im sorry my mind not do me the justice of pretty word. Im sorry my mind not do me the justice of pretty think. Im sorry my mind not do me the justice of going with pretty you. Know I your forever folks hate me and know me not think pretty Know I dont know why the me cant think pretty. me think me will die before me have good though. why me born with unfixable bad brain thinker. BAD BAD BAD My head did never ever give the justice of the final and always love forever with you. Did you ever love the me and the stupid brain of mine. Did you? I had the love for the you as you disapeared. can you the ever understood me? Could the anyone please think the me as mine. I hope you find the one who love you and the one who think as pretty as you. Forgive me for thinking the us and the we could be once more than ever. Im sorry i didnt ever think pretty for us so that you could love the me. I know that you never ever could love a stupid like me. You knew wished i to poetry for us. To write the pretty words of love to let you love them and to love me. I cant think pretty or write pretty and I cant have a pretty like you to hold Mommy said I never was loved good by you. Mommy says I was never loved good by anyone. Mommy says I never write good. Mommy says you know I never the can write good. all I wanted to was write pretty and to be one day loved good. | 2,657 | 1 |
[TW] Blood, Violence, School Sh**ting, Stalker. Viewer discretion advised. ‘Tick’ ‘Tick’ ‘Tick’ BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG Finley’s ears rang as screams exuded from everywhere. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG \*click\* The screams got quieter as the shots came nearer. Finley had never been one to freeze when she was afraid. She had grown up living in group homes, going out on the streets to avoid her “siblings’” abuse. . .She knew when to run, when to hide, and when to fight. Being 4’11” came in handy at times like these. She threw herself into one of the cabinets on the floor, barely squeezing into it. A couple of seconds passed and a brave man leapt forward, trying to lock the door. He was too late. A few more clicks, a flash of light, and he fell backwards. His torso was ripped to shreds. Chunks of flesh hung from his torso in a misshapen mass of skin and organs. The suddenness of the sound made Finley jump and she had unintentionally nudged the cabinet open with her foot. The class exploded into screams of pure terror and desperation. “GET ON THE GROUND, NOW.” Finley could recognize that voice, with its false authority. It was Locke, the man she had been obligated to spend hours and hours with, working on their final project and presentation for their Genetics class. Things had started out okay. Finley didn’t really have the time for friends, but she knew that Locke considered her one. He had experienced the death of a parent, though, and seemed to have a sense of isolation from the rest of the world. Sure, he smelt a little funny, and came off a bit antisocial, but no red flags… at least not that she noticed. After they presented their project she was free for the rest of the quarter, so she had decided to go to a party that night. She hadn’t had time to go to any since she had started med school and there was one being hosted in her apartment complex. In the haze of tipsy respite, she had hit it off with one of her downstairs neighbors, and even given him her number. She wasn’t prepared for Locke to show up. He was standing in front of her apartment, crossing his arms and glaring at her. “Who was that you were talking to?” Finley was bewildered, “Dylan from 204?” “What about us?” “What are you talking about?” “All of the time we spent together! Did any of it mean anything to you? Now you’re just going to cheat on me with a dumb pretty boy?” Spiddle flew from his mouth onto her face. He kissed her forcefully, sticking his tongue down her throat. Finley kneed him straight in the balls. “We were fucking partners for a project. Get out of here and don’t you dare ever even look at me again!” That night, crumpled on the concrete, was the last time she had seen him. The rage had been new, at least to her. He had always seemed quiet, perhaps a little angsty, but never angry. That didn’t even light a candle to the fury he exuded now. He stopped only a few feet in front of the cabinets, but didn’t notice Finley at all, too focused on the rest of the people in front of him. Finley was aware that she was the only person who could possibly confront him at this moment, but she had to be quick. She pulled the switchblade from her boot, it had been there every day since she was fourteen. She only had one chance to stop him, she knew that any mistakes could cost lives. Her mind flashed back to her anatomy class. She would need to sever his flexor tendon, the one that controlled his index finger. Now that she had a target, she crawled out, her movement masked by the mayhem of people trying to get down to the floor amidst the rows of desks. She inched forward as close as she dared, then jumped to her feet, stabbing the knife straight through his hand, just under his first and third fingers. It worked, his hand straightened out and he dropped the gun, causing it to drop downwards and fire, luckily into the floor. That didn’t save her from the powder burn that seared her calves. Locke punched her straight in the side of the face and she dropped. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of black and white dots. Finley slammed straight into the ground. Locke lunged for the gun with his working hand but Finley was faster, kicking the side of his knee. He crumpled to the floor, his leg bending in an accordion-like fashion with a sickening crunch. Still on the ground and panting in pain, he tried for the gun again, but Finley had slid forward and kicked it out of the way. “Take it, get it out of here. Go, GO!” she could only hope they listened. She couldn’t afford to look and see if they obeyed, but she could vaguely hear the sound of retreating footsteps and sense the absence of the firearm. Still, the momentary lapse in her concentration had cost her. A searing, tearing sensation tore through her thigh and she looked to see him pull a foot-long hunting knife out of her, stained with crimson. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept the pain from taking over, but the ability to move her limb dissolved with the injury. She continued to fight him off but with only three limbs and the blood loss she slowly started to lose. The blade of the knife overtook her vision and only the instinctive raising of her arm kept it from going straight into her eye, instead ripping through her nose and cheek. He pulled back again and lunged at her face, but Finley was able to knock the knife out of his hand, cutting her wrist in the process. Finley’s strength was leaving her. She couldn’t shove him off of her anymore, or do anything to stop him as his hands wrapped around her throat. She clawed and kicked with her good leg, but nothing worked. Her vision began to blur and darken, her limbs lost their strength. She changed tactics, spreading her arms out, looking for anything to hit him with. Her hand found the knife, and with her last ounce of air she shoved it upwards, straight through his throat. The blood was heavy and immediate. Scarlett liquid poured into Finley’s mouth, her eyes. She tried to spit it out, to cough, but between that overwhelming torrent of blood and the lifeless corpse crushing her chest she couldn’t get any air. She was choking, breathing in blood. All she could see or smell or taste was the lifeblood draining from the man’s body, overwhelming her own. Eighteen Months Later October 30 MONDAY 3AM Finley sat straight up, clawing at her neck, coughing. Her lungs screamed for air. It had been a year since that fateful morning but the nightmares had only been getting worse. Her mind seemed to be coming apart at the seams. Her therapist, Alexandra, had told her it was normal, that PTSD was not always linear, but in her soul Finley could feel that it was more than that. Her mind felt like it was unwinding, over and over, like the unrolling of a ball of yarn. She couldn’t find things anymore, she woke up with bruises all over her. It kept getting worse and worse with no end in sight. A chill spread through the house and she decided it was time to turn the heater on. It had been strangely cold for New Orleans, even in the dead of winter. Finley pulled a robe around herself and retrieved her cane from its spot on her night stand. The world had moved onto the incident, people had forgotten. The dozen funerals and memorials faded amidst newer, more “exciting” news. Finley wished she could forget. Seven surgeries later and her injured leg had remained little more than a stick of bone and flesh. She could not bend it or leave her weight on it for more than a few moments. It was a permanent reminder, perhaps even a penance. The cane boomed each time it hit the floor. The house itself was over 200 years old, and its narrow hallway was from an age before open concept. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the light and only the different pitches of the creaking wood told Finley where to look for the door. She opened it, revealing the living room. Its bay windows were swung open, and the blackout curtain was blowing about the room. Her blood ran cold, she almost never came into the room. She hadn’t even bothered to furnish it, or to add flooring over the bare concrete. She swore the last time she had left the room she had latched it. Her mind started to come up with terrible scenarios, a burglar, a murderer, another fucking journalist. Her chest heaved and squeezed. Her breath came in short bursts. Her palms leaked sweat, causing her to slip off of her cane and crash into the floor. She could hear the sounds of gunshots, could smell the blood. “It’s not real. You are safe. Everything is fine now.” She murmured to herself over and over until the panic attack subsided enough for her to rise and shut the window. She forced herself to be rational. She lived in a tiny worn down house, not exactly a prime robbery target. On top of that, the newscasters and journalists had finally stopped tracking her when she moved. They had lost interest in her ‘tale of heroism’ and finally left her to recover in peace. There wasn’t any real reason for them to seek her out here. She decided to go turn on every light in the house, just to be safe. She texted Alexandra, hoping that there was something more she could do, and half-begging for a session that day, not knowing if she could keep her sanity if things stayed like this for another week. Finley knew that she wouldn’t be able to get to sleep now. Only three hours of sleep, again. She entered the small kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee on its limited counter space, gulping down a cup while it was still steaming. She resolved to finish her paper on metabolic changes in older patients before she went to class. Finley went into the bathroom, turning on the tub. She stared into the mirror, looking at the Frankenstein-scars that marred the right side of her face. She had never thought of herself beautiful until beauty was taken from her. Following the accident she had shaved her head while she was living in the hospital, it was too hard to take care of it. Since then, it had grown down into a dark, unruly bob. Trying to be beautiful, or normal, or to be anything but a monster, seemed pointless. She had murdered someone, a bad someone, but still a person with a family. Beauty was not something she felt she deserved. She found the clippers in her drawer, closed her eyes, and shaved her head. She opened her eyes to see if she missed anything, but the face staring back at her was not her own. It was a phantom of Locke, staring straight back at her. His throat was still slit open and it seemed like there was a dark shadow oozing from the wound. Finley was so startled she forgot about her fucked up leg and shifted all of her weight on it. Her leg gave out underneath her, and she stumbled forward, catching herself by placing her hands on the mirror. The phantom had disappeared. She had time to take in a shaky breath before the glass shattered into a million pieces. Shards dug into her hands, and the bloody glass covered the sink. 6 PM Finley slammed the door to her house, sending the windows and walls rattling. She had met Alexandra, but all it did was make it worse. Instead of doing anything to help, giving any coping mechanisms, she just went back to the fucking mindfulness exercises, like she always did. Finley wanted to scream. She had tried mindfulness, journaling, yoga, meditation, everything. Something was wrong. Really wrong. And there she was– alone. The story of her goddamn life. Exhaustion clung to Finley like lead weights. She couldn’t even escape this nightmarish reality in the cradle of slumber. There was homework to do. Finley sought refuge in the arms of caffeine. There was still plenty in the pot. She poured herself a large mug and placed it in the microwave. She took the hot beverage and sat at the kitchen table, leaning back against the old yellow wallpaper, resting her eyes. She took a gulp, but the texture stopped her mid-swallow. It was jello-like, but thicker. The taste was… strange, metallic. The iron-y taste flooded her mouth, memories attacked. Her shock loosened her grip and the mug crashed to the floor. Finley hobbled over to the sink to spit, only to reveal what was clearly a massive blood clot. She washed her mouth out over and over until it felt like she was waterboarding herself. She wanted to believe it was a sick hallucination, a dream. She turned around and peeked at the wreckage. Sure enough, her mug lay in pieces in a small puddle of blood. She could smell it from where she was standing. She grabbed the coffee pot and dumped it out in the sink, only to find that brown liquid, actual coffee, came out. Finley began to laugh hysterically– tears streamed freely down her face. Her tears mixed with the blood as she cleaned the abomination off of her kitchen floor. October 31 Tuesday 3 AM CRASH Finley sat straight up in her bed. Her heart pounded out of her chest. The house creaked, each time getting slightly louder, as if someone were walking down the hall. Silence. BAM. Finley’s bedroom door swung open so hard the handle ruptured the drywall behind it. She could not see anything in the blackness. As she reached out to grab her cane, an icy chill ran up her arm. She slowly made her way to the switch, trying to control the trembling in her leg. It took two tries for the light to flicker on, but there was nothing there. Finley took a breath and went to look for the source of the commotion. She entered each room, coming to the kitchen last. Finley walked in, going to turn on the stove light. The lightbulb in the ceiling had gone out the week before, but she had not had the time to fix it. She switched the dim, yellow light on, turning around to scan the room. The broken mug had made its way from the trash back onto the floor, and an ever growing lake of blood exuded from its remains. Sticking out of the side of her foot was a piece of jagged porcelain. She couldn’t feel it, or anything in that leg for that matter, but it wasn’t pretty. She staggered to the kitchen table, sitting and inspecting the injury. The porcelain was easy enough to remove, but its absence opened up the wound, adding Finley’s blood to the lake covering the tile. 10 PM Mrs. Gomez’s body was in an excellent condition. Finley began to gently peel the skin from the tissue, careful not to rip anything. Of all of the classes she could have been chosen to TA for, of course it was human anatomy. Dr. Kinsely had asked her to separate out the systems of the body by section for his students, keeping as much of it intact as possible. She had already prepped a few wheeled “slabs” and the skin seemed as good a place as any to start. Finley took measurements of the corpse and drew an outline on the slab she had labeled the ‘integumentary (skin) system’. She began to slice bits off, as large as she could make them without tearing and pinned them down with t-pins. Meticulously, she reconstructed the woman’s face as much as she could without a skeleton, getting as far down as her left shoulder. The lights flickered, but Finley pressed on. She only had two days to do a dissection this complicated and there was no time to lose. As she was trying to lay out the skin of the fingers the ‘musculoskeletal system’ slab rammed straight into her with significant force, sending her skittering on the floor. A click sounded from somewhere behind her, and she turned around to see the now-unlocked wheels of the ‘cardiovascular system’ slab hurling towards her. She rolled out of the way just in time to see it slam into the solution cabinet, leaving a massive dent in the metal. Finley had had enough. “Why are you here? Stop fucking with me and just show yourself already damn it.” A few moments of silence had almost convinced her of her own lunacy when the cadaver began to sit up. Finley was frozen in horror. The thing’s muscle and bone were exposed and pieces of loose skin hung off like wet paper mache. Its left eye was dangling out of its head, held up by a strained optic nerve. The thing began to speak without moving its mouth, “I think you know why I’m here.” The voice was Locke’s, even though it came from the husk of an old lady. “I don’t.” The muscles of the face moved in what Finley assumed was a smile. “My sweet Finley, I am here because I love you. Death is but a mere convenience in the face of love everlasting. I have been patient long enough. I am here to claim my bride, to make our souls whole. To repay you the gift of death as you so graciously imparted it upon me ” The absurdity of the words were almost funny, but there was no room for humor. It slowly stood up, dripping a mixture of blood and formaldehyde. Finley ducked under the thing’s hand to grab her cane. The blood mixture dripped all over her face and hair. The smell threatened to turn her stomach. She slid down across the floor pushing herself up. Finley bolted, slamming the door of the lab and locking it behind her. A mangled fist collided with the clear part of the door, but there was no physical way for it to escape. She had to get the sludge off, immediately. She ran up the stairs to the first floor, checking all of the chemistry labs, until finally one of the doors opened. She lurched into the chemical shower and pulled the handle, watching the blood mixture swirl down the drain. November 1st Wednesday 1:00 AM Finley couldn’t deny what was happening anymore. She had always been a logical person. She couldn’t accept that there was a god, much less ghosts of all things, and yet here she is being the center of her own haunting. She wasn’t sure what to do, but she found her way down to the French quarter. It was the middle of the night on a weekday, but there must have been some sort of festival because the streets were still lively and crowded. Finley wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, she knew that there were plenty of voodoo shops with things you could buy. She was thinking of perhaps buying a charm or something. She wasn’t sure what, but desperation goaded her on. There were several voodoo shops lining the streets but most were extremely crowded. Finley was embarrassed enough, she didn’t exactly want to enter a room of people and announce her problems. Finally, she found ‘Mama Roseline’s House of Voodoo’, a shop whose lights were dim, but the ‘Open’ sign was turned out. Finley opened the door, finding that the only person was a shriveled old woman sitting behind the counter. The shop was filled from head to toe with masks and other religious iconography. It was so cluttered she wondered what color the walls themselves were. Finley felt like the eyes were following her, but somehow in a comforting way, like they were trying to watch over her. The energy was balanced and quiet, a welcome relief. A long staff sat across the woman’s lap, with a collection of animal skulls at the top. Her eyes were closed as she spoke, “Child, the spirits told me that I would be approached by one seeking my aid. There is a gede, that is, a spirit of the dead, that wants you. You must prepare yourself, child, he is coming for your soul and mortal host. The spirits have called upon me to give you guidance. Come.” She finally opened her eyes and they were a milky white, seeing both nothing and everything at once. Finley followed her, hoping against hope for help. They went into the back room and Roseline brewed an aromatic tea. She set some sweet-smelling herbs on fire, and placed small animal bones in a deliberate pattern that Finley didn’t recognize. She placed a pile of soil in the center and on top of it laid three intricate figurines carved from wood upside down. “The magic we are about to deal in is great, child. This is not only voodoo but forces from the cradle of humanity as we know it. The adversary you are up against is more powerful than any I have faced in my long life. You cannot falter or things will go terribly ary. Can you handle this child?” Finley nodded, before realizing that the woman could not see her and affirmed out loud, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Roseline turned over the first figurine. “This is a Nkonde. He will protect you for as long as he can, but you must hurry, child, the spirit you are up against is strong and even the most powerful of the Nkisi cannot overcome the amount of hatred and fear the gede has used to fuel itself. He can give you a day, maybe a day and a half at most of peace. “You need to seal the gede on the other side. Now, this spirit is looking for a companion in his misery, I don’t know why he thinks you are it, but the only way you’ll be able to banish him is if you connect him to a figure and preform a marriage ceremony.” She flipped over the left figurine. It was a life-like, miniature Locke, carved from wood, complete with a mark across its neck and red paint down the front. Roseline took out a plain, featureless figurine from her apron. “You need to ritually bind a spirit of the dead with the gede. He is here for a soul, and he will be unable to return to the shade of the dead until he has one. You must first bind a spirit to the empty doll by adding some feature of your chosen subject, usually a piece of bone or hair. Once you have done that you will bind them together with twine and leave them to bathe overnight in the light of the moon with a wedding gift, some food, and drink offering. This will cause the couple to cross through the veil and leave our land forever, hopefully to find peace.” Roseline went through the creation of a sacred circle, beginning to end, over and over. Finley learned incantations, charms, properties of crystals, the names of ancient spirits. She had to perform each step correctly in order for it to work and create a proper ritual circle. If she did anything wrong, or if the circle was broken, or if the dolls left the circle, Locke would absorb the power of the spell and the other spirit. From there he could do so much worse. Roseline flipped over the final figurine. It was the spitting image of Finley, complete with her cane and injuries. Roseline took a large ceremonial dagger and sliced the real Finley’s palm, letting the blood spill over the Nkonde. She then tied it to the Finley doll and placed it in a binding circle. Mama Roseline gifted Finley a large basket to the brim of tools instructions. Before she left, she prayed with her and gave a final warning, “Tomorrow is All Soul’s Day. The gede will be at his strongest, and he may take a partial physical form. As a spirit of the dead he himself cannot bring about death, but there are ways around this. Do not let him into your mind, he will feed on your own despair and fear and take your body as a host. With a host there is very little he cannot accomplish. Even more importantly, do not let anything of you stay attached to the plain doll, especially your blood. You could become bound to the gede upon your earthly demise and then only the gods can help you.” 7:30 PM Finley constructed a circle of chalk with an eight-pointed star in the center in the middle of her living room. At each point there was a different herb or crystal in conjunction with the diagram Roseline had drawn. She copied down the symbols in each point of the star and the drawing in the middle. Everything was in place, perfectly put together. She had taken a finger bone from the cadaver she had to finish autopsying (and clean from the floor) earlier that day to assign to the figurine. Finley felt sort of bad, but didn’t have much of a choice. She tied the bone to the little figure and then twined it to Locke’s figure. She poured a ring of salt around the edge to seal the circle and opened the bay windows to allow the moonlight in. Unable to leave the circle unguarded she laid a pillow and blanket down and settled beside it staring into the darkness. The house freaked as if a hurricane was threatening to take it apart but the air was perfectly still. A metaphysical battle was taking place, and Finley could only hope the Nkonde could last until morning. All Soul’s Day Thursday The Witching Hour Finley woke up to hands wrapped around her throat. Locke was there, pale, but corporal. His throat was still slit wide open, but no blood fell from it. He smiled widely. “No knife to save you this time sweetie.” She tried to claw at his throat but it did nothing. The gap in his throat was cold, and the skin stretched like putty without tearing. It was finished. She stopped. There was nothing left. No one to save her. She was alone. Just like she had always been. From nowhere he produced a switchblade, just like the one she had killed him with, and plunged it into her other leg. The pain ripped up and down her leg and she cried out with the little air she had. “You did this to me, Finley. You took me from this world. You made my mother kill herself. It was all you. Finley thought back to the broken woman who had showed up to her hospital room, disheveled and underweight. She had begged through sobs to see her son, as if Finley were hiding him in her pocket. The woman was dragged out by security, but the guilt…. It broke Finley. And then Locke was gone. Except he wasn’t. He was inside her. She was still alive, she could hear her heart, but she couldn’t move her body. She felt him drag it along. Her body walked as if she were uninjured. It retrieved the knife from its own leg and walked in slow procession to the living room. It crouched over the circle and unfastened the finger bone. In one movement it sliced open her hand, letting the blood fall over the tied couple. “No,” Finley screamed, but it echoed off the prison of her body. Locke took her body to her bedroom mirror and removed her clothing, running her own hands over herself. Finley hoped that he could not actually feel anything through her hands. Her body took the knife and began to carve a word into her stomach, ‘Locke’. Her body grinned, and added ‘Property of’ to her chest. Her hands spread the blood around like lotion and all Finley could do was watch helplessly through her own eyes as he enjoyed himself. When he was finished, he raised the knife to her throat and stared into her own eyes, smiling, mocking her. Something clicked inside of her. This was how it would have ended if she hadn’t killed him. He wouldn’t have changed his mind, he wouldn’t have stopped if she had tried to incapacitate him. He had made it his mission to kill her, and to enjoy it. There was no humanity left in him. There had not been since he fired his first shot. Without the guilt to weigh her down, it was easy to fight. She pulled herself into her body, that shell that she had despised but now longed for. She pushed against the suffocating presence that was Locke, prying him from her body. His grip was an impossible vice, but with the last energy of her consciousness she pulled him off. The knife clattered to the floor but the effort had overwhelmed her and she collapsed in a heap. 6:30 AM Finley awoke to smoke scorching her throat. Thick, black mats of it suffocated the room. Her house was on fire. She could see flames coming from the kitchen. She looked for her cane, and there it was, broken in half on the floor beside her. She didn’t have a choice, she had to go now. Finley propped herself up on her elbows and started crawling. The flames got hotter and hotter, she couldn’t see anything, but she kept crawling down the hall. The front door handle turned, but the deadbolt was too high for her to reach with no legs. She went backwards and found the door to the living room. There was Locke, finally sealed in the circle. He pounded against the seal, “Goddamn it why can’t you just fucking die already.” Finley didn’t have the time or air to respond. She army crawled to the windows and dragged herself up through the opening, spilling out onto the cold lawn, still naked and bleeding. Every inch of her skin screamed in agony, but she kept going until she was a safe distance away. Within minutes everything was burnt to ash. A gust of wind carried a final whisper, “Until death seals our vows.” The sound of sirens broke through the clear morning as the orange rays of sunrise illuminated the ruble. | 28,606 | 1 |
Justin Scholtz was going to be the ultimate mechanic; he was sure of it. He had his own little wooden box with a motley assortment of broken tools and discarded parts, and when he wasn't toiling alongside his father’s employees on a highway construction site, he was fixing stuff. It was mostly old boxes and his decrepit old toys. Occasionally he came across something real to fix. If the broken item was small enough, such as a cast-off bicycle, he would pull it to the shady side of the small white camper his family lived in and begin work immediately. If it was too big for removal to the camper, like when the hubcap was coming off of “Old Brown”, their colicky Ford truck, Justin would wait for a time when he could be alone with it, and tend to it then. During the summer this was much his only pastime, excluding working with his dad, and avoiding his older sister, and he treasured it. Justin was eleven years old, and perhaps encouraged by his obsession for fixing things, he considered himself both more mature and considerably smarter than others of his age. His reasoning mostly lay in the fact that his father, Don, expected more of him than of his older sister. This meant that while Andy was permitted to do what she liked during the day, Justin was expected to get up at five every morning and go labor on the highway with his parents. Justin was rewarded for his efforts when his dad would be short a driver, because then he got to drive the loader, or the belly-dump, or whatever machine was missing a pilot. Any machine but the grader, which was almost too complicated for Don. Justin woke early on this Saturday morning in order to get ahead of Andy, who would probably try to include him in one of her outings to the trailer court across the highway. He wanted to spend the day with the construction machinery, which, after a whole week, would be begging for repair. However, he wouldn't reject a building project if he found one. As he climbed from under his blanket and pulled his ragged blue Seahawks sweater over his head, he thanked God that he got to sleep on the couch. It meant he could generally escape the camper without waking anybody. The air outside was refreshingly chilly when he quietly exited the camper. Justin stretched and shivered as he looked over to the dozing machinery. He pulled his tool box from under the camper and hoisted it up, carrying it with both his arms wrapped around it. He was careful not to scuff the gravel until he was out of hearing of the camper. When he arrived at the first of the machines, the loader, whose wheels alone towered over him, Justin set his box down and leaned against the rear tire. He looked back at the camper, and noticed that Old Brown was gone. He winced as he remembered; mom and dad were going to be in town today. If Andy found him, she would have him all day. Justin turned and strolled around to the other side of the loader, where he had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming in surprise. Andy was there, leaning against the ladder to the cabin, and smoking pot, by the smell of it. Justin grimaced at her. “Andy!” he whispered furiously, although there was no need for whispering. “What the hell are you doing here?” Justin already knew perfectly well what she was doing. He had become too predictable, and she now knew where to find him on Saturday mornings. Andy snorted and looked at her diminishing little joint, a twisted little smile on her face. “I scared you shitless, didn’t I?” Justin kicked gravel at her defiantly. “No you didn’t, you fag,” he retorted. He skipped backward as Andy kicked unsuccessfully at his shins, but he carefully restrained the urge to laugh. He knew he could get away with a single offense, but probably not two. Andy stopped abruptly after her first kicking attempt and leaned against a cold black wheel on the loader, evidently trying to regain her composure. She looked at him and laughed quietly as she dropped the end of her joint on the ground and stepped on it. “Do you even know what a fag is?” Justin wasn’t yet aware of the implied meaning of the term, but he found refuge in the common solution for ignorance. “Of course I know what a fag is! Who doesn’t?” he bluffed. Thankfully, Andy evidently didn’t really care whether or not Justin knew what a fag was. As it turned out, she had a different matter to discuss. “Hey. You gonna come with me today, or what?” Justin pretended not to understand what she meant. “What was that?” he asked. “You heard me,” Andy growled at him. Justin kicked the wheel he was standing next to contemplatively. So far, since his sister had decided she didn’t believe in “being good” a few years before, he had been able to avoid most of her recruiting attempts, but he hadn’t attained the ability to recognize the smell of pot from an informational seminar. "Andy. I can't come with you right now. I've got stuff I've got to do." Andy nodded, and Justin bent to choose a tool from his box. He watched Andy out of the corner of his eye, praying she would just shrug her shoulders and stride away. She didn’t. Justin selected a twisted, broken half of a flat-bar and turned back to Andy. She stared at him silent, menacing. Justin shifted his gaze to the ground and shifted his weight to one foot awkwardly. Andy snorted. “What, you’re just going to stay here and fuck around with your stupid goddamn tools like a little fucking loser?” Justin looked up into her eyes; dark, searing and surrounded with a painfully unhappy and angry face. He wanted desperately to turn around and walk away from her. He wanted to cry his eyes out, to yell at his parents, “Why the fuck aren’t you doing anything?! What the hell? She’s going to kill herself!” He wanted to hit himself for not doing it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn away, and he couldn’t yell at his parents. Justin put the flat-bar back in the box and returned to hold Andy’s gaze. “Okay, Okay. I’ll come with you this time.” He tried to say it strongly, but his voice quavered nonetheless. Andy grinned victoriously, but before she could say anything, Justin continued. “I’ll come with you, but if I don’t “See the Light” like you always say, you have to leave me alone from now on, or I’m gonna tell mom and dad. I swear I will.” Justin was sure he was only going to be made extremely sick to the stomach, but he couldn’t just say he was going to tell on her no matter what; it just wouldn’t work. Andy smiled again and punched him in the shoulder. Justin felt his stomach sink lower and lower as Andy maneuvered him across the damp gravel and over the black, oily unfinished highway, to what seemed the deepest, darkest trailer court Justin had ever seen or could even imagine. He felt sure it had to be a nightmare; nobody could actually live like that. Andy pushed him into a cluttered yard that actually looked a little nicer than the ones surrounding it. Justin held back the bile that was threatening to gather in his throat as they were confronted by a pale white kid with tousled black hair. The kid looked from Justin to Andy, his gaze lingering on Justin. “You think your brother is ready for this?” Andy pushed Justin down into a rotting blue and white lawn chair. "It's all right, Bert. He won't talk, and my parents aren't going to be back until tomorrow morning." She chuckled and moved to a filthy blue ice cooler that sat against the rusted siding of the trailer, almost tripping, with a hurried “Shit!” over a heavy piece of cottonwood whose only function appeared to be catching the unobservant. Justin looked around uneasily. There were a couple of other older kids there, as well as Bert and Andy. He hoped he hadn’t made a horrible mistake in agreeing to come, but as he watched Andy return, a beer cradled lovingly in each hand, a painful look of sour happiness on her face, he decided that, even if he had made a mistake, he still had to be there. Andy was looking carefully at the beers in the early morning grey. She barely missed the cottonwood again and came to stand next to Justin, who was too nervous to even notice all the heaps of fixable and not-so-fixable items that lay desolately about. Andy looked around at the others. “Bud, huh? Too good for Pabst nowadays?” To Bert she said, “Your dad making more, or something?” Bert snorted derisively, although Justin could detect a hint of nervousness. "What the hell are you on, Andy?" Bert said, only half joking. "Budweiser isn't all that great of a beer." He spit on the ground, and Justin could tell that Bert really thought it made him look cool. Justin didn’t think it made Bert look cool, but he just sat still and looked at the ground by his dilapidated lawn chair, where a smashed rusting Tonka truck stared back at him. Bert continued after a moment’s silence. “Actually, my dad was just trying it, and he didn’t like it, I guess.” Justin seriously doubted that that explanation would hold up in a family hearing in his house. But then, his parents weren’t suspected drug dealers. Following a few moments of silence after Bert's statement, in which Andy was no doubt working over a few changes in opinion, Andy turned to Justin and handed him one of her beers. "Enjoy your first beer, Justin, 'cause it'll be the best." "Actually, I thought my first beer was pretty fuckin' disgusting," Bert said. The other kids present nodded their agreement. Andy turned on them, annoyance furrowing her forehead. "Hey! You guys gotta make me look like a jackass in front of my brother, or what?" Justin silently agreed. He thought she made a jackass of herself enough as it was; she didn't need help. He smelled the open can of beer in his hand and almost dry heaved. His stomach wasn’t particularly strong at that instance in his life. Bert was somehow already on his third can. He laughed at Andy and slapped her on the back idiotically. "Come on, let’s watch little bro’ become a man.” Evidently the others had had something to drink as well, and Andy was trying to pound her first one as fast as she could. They all came over to Justin, who was just seconds late to try and pour the beer out behind his chair. Bert looked from the full can to Justin's face, and back. He turned to the others with a reckless and not particularly nice look on his face and winked. "This little guy just doesn't know how to drink a beer, does he?" he asked. The others nodded and laughed, moved in closer around Justin, and pinned his arms behind the chair. Justin started to struggle, but someone grabbed his legs. Andy didn’t join in. Instead, she rescued Justin’s beer, which Bert had grabbed. “Hey you guys,” she said, her other hand on her hip. “My brother’s cool. I think he can drink a beer by himself.” She was a little bit angry. To Justin she said, "You want to be cool with us or not?" Justin did not want to be cool with them, but he just nodded and jerked his arms away from their captor. “Whatever,” he said, looking around. Bert grabbed the beer from Andy and gave it back to Justin. “Go for it,” he ordered. Justin tried to drink it as fast as he could, without thinking about either the taste, or the giant leap he was taking into the unthinkable. It tasted pretty bad, and he was interrupted several times by burps, but he put it all down, dropped the can, and smashed it with his foot. "There, that wasn't too bad, was it?" asked Bert. Despite his three beers, he sounded fairly sober. Justin sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and gave a long belch. The others laughed and set about opening new cans for themselves, reminiscing about their own first beers loudly. Justin was curious why the neighbors didn’t object to the noise, but he decided that the trailer court was another world, with its own rules. Bert disappeared into the house and returned with a small bag of pot. Justin thought it would be easy to mistake the pot for cooking spices. That would be kind of funny. Andy handed him another beer, and he gulped it down as quickly as he could, before any of the others could try to help him again. Bert watched Justin gulp and smiled at Andy. “He’s a natural alcoholic,” he laughed. Justin looked at the smashed beer cans at his feet, and he felt a quick wave of fear. Not only had he drunk beer, he’d drunk two of them. He was screwed. His gaze wandered, and he noticed the rusty Tonka truck again. Damn! I’m going to be drunk! No fixing things for a while. Justin watched Bert roll an unshapely, skinny little joint and light it. The joint went around one time, and then Justin, who was beginning to think maybe he could fix the Tonka truck after all, was pulled to his feet by Bert, who said, "We've got to give the little dude some pot before he's toast." Justin reluctantly accepted the joint, after a light-speed course by Bert on holding it. "Breath in and hold it," instructed Andy, who was working on her third beer. Justin did as he was told, and the last remnants of the whole morning's fear and despair melted away into a beautiful shiny metallic puddle that he could almost see, before he passed out and slumped forward into his sister’s arms. When Justin awoke his first thoughts were that Andy had finally decided that he wasn't worth the trouble of having around and had tried to do away with him with a hammer to the head. But as he rolled over and sat up, he decided that she hadn’t tried to kill him, at least, not directly. He was on the floor of a trailer, lying horizontal to the couch, which was occupied by a half-dressed man with a big belly. When Justin carefully sat up, the man started. "Where the hell did you come from?" Justin, despite his condition, almost laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been here for a while,” he offered. The man raised his eyebrows and stared hard at Justin, then lay back on the couch. “Oh yeah,” grunted the man. “I guess you have. I thought you left already.” He rolled over, and Justin stood up carefully and walked to the door. By the light outside Justin knew it had to be around six in the evening. He carefully made his way outside, ready to make a dash for it. Despite the painful consequences he was already suffering just thinking about all that jolting, he didn’t want to have to finish the day with his sister. However, there was nobody there, so he just began walking cautiously back toward the highway and his own, heavenly clean trailer. In the trailer, Andy was in her little room, sprawled on the clothes-covered floor in front of her bed. As he lay down on his worn but clean couch, he realized why Andy had risen so early that morning, but decided that her judgment had been poor; she might be recovered by the time their parents would probably arrive that night, but he doubted that he would be. Justin tried to sleep, but he couldn't do it. He wondered why it was so easy for the fat guy back in the trailer, who rolled over and was out like that. After about twenty minutes he decided to fulfill his plans from the morning, despite the pain. Outside was oppressively hot, but he bore it nobly as he trudged to the machinery for the second time that day. Justin went back to bed before his parents returned, and his short time with the machinery seemed to have given him the calm that he needed to sleep, as he fell asleep almost immediately. Justin did not want to get up the next morning when his mother woke him for church. And he really didn’t want to go to church. He had to resolve what had happened the day before. Otherwise he was sure he would be condemned to hell. However, he felt that in order to do this he had to tell his parents about Andy, which he wasn’t ready to do yet. When his mom came by again, he told her he felt sick, and wanted to stay home for the day. She asked his dad, who normally wouldn’t have allowed it, but he seemed preoccupied with something else, and said he didn’t care. Andy never went to church with them anymore; she said she could communicate with God better by herself, without a bunch of hypocrites around. So it was the two of them alone again, only this time Justin wanted it that way. When Andy finally got up, an hour and a half later, Justin told her he wanted to talk to her. He led her out to the familiar loader and leaned against a tire. His tool box was still out there from the day before because he hadn’t felt well enough to bring it back to the camper. “Andy,” he began. “Yesterday sucked. I don’t know how you think that’s cool, ‘cause it’s not.” He looked at the mixed gravel at his feet, and tried to hold back the tears that were beginning to demand exhibition. Andy stared at him suspiciously. He looked back up at her slowly. “I have to tell mom and dad.” “You won’t tell them,” Andy scoffed. “Besides, you did it too. You think I’ll get in trouble, and you won’t?” Justin hadn’t thought of that. Andy continued, “They’ll probably be more mad at you than me, for being a tattle-tale, and not telling them right away.” Justin turned away from Andy. “I’m going to tell them,” he said. “I have to. You can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong.” Andy kicked the loader tire, making a thick thudding noise in the bright morning sun. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a mini Swiss Army Knife and pulled out the tiny blade. “If you’re gonna tell, I’ll stab you,” she said irrationally. Justin turned back and glared at her. “Andy, you have to stop,” he begged. “Please. It’s not worth it.” He wasn’t sure if she understood he was talking about her habits, and not the knife, because she lowered the knife and gave a small, crafty smile. “Only if you don’t tell,” she said. “You can’t tell.” Justin glowered at her. “I meant stop doing pot and stuff,” he snapped. “I’m not scared of you. You’re just a damn pothead.” A tear made its way down his face as he admitted his worst fear, but it went unnoticed by Andy. Justin was forced to turn and dodge away as Andy lunged at him with the little knife. He wasn’t quite fast enough, and he felt the knife jab momentarily into the side of his back before he tripped and fell. He rolled over and stared, horrified, at his big sister. She had dropped the knife and backed away from him slowly. “Oh shit,” she mumbled. “Damn, fuck!” “Andy,” Justin yelled at her. “You just stabbed me! What the hell!” Andy kept backing away. Justin stood back up and felt his back with his hand. He could feel blood beginning to spread out into his shirt. He swung his hand down and whipped the blood off onto the ground. “Fine! Go to hell! You deserve it,” he cried at her, as Andy turned and ran towards the highway, doubtlessly heading for the trailer court and Bert. Justin limped back to the camper, crying softly, and once again leaving his box of tools, except his favorite, a completely functional Standard screwdriver that was only missing half of the plastic handle. He walked through the camper to the bathroom, where he removed his shirt and used it to wipe off the blood on his back. He couldn’t get a good look at the cut in the mirror because it kept bleeding. Justin was resolved to maintain what manhood he felt he still had, and take care of himself, so he bunched the shirt up, held it against the cut, and went to the couch, where he sat down to wait for the bleeding to stop, and for his parents to come home. | 19,472 | 1 |
This story is based on the song Maggie, by Colin Hay. – I stand on the hilltop and look down at the mound. I know I have to go down there soon, but right now I’m not ready. – The first time I fell in love, it was with an older girl. She was nine, and I was only eight and a half. The first time we met was at school. I accidentally bumped into her in the dinner queue, and she punched me in the stomach. I dropped to my knees and knew then that I was in love. I’d seen Maggie my entire life, we’d been at the same school for what felt like our entire lives but, due to where our birthdays fell, she ended up in the year above me. That day it was Tuesday, so the dinner lady placed a pile of potato Smiley Faces and two Turkey Twizzlers onto my plate. I refused the beans. Maggie was sat with her friends, laughing and joking, and no doubt talking about the boys who were much cooler than I would ever be. I swallowed my fear and walked over to her table. Every face on the table turned to me, and it felt as if the entire room dropped into a complete and immovable silence. She looked up at me, disgust in her eyes. “…and what do you want?” I said nothing. Instead, using my fork, I moved two Turkey Twizzlers from my plate to hers. I didn’t wait for a response, I turned and left as quickly as I could. The room fell back into the din, and I ate my dinner on the other side of the room. I would walk home from school alone every day. While other children’s parents met them at the gates, mine never did. I only lived around the corner, but it still hurt. Maggie’s mum would pick her up, her dad was no longer in the picture. I remember seeing him up until we around the age of five, but never after that. It was more than I had seen of my own dad. Maggie and her mum walked in front of me, and I kept my head down to try to not draw her attention. Although I knew I loved her, I did what any sensible boy would and did everything I could to avoid her. Maggie looked back, whispered to her mum who nodded in response, and then came and walked beside me. “Why did you give me your food? It was really weird.” I shrugged. “I felt bad for bumping into you.” Maggie laughed. When she smiled, I noticed she had a wide gap between her front two teeth. “You really are a weird boy.” “…sorry.” “It’s okay. I like it.” Maggie grabbed me by the arm to stop me from walking. “If you like, you can be my boyfriend.” I tried to contain how my heart felt like it was going to explode and let a small smile out. “Okay.” Maggie nodded. “Good. Meet me outside the school gates tomorrow morning and we can walk in together. We have to have dinner together and spend breaks together too. That’s what happens when you’re boyfriend and girlfriend.” Maggie was incredibly wise. I didn’t know about any of this. As far as I know, she hadn’t had a boyfriend before. She leant over and whispered into my ear. “If you want, I’ll kiss you.” I nodded shyly and Maggie leaned in and gave a short peck on my lips. “Oh, what’s your name?” “I’m Colin.” “See you tomorrow, Colin.” Maggie ran back to her mum and grabbed her hand. Maggie pulled her mum close and whispered into her ear. I wasn’t quite out of earshot when her mum responded. “He seems like a nice boy.” The next day I met Maggie outside the school gates. Her moved waved us off, and we walked into school holding hands. I followed what Maggie said, holding the door open for her and walking her to her classroom before going to my own. I wanted to be a good boyfriend, and she seemed to know what a good boyfriend ought to do. We had our dinner and breaks together, and at the end of the day, I walked with Maggie and her mum until we reached the bridge, where I would turn off towards my house leaving them to cross it. We did this for the next couple of days and as we walked home Thursday, Maggie’s mum asked if I wanted to come for tea on Friday night. “You need to get permission from your mother, and I would need her phone number in case anything happens.” My mum had no problem, and that night I struggled to sleep with excitement. Friday, after school, I walked all the way to Maggie’s house with her and her mum. She lived across the bridge and down the lane. After a month of being Maggie’s boyfriend, her mum asked if I wanted to spend the weekend with them at the beach. They were going to drive down Saturday morning and be back before it got dark. When we drove down that weekend, Maggie sat in the back with me and we held hands the entire way. I felt so unsure and naive in those first weeks, because she was in the year above me. But sat in the back of her mum’s car with Maggie smiling at me with the gap between her teeth on full show, I realised what true love was. I had known I loved her since I first bumped into her, but at first it scared me, and I was scared I would do or say the wrong thing. Now it was a relaxing warmth, like I could just be myself around Maggie. I wasn’t really thinking about the future, but I felt comfort in the now. There was something I hadn’t told Maggie, but now I felt I had the confidence to do so. “Maggie. I can’t swim.” The sun was out and though the beach was busy, we found a small section that wasn’t overrun by other families. I’d put my swim shorts on underneath my clothes, even though I didn’t know how to swim. Maggie had told me to bring them, and I didn’t want to let her down. “It’s okay, Colin. I’ll teach you.” She smiled and took my hand. Slowly, she led me into the water. The water was calm, but my entire body shook with terror. Maggie’s mum followed slowly behind us, making sure to give us space to be together but ensuring we were safe. Maggie explained the different strokes, and I thought front crawl sounded the easiest. We walked into the water until it was up to our waists, but I froze. “It’s okay, Colin. Just let your legs go and do the movements like I told you.” No matter how much Maggie encouraged me, I simply could not move. Maggie dwelled on this for a while, and then smiled. “I know what will help.” Without hesitation, Maggie shoved me as hard as she could. I was knocked off my feet and began to flail in the water. “Maggie! What are you doing?” Maggie’s mum seemed really angry. She had been watching from the edge of the water, and flipped her shoes off and began to move deeper into the water. “It’s okay, mum! He’ll be fine!” Maggie, as always, was right. After flailing for a few seconds, I found my balance and began to slowly move through the water. “I’m swimming!” Maggie cheered for me as I swam. Her mum stopped with the water up to her knees and sighed heavily. She placed her hands on her hips as if she was cross, but she was smiling. After we had swam for a while, we sat drying off on our towels on the stones of the beach. Maggie’s mum had nodded off in the sun, and Maggie picked a flat and circular stone off the ground. “How many times can you make it bounce, Colin?” She threw the stone and it skipped twice before it plopped into the water. I picked up a stone I thought looked similar and tried to do the same. The stone moved throw the air, and then plopped into the sea without bouncing a single time. My face dropped with disappointment. Maggie burst out laughing, and it was hard not to get swept up in it. Within a few moments we were both howling with laughter. “Colin, come here. I’ll show you how to find a good one and how to throw it properly.” Maggie wrapped her arms around me from behind, she placed her chin on my shoulder and guided my hand to throw the stone correctly. Her cheek was touching mine and, when she turned to me, she let me kiss her. “I love you, Maggie.” Maggie smiled. Every time I saw the gap between her teeth, I fell in love with all over again. “I love you too, Colin.” – We were both sixteen when we first slept together. Maggie’s mum had gone out with her friends, so we’d planned to do it then. We done some other stuff before, but not a lot. Maggie suggested drinking some of the whiskey her mum kept in the kitchen cupboard to ease our nerves, but I said I didn’t want anything to spoil the moment. I wasn’t sure about anything, but as always, Maggie seemed to know exactly how things were supposed to happen. She explained it all with patience and without judgement. But even with Maggie’s guidance, it was awkward, uncomfortable, and didn’t last longer than two minutes. I didn’t think Maggie had enjoyed the experience. She kept her eyes closed tight, as if she was trying to just grit her teeth until it was over. Yet, after we had finished, she kissed me and said how much being with me that way had meant her. That was the first and last time Maggie and I slept together. We lay in bed afterwards and just allowed ourselves to get lost in each other’s eyes. Since the date we met, I’d never asked Maggie about what our future would look like and she never asked me either. We were happy just being in the now, as if the future was a given that never had to be discussed. Two months after we slept together, her dad came back into her life. As soon as he did, Maggie started to drink. I wasn’t sure where she was getting bottles of whiskey from, but I assumed it was her dad. I never saw him myself; she wouldn’t let me. Her mum wasn’t happy with her dad wanting to be part of her life again, but said it was her choice. Each weekend after she’d been with her dad, she would come back to me physically, but would become more and more distant emotionally. We saw each other less and less, and eventually she stopped answering my calls. After a year of her dad being back and Maggie moving further and further away from me, she phoned late one night. “Meet me tomorrow at the beach, Colin. Meet me where you first told me you loved me.” The next day I stood on the stones of the beach. I looked for stones to skim, remembering everything Maggie had taught me all those years ago. The wind was sharp, and there was a light mist of rain. “Hello, Colin.” Maggie stood before me, but she barely looked like the woman I’d once known. “Colin, I can’t do this anymore. I love you, more than you will ever know, but it’s not fair to drag you down with me.” I knew there was something more she wasn’t telling me, but no matter how much I tried she wouldn’t let me in. Even though my heart was broken, I couldn’t be angry. There was too much sadness in her eyes for me to add anything else. She kissed me one last time and left me standing there, in the cold and wet weather, on the beach where we first confessed our love. I decided to go off to university when I turned eighteen. I wanted to be as far away from the memories of Maggie as possible. I only saw Maggie once more after that. She was out in the town centre with her dad when I was home visiting my mum. It had been five years since she’d said goodbye. They walked past me, Maggie and her dad, and acted like I didn’t exist. He looked much older, and she looked very thin. I spoke to Maggie’s mum from time to time, she’d phone me every few months to let me know that Maggie was okay. But even the phone calls soon died out, and I felt as if I could put the memory of Maggie to rest and move on with my life. I never found love again, but I wasn’t without company. It sounds awful to admit but, sometimes when I was with a woman, I would close my eyes a pretend I was once again holding Maggie in my arms. I hadn’t heard anything of Maggie in years. But then, one day, her mum called and couldn’t speak for tears. She told me that every time she’d told me Maggie was doing okay had been a lie. That Maggie wouldn’t come home for weeks on end and when she did return, she was drunk and just trying to get money. Maggie’s mum told me that, although she’d lied so not to upset me, the lies were her own way of not admitting her daughter was spiralling out of her control. Then she told me everything about Maggie’s dad, about why he’d left and why his return had caused Maggie so much pain and confusion. How she’d been trying to deal with that trauma with drink, and how the weight of it all had finally become too much. “She left you a note, Colin.” I gave Maggie’s mum my address, and a few days later the letter arrived as well as the invitation to the funeral. – I stand on the hilltop and look down at the mound of dirt where you now lay. I know I have to go down there soon, but there’s still something I must do before I’m ready to say goodbye. I know your dad will be there, but I’ve promised your mum that I won’t make a scene. I have so many questions for you, Maggie. Like, what am I to do? How I can live with only memories of you? I should have seen it coming, I should have been there for you no matter what. But I was so hurt I just wanted to forget you. But mostly, I wish I could tell you that I miss you. I still haven’t read your letter, but I’ve kept it with me since it arrived. I wanted to wait until today to read it. Inside my pocket burns with the words you wrote. I open the envelope and pull out the handwritten words. “Hey darling boy, don’t you cry for me I am forever yours now that I am free We’ll be together Throw stones into the sea There’ll be no others there Just you and me. | 13,252 | 1 |
she said to me, “don’t touch that,” and I asked her, “what’s that?” “It’s glue,” she said, “a special glue, super glue”. I asked her, “what’d you buy it for?” - and she told me, “because I need it, there’s plenty of stuff I need to glue”. “There’s nothing you need to glue,” I got irritated, “I don’t get what you buy all that junk for” - “For the same reason you married me,” she answered angrily, “to kill time”. I didn’t want to fight, so I kept my mouth shut. She didn’t talk either. “This glue, is it good?” I asked. She showed me the picture on the container, that shows a man hanging upside–down from the ceiling after having the glue applied to his shoes. “No glue is able to hold anyone like that,” I said, “the picture was taken upside-down, he’s actually standing on the floor. They just put a chandelier on the floor so it looks like he’s standing on the ceiling. Here, the blinds on the window in the picture are installed upside-down, can you see it?” I pointed on the window in the picture, she didn’t look. “It’s eight already,” I said, “I gotta run.” I picked up my bag and kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll be home late today, I...” - “I know,” she said, “you gotta work overtime.” I called Michal from my office, “I can’t come over today, I gotta go home early.” “Why?” she asked, “anything happened?” - “No… well, yeah. I think she’s starting to suspect something.” There was a long silence, I could hear Michal breathing on the other side of the line. “I don’t get why you’re staying with her,” she whispered, “you don’t do anything together, you don’t even fight anymore. I don’t get what keeps you two together. I don’t get it...” she started crying. “Don’t cry Michal, baby..” - “listen,” I lied to her, “I got a guy coming to my office, I need to go. I’ll come tomorrow, We’ll talk then.” I came home early. I tried saying hello when I came in, but there was no response. I went from room to room. I couldn’t find her. On the kitchen table I found the container of glue completely empty. I went to move one of the nearby chairs to sit down. It didn’t move. I tried again. Not an inch. She glued it to the floor. The fridge wouldn’t open neither, she glued it shut. I didn’t understand why she did all that nonsense, she was always fine, I didn’t get what happened to her. Maybe she’d gone to her mother’s house, I went to the living room to call her. The receiver didn’t move, she glued it down. In a fit of anger I kicked the table beside me, I almost broke my toe. The table didn’t even move. And then I heard her laugh. The laughter came from somewhere above me. I lifted my head, and there she was, hanging upside-down, her bare feet attached to the living room ceiling. I looked at her, shocked. “Are you nuts?” I asked her. She didn’t respond, just hanged down and smiled. Her smile looked so natural, hanging down like that, like her lips were stretching effortlessly from the force of gravity alone. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you down” I said and pulled some encyclopedias from the bookshelf near me. I stacked them on the floor and climbed on them. “This might hurt a little,” I said, trying to keep my balance on the top of the stack. She kept smiling. I pulled with all my force but it didn’t help. I got down carefully from the pile of books, “don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll go call for help from the neighbor’s house.” “OK,” she laughed, “I’m not going anywhere.” I laughed too. She was so pretty and confusing, hanging down from the ceiling. Her long hair flowing down, her breasts molded like two drops of water dripping from under her white T-shirt. So pretty. I got up on the stack of books again and kissed her. I felt her tongue touching mine, the books tumbling from under my feet. I kept floating in the air, not touching anything, hanging just from her lips. | 3,825 | 1 |
Camelot III was vain to say the least. He was known around the town of Gibbetton better than most but not exactly for any of the right reasons. He was nine years old and was known for his constant harrasment of the female gender and getting in fights with the gangs on the south side of town ( and single-handedly winning every time ). He was born and raised for one specific thing: Horse Racing. Rich Green Blood families were known to pick jockeys from birth and train them hard for their entire life's just so they could win money from the even richer neighborhoods near the top of blue point mountain. But they only did this to distract from the fact that all their races were completely rigged. Camelot III, or cam as everyone knew him as came from a long line of rigged horse race winners, and his dad and Grandpa Camelot weren't exactly easy on him in any way. From a young age Cam had been riding his horse rose who he loved so very much for over 30 hours weekly. It was the month of may in Gibberton and this meant horse season. If you weren't going to the big race, you didn't exist. There was a lot o pressure on Cam even though the race was rigged it could still somehow get goofed and that would mean bad things for Camelot's family. Especially in the months leading up to May , Cam and Rose rode for longer and more often. Riding with Rose Cam felt like he could just keep on riding until he got to a far away town and start a life doing something he wanted to do like a hairdresser or a dancer and not just some masculine brick who had to act like he wasn't human. As May came around Rich families from across the state were coming to visit little Gibbeton. Cam was presented with his racing jersey and the town was just all around excited for the big day. The day of the race came and Cam met his opposing jockeys. There was Blonde and Charming Chad Chiplet from Evington. The brown haired wunderkind Wesley Topstopper who came from Bluepoint with pride and pep. And Elliot Blake who didn't talk and came o as even less friendly than Cam. So the race started as it always would with Wesley taking an early empressive lead with his horse Wes Jr. "Unfortunately" he "suffered" an "unforeseen" asthma attack and rolled off his "horse" and over the fence. His jersey was instantly snatched off by an excited girl in the audience. Chad then took the lead which was unscripted and the Green Blood families in the audience all started murmmering about it. Fortunately for them he was busy smiling at girls in the audience and him and his horse ButterPumkin tripped over another horse and caused a terrible pileup. All the actually good jockeys were downed and it was cams turn to take the lead so with the final stretch in his favor the Green Blood families were calmed and so were all of Cam's family and friends. But suddenly Rose died on the middle of the track and her and Camelot were trampled by other racers. Camelot was in great pain but did not have time to dawdle and limped of the pitch before the race was over. Within the Stadium walls Camelot felt trapped knowing that if he couldn't escape this great wooden prison soon and without being seen, he very well may never see the cool light of day again. But he knew the stadium well and he knew where the horses were kept when they weren't racing. When he reached the indoor stable he picked out a horse named Satus Novus. Him and the new horse rode through the parking lot and through the street out of town and onto the highway as fast as they could. If there would being any chances to escape this godforsaken town this was it and he didn't have long after they had gotten far down the highway and many a strange look from cars passing by the detoured onto a horse riding trail Cam knew well near the highway. The rest of the day they rode and the kept on riding until the fist signs of morning light. It was Cam's first time riding through the night and the moon had been beautiful and if it wasn't for the horse shoe sized tears in his jersey and the Bruises on his face and arms he might have forgotten about the terrible day. But the truth of the matter was Cam was happy to be gone from that town. He knew very well if he had won that race he wouldn't have been accepted as a Green Blood and his family would've treated him much the same. If he had won the race he would still be there little puppet but now that he was gone he could be anything he wanted to be. after the long night Cam brought the horse half a mile or so off the trail to get some sleep. He found that as much fun as it was to spend a life in the woods riding him and the horse had become quite hungry. And as if the universe had heard their rumbling stomachs they were almost instantly greeted by a recently prepared yet alone picnic in the middle of the woods. Although this is an incredibly suspicious thing to see the two were hungry and this was food, so there didn't seem to be anything to think about. Just as Cam stuffed a first giant scoop of mashed potatoes into his mouth a gruff voice range out behind him. "Who The hell ye think yew are!?" Camelot scared as he was by the voice reacted in second nature " Your Mom... " The man Grabbed Camelot and held him close to his curly mustache and coffee breath with a menacing look on his face. Camelot saw around a dozen people behind the tall man who were all looking at the beat up nine year old Jockey with confusion painted clearly across their faces. " So ye thinks yes my mom es?" the tall man chuckled. " Well then we best take ye back to da nursing home eh" Camelot was placed in the back of the mans van that had three trailers on the back and resembled a circus train and was painted to look like one , given a piece of bread by one the girls traveling with tall man through the woods and then watched through wooden bars as they finished the great feast in some ten minutes. After the meal when some of the troupe got in the trailer that Camelot was in they explained that they were a traveling circus of run always with talent and that if he proves himself he may very well find himself part of the troupe. And so they drove on from town to town never returning to Blue Point and within time Camelot proved himself and avid hairdresser and costume maker and found himself with a new appreciation for life. Camelot III was finally happy to say the least. | 6,448 | 1 |
The year was 1942, and the air in Paris crackled with tension. The Nazis had occupied the city, and the Eiffel Tower stood as a silent witness to the unfolding tragedy. But hidden within its iron lattice, a secret thrived—a symphony that defied oppression. I was a violinist, my fingers calloused from years of practice. My name? Forgotten. In the dimly lit basement of a crumbling building near the Seine, we gathered—the Resistance musicians. Our instruments were our weapons, our notes coded messages of hope. Our maestro, Jacques, was a man of few words. His eyes held the weight of a thousand lost lives. He raised his baton, and we began—the forgotten symphony. Each movement told a story: defiance, love, loss. The Nazis patrolled the streets above, but down here, our music soared. The cello wept, mourning the fallen. The flute whispered secrets, melodies that danced like fireflies. And my violin? It sang of love—love for a woman named Isabelle. She was a courier, her eyes fierce, her heart unyielding. We exchanged glances during our performances, our souls entwined in the music. One evening, as the moon bathed the Seine in silver, Jacques revealed our boldest plan. The Resistance had intercepted Nazi orders—a convoy carrying stolen art, destined for Berlin. Among the masterpieces was a violin—a Stradivarius, its voice silenced by tyranny. "We must liberate it," Jacques declared. "Our symphony will be complete." And so, on a moonless night, we infiltrated the convoy. Isabelle's eyes met mine as she handed me a forged pass. The Stradivarius lay in a velvet-lined case, its wood polished, its strings yearning to sing once more. As the convoy rumbled toward the outskirts of Paris, we struck. Isabelle distracted the guards, her laughter echoing through the night. I slipped into the truck, my violin case concealing the Stradivarius. My heart raced—I was stealing more than an instrument; I was reclaiming a piece of our silenced history. But fate is a capricious conductor. The Nazis discovered our ruse. Gunfire erupted, and Isabelle fell, her blood staining the cobblestones. I clutched the Stradivarius, tears blurring my vision. The forgotten symphony played on—the cello's mournful notes, the flute's whispered secrets—but Isabelle's heartbeat was missing. Back in our basement sanctuary, Jacques cradled the Stradivarius. Its strings trembled, as if mourning Isabelle. We played our final movement—the crescendo of defiance. The Nazis would never silence our music. As dawn painted the Seine pink, Jacques placed the Stradivarius in my hands. "Play," he said. "For Isabelle." And so, I did. My violin sang—a requiem for lost love, a battle cry against oppression. The Eiffel Tower stood tall, its iron lattice a testament to resilience. And as the sun peeked over the rooftops, I imagined Isabelle dancing among the stars, her spirit woven into the forgotten symphony. Years later, when Paris was free, they found her name etched on a memorial—the brave courier who defied darkness. And the Stradivarius? It graced the stage of the newly rebuilt Palais Garnier, its voice echoing through time. But in the quiet moments, when the city slept, I would sit by the Seine, my violin in hand. The forgotten symphony played on—the cello weeping, the flute whispering, and Isabelle's heartbeat forever entwined with the music that defied history. | 3,458 | 1 |
It’s an empty box room with no doors, windows, or vents. A large disk lowers from the ceiling, splitting into rings that create a dome above the floor. A cylinder then rises from the floor, and twelve boxes shift out from the cylinder, appearing like a table. Pandora Network: SECURE Eleven green bars of light begin to appear on the table’s surface as a faint wave of blue light emits from the ceiling rings. Zeta-Blu: ONLINE Delta-Wit: ONLINE Gamma-Brn: ONLINE Lambda-Gry: ONLINE Theta-Ylw: ONLINE Kappa-Pur: ONLINE Psi-Grn: ONLINE Epsilon-Red: ONLINE Tau-Orn: ONLINE Omicron-Tel: ONLINE Iota-Pnk: ONLINE Each name displays on the bars of lights as multiple colored orbs appear hovering over the boxes. Translator: ONLINE. You may begin the discussion “Of course, Rho would be late to their own summons,” says Delta. “Disgraceful.” “Hey, not every day we get to use this thing,” says Omicron. " And if it’s Rho calling, it’s gotta be something interesting?” “Or another proposition for their ridiculous space military program,” says Iota. “We should be focused on fixing problems here, not antagonizing aliens.” “Not all of us have great off-planet relations, Iota,” says Kappa. “Some must prepare for the day where we may have to protect our own kind.” “Who’s fault is *that*?” asks Iota. “God bless, not this again,” says Zeta. “I’ll vote to mute the both ya if you keep bringing this up!” A few of the other orbs speak up in agreement. Iota groans as their orb lowers closer to their seat. Rho-Blk: ONLINE A black orb appears over the last empty seat, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m late,” says Rho. “It’s been nonstop for a while, lost track of time.” “About damn time,” says Delta. “Why did you summon us?” Rho takes a few deep breaths as the ticking sound of a keyboard plays through his orb. Holographic images of a statue of Shiva, Jesus Christ on the cross, and another statue of Caishen appear at the center of the table. “You’ve got to be kiddin me,” groans Zeta. “Over the years, each of our respective government organizations has found objects that resonate with faint traces of, quote, “*Godly Essence*.” Says Rho. With the press of a button, the Shiva statue turns into a cracked black bead, the cross into a rubber mallet with a wooden handle, and the Caishen statue into a new renminbi coin ^((Chinese currency)). “These objects have been classified as “*God Idols*” and have been known to grant those who wield them with abilities related to said god. “Yes, yes, we know all this!” Delta interrupts. “Can we finally move on to why you have called us?!” “Just making sure we’re on the same page,” says Rho. “Not all of us are experts on all things godly. Speaking of which, Lambda, correct me if I’m wrong. God Idols can only be created from objects that have come in direct contact with gods, their power, or chosen offspring?” “That is true,” says Lambda. “Their power may also be shared with anything bonded to the God Idol, as we discovered when my people encountered a truck with a Hoplite helmet branded with the mark of Hephaestus welded to the hood.” “I heard about that,” says Epsilon. “The vehicle was nearly unstoppable.” “The operative word being *nearly*,” says Lambda. “Every vehicle needs gas eventually. Apologies, Rho, you may continue.” “Thanks,” says Rho. “So, can anyone tell me about *this* God Idol?” An image of a rod appears. It comprises several different metals with circular markings forming a ring around the center. Copies of the rod split off from the original, floating over to the other eleven orbs. The room is mostly silent, save for the quiet mumblings of people talking away from their monitors. Over time, one by one, each of the other orbs returns. “Could it be an Eldrich or Dimensional God?” asks Theta. “Impossible,” says Kappa. “The energy is too contained, too controlled. A combination of God Idols?” “The energy’s too unique,” says Zeta, “and even if it were, God Idols rarely meld, let alone completely.” “Possibly a New God?” asks Psi. “Unlikely,” says Iota, “the gods are gossips. Between Lambda, Gamma, and I, we would have heard something long before a New God could create a God Idol.” “What if a god didn’t create it?” asks Rho. “What if a man did?” “Rho, while I appreciate you researching existential science,” says Lambda, “but that’s…impossible.” “Is it?” asks Rho. “*Yes!*” says Delta. “What creates a god?” asks Rho. “An idea, raised by belief, given form by praise, creates a god. Someone desperately wants it to rain, so much so that they cry out to the sky for it to happen, and when it rains, they praise the sky. Thus, Anzar, the God of Rain, is born above Africa, Chaac for the Mayans, and good ole Zeus for the Greeks.” “A bit oversimplified,” says Iota. “But not wrong,” says Rho. “So, what if, instead of calling out above, I called out to…*Delta*. I put all of my faith into the idea that whatever hardship I faced, Delta would save me.” “You’d be mad and run one of those cults with the poison juice bowl,” says Delta. “Not if I was right,” says Rho. A holographic screen appears over the table, playing a video of an experiment. Inside a white room, five people are asleep on gurneys with helmets strapped to their heads. The helmets have a few devices on them, as well as empty tubes that connect to the ceiling. In the middle of the room is the God Idol sitting on a pedestal at the center of a ring on the floor. A bald, pale man in a white jumpsuit walks to the God Idle. Once inside the ring, a glass tube rises from the floor containing the man. The man looks past the camera, nods, and grips the God Idle firmly with both hands. The helmets' devices activate, and a glowing blue liquid flows through the tubes from the ceiling into the helmets. The five subjects’ eyes open, pupils rolling into the back of their heads, their bodies convulsing as they repeat, “*Lucas will save me!*” frantically. As the subjects chant faster, an unnatural wind enters the tube with Lucas, whipping around him like a tornado. Lucas struggles to hold onto the God Idol. His knees begin to buckle, and he jerks his body away from the idol at random. Small bolts of electricity begin to jump from the glass tube as the man screams. The subjects' noses begin to bleed, their speech becomes inaudible, and in a flash of light, the video cuts to static. “The God Idol was found when an unnamed American Government Agency raided a lab, not a *cult*, a *lab* outside of Old Forge, New York, at around midnight three weeks ago,” says Rho. “When the men found the room where this footage was shot, they claimed that the room was so cold that they could feel it in their blood, that looking at the God Idol froze them in place. Sound familiar?” “Death,” says Psi. “But why…” “Because the idol did its job,” says Rho, “it *saved* them.” The video rewinds to just before the flash of light. The screen changes the display to a blue tint, showing five glowing white blurs going from each subject toward the God Idol. “A soul flask?” says Iota, “like that of Pharaoh Anubis’ flail?” “But all gods respect Death’s vessel and his reapers,” says Psi, “thus no soul should be able to defy Death’s grasp!” “Unless a god willed it so,” said Delta, “That man wasn’t a god. He was a conduit, a vessel to transfer the Godly Essence from the subjects to the…” “*Artificial God Idol*,” says Rho, “or AGI-Krypt, as we’ve been calling it. After thorough testing, we’ve found that the five souls trapped inside are bound completely to whoever wields the AGI. They can enter and leave bodies, communicate telepathically through the idol, and are unable to be taken by Death’s vessel or his reapers.” “Dear God,” says Zeta. “What about the scientists? What was recovered from the laboratory.” “Easy,” says Rho, “copies were sent while you looked over the AGI earlier.” “We must destroy that…*abomination*!” yells Gamma. “Whoa!” Rho interjects. “I agree,” says Lambda, “to defy Death is to resign yourself to a fate even the Eldrich fear.” “…But what is there to fear of a being that can grasp you?” asks Kappa. “You cannot be serious?” says Iota. “Not even *you* would be mad enough to defy Death?!” “No,” says Kappa, “but as we all know, Death tends to cast his rage as wide as it can reach, and many innocents will be taken in its pursuit of justice. This AGI could prevent unnecessary casualties.” “This…is true,” says Psi. “Psi, one such as yourself should know better than…” says Gamma. “I do, but I am also one of a select few of us who still must pay off the debt my predecessors,” says Psi, “and this could help with that.” “Besides,” says Epsilon, “Death’s probably already begun its crusade. All we can do now is mitigate the damage.” “You think using the thing that’s pissing off Death just by existing will *mitigate* the damage?” asks Omicron, “are you outta ya mind?” The room breaks down into a pile of arguments, save for one member. “***ENOUGH!***” yells Zeta. The room quickly falls silent. “I call for a vote. Whichever side wins, we will follow. However, if we do end up using the AGI, those against are allowed to recuse themselves either now or in the future. Are we in agreement?” “…Aye…” Voting Commencing… `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `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 of my short stories.` `Stay safe, drink water, and be kind to yourself and others.` `ToonMan, AWAY!` `/////` `ORIGINAL PROMPT: A mundane and antiquated sub-agency in the US Government was the 1st to stumble across AGI. An internal investigation determined a press release unnecessary. Unaware of the power they control, 12 bureaucrats are assembled to determine the policy and implementation of their new tool. | 10,145 | 1 |
TRIGGER WARNING: suicide, self hard, killing Something has always seemed off about me. I can barely remember my childhood, it is all bits and pieces and they have to be triggered by some other current thought. Hell I can’t even remember much of last year without searching every nook and cranny of my mind. I’ve been diagnosed with a lot of things in my life: depression, OCPD, PTSD, BPD, mild anxiety, bipolar 2. But I’ve always thought it was more, from a young age I was fascinated with death and hurting others or myself. I couldn’t cry over my loved ones, couldn’t even consider actually loving them. And yet when I was younger whenever I was upset I would cry, until I just decided crying was a weakness. It shouldn’t be done, and I would no longer be doing it. I don’t remember much crying after that day, until I got into my first long term relationship. I would cry and cry over him leaving or abandoning me or loving someone else. I never really considered being unhappy or depressed or anxious, I thought it was part of everyone’s life. We all had those bad days, my parents tell me it's all normal. They never took an interest in my therapeutic needs until they saw me reach 90 pounds. Not until I was falling down blind and shaking from lack of food. I didn’t even know I had anorexia until I got into therapy. And later my depression became worse and eventually I became suicidal. I wish I could sit here and say it would become better. I overcame my demons, I got on medication and became some happy, tax paying citizen. And yet that didn’t happen. I have tried to kill myself a total, to date, 10 times. I have bought illegal drugs and prescription drugs. I hoard them to the point of dangerous levels. I schedule psychiatric appointments in order to supply my hoard. And when the pain is too much or the hopelessness takes over my life, I take 30-60 pills at once. It never works though. Sure I get the symptoms, I vomit sometimes it’s even blood, I am unable to walk, I get the shakes. But in a few hours I’m sleeping just fine and the next day no symptoms and no repercussions. Why does it never work? My first real attempt, I took 15 M30. One pill can kill. What a lie. No pill can kill me. What do I possess that millions don’t? Why won’t the gods put me out of my misery? I’ve always been a cutter, god the first time I did it I was barely in the 6th grade. It was a pencil. A mechanical, 9mm pencil. It felt so painful, I watched as the skin peeled away with the lead, showing the pink fleshy undertones of my muscle. I went deep and never once did I cry or think it was even cutting. I still have the scar on my hand, although now it is covered in a few more and tracing up my arm. People think that you cut because you’re unhappy or looking for a median to release pent up emotional pain. That was never my case and I don’t know how many times I have had to explain that to people. It just brings me peace of mind to see myself or others bleed. I like the scars. I pick out scars like jewelry. I like to add to the collection on my arms. People today are so desensitized to scarring or suicidal thoughts/threats that they laugh along with me. I don’t joke at my pain, my hopelessness, my lack of purpose. I have always thought that life is not worth living if you do not have a purpose or desire to live, it is better to die than live a life for others. And yet that is everyone’s go to when you are threatening to commit the big S: “what about those who love you?”. What about them? They won’t provide for me. They won’t support me financially. They won't breathe for me or think for me or give me purpose. They are pointless to my life. They will die or they will move on, so why should I put my life in their hands? Once they are gone and I have no one, then what? Who will be my reason then? Who will keep me living? Exactly. No one. No one but myself so if I can’t do that after 19 years then what the point of continuing to be alive. And don’t say I need to be medicated. I’ve tried every med in the book. My family says they see a difference in me and yet I still wake up devastated that I woke up at all. What does that mean? Maybe it means I should double my dose? Maybe I should triple it? And triple it after that and after that and after that until the whole bottle is gone. If one pill can fix me in the eyes of others, imagine what 30 could do. If it didn’t fix me, then maybe it would kill me and either way my misery would be over. Oh to be so lucky. There was a time when I thought I had purpose. But it didn’t last long. I wanted to be an operator, I wanted to own a CFA. I wanted to be a singer or a writer or a psychologist. And yet all of those dreams were never actually mine. They were something that I internalized to please others. My mother wanted me to be a CFA owner, she thought it would be good for me. I have worked for that goal for 3 years. But it’s still not a reason for me to live. I'd take death over being an owner any day. I wanted to be a singer because people said I had a nice voice. I wanted to be a writer because horror calmed me. Writing about what I wanted to do to my family and my friends gave me peace, but I could never write it in enough detail to be published. It is only a dream, a dream of a half cocked 8 year old girl. Even now I can barely breath without crying. Some days I’ll be fine and joyful even. Other days I just wanted to be asleep, I wanted to eat my feelings away. Ironic considering there was a time I didn’t feel any type of hunger. What’s the point of writing or talking or being awake when my mind feels like it’s swimming. Floating in spinal fluid. When even moving my eyes to look up or down feels like a chore. My body wanted to be dead. It suspends itself into a state of death, unable to move, to have a clear thought, to blink. So why should I keep fighting? Millions a day lose their fight and find peace, if the religious are telling the truth. Why stay here when I could be somewhere much better? What’s the point in any of it? In working? In dreaming? In having goals? So I can be a cog in the American scheme we call democracy. I’m not the only one who sees the pointlessness or lives for joy and pleasure only. When I was younger my family and I went to California for a funeral. It was for my great aunt, I had never really met or known much about her but she made me feel like I belonged in my family and like I had a place in it. She died of cancer, but as we were staying in a motel, to not disturb her home, a homeless man was walking by. He asked for some change or a dollar to buy a sandwich at the store or restaurant on the corner or whatever it was. My mother said she didn’t have any change, I must have been 12ish, I didn’t have much but at the time I was determined to be a good person and help this poor man. So I got a dollar from my thin wallet and gave it to him, he thanked me and walked away. But as he did so my mother pulled me aside and said that was a nice thing I did but he was a drunk and would spend it on his next high. For a long time I refused to give the homeless money to avoid them doing drugs or drinking or buying a hooker or whatever ‘bad’ thing they would do with that money. And yet as I got older I released: who am I to judge what people did with their money. I spend my money on pointless things, at one point $300 a month of my own money was going to drugs and booze. So now I keep an extra dollar on me or if I see them outside the gas station and I need something inside I ask for $5 back and give it to them. They deserve joy too. In my opinion they might be the only people doing life the right way. They don’t care about societal constructs and actively seek out the only thing that makes them happy. Don’t talk to me about the mental anguish they go through while withdrawing or needing a greater high every time to feel the same. I’m a psych major. I know the dangers and I know the hormonal effects. But god dammit if drugs gave me the high they gave these people I wouldn’t have stopped taking them! We are all searching for happiness and love and warmth, who’s to judge if we get those things from drugs, booze, sex, or family. There was a time when I thought I could be a singer, move people with that I said and what I thought and felt. But I never had the lyrical ability so many other people have. I do however have the ability to write and write incoherent nonsense for hours on end. Even know when I am depressed and suicidal I still write. Hoping when the police find my dead body they see I was in pain and I truly wanted to die. I’ve always wanted the attention of being sick or hurt or mentally unstable. I used to blind myself, stare into the sun for hours until it burned to give myself glasses. Everyone else had them. I wanted them too. If I could just do one great thing with my life maybe I’d mean something. I don’t even know where to begin to write music, but I feel like I should be heard. What I have to say and write has meaning, it holds weight and I want others to read it. Too bad that is the drugged up fantasy of a whore. Did you know that I wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar two until I was 18, granted I had been in god a 4 year long depressive episode but it didn’t matter. When I was high or rather manic, nothing else mattered. I wasn’t sleeping. I could and did have sex of my own volition without all the flashbacks! I bought everything I wanted and maintained my happiness. Why would they want to stable that out? Why would they not give me a high dosage or whatever drug was supposed to even me out to make me manic all the time? I could be euphoric all the time. I was a better worker. I had more friends. I had more life experience in those few short months than I ever did in 16 years of living! In highschool I was some loser who didn't have any friends, never drank, never even thought about drugs despite being offered them by my sister. And then the mania hit, for the first time. I threw one party one night, I tried 7 different alcohols, 10 different shots, 2 different edibles, 3 joints, 1 bong hit, and 1 medusa piercing! I did more in that one night at that one party than I ever did living at home depressed with my mother. I’m told I could barely walk, I don’t remember much but I remember the feeling. The warmth of the booze, my head twirling like I just got off a no gravity ride at the carnival. I’m not one for bad decisions or doing bad, it gives me anxiety to be anything less than perfect, but my gods I’d recommend drugs to any highschooler. I wish I did them sooner. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an addict although I wish I could be. Without the mania, drinking is disgusting, painful ever. All booze tastes like hand sanitizer and weed burns my throat. Edibles are okay but I have to choke it down, the weed taste is so strong I want to vomit. And although I’ve been offered, I've never tried Cocaine. I wish I had though, so predictable for me to be anxious I’d get a nose bleed. And even with all my will power, it’s nearly impossible for me to take pills. My throat closes and my tongue tenses up, I physically cannot swallow and I’m forced to have these pills dissolve in my mouth. As horrible as it may sound I’d rather be a drug addict than who I am today, at least them I could make my self happy at any point and time with a few hundred dollars, instead I’m stuck chasing mania and avoiding suicidal tendencies or unconscious pulls to my friends on the other side. There was even a time I thought I could be a wiccan or a witch or maybe I was just paranoid. I would see faces in the dark, hear people who were there, I was even convinced the voice in my head was someone else sometimes. It all seemed real, the grammar they used was different, they were harsh and made me cry. I’m too pathetic to yell at anyone, even myself. I wanted to be special. I wanted to be the center of attention. It’s how I earn worth, it’s how I make friends. How can I be your personality type if you won’t even talk to me? All I ever wanted was to go to my meditation site. When I would medicate I would be transported to a library full of hundreds of thousands of books, all mine. I convinced myself I could feel the leather and smell the dust. Sometimes I even thought they were talking to me, they trusted me, they were living. I was so desperate to be wanted and to be needed by someone or something that I made it up. I wish more than anything that it was real. That those books had shown up to me. That they did love me because maybe then I could believe my family loved me or my boyfriend loved me. Now when I meditate it’s all black. Either they are gone. Gone like everything else important in my life. Or it really was all imaginary and I just can’t admit it to myself or to my shrink. Who wouldn’t have a kid committed if they were fantasizing about living books. And then of course there’s the killing. My rats. I tell everyone the bug guy got a little too close with some strong chemicals. But it’s not true. I didn’t like them. But I couldn’t rehome them because my mom would say the same thing she always says ‘I know you weren't ready for a pet, this is lola all over again’. I was impulsive! I didn’t want that dog, her husband fed my impulse and got it for me. I wanted an older dog, something I didn’t have to train. But puppies are cuter and now lola is my mom’s dog. But those rats were mine. They feared me. First I neglected them, I was working long hours and forgot to feed them every now and again. What kind of pet mother is that? So I decided to throw them away. Literally. I put them in their carrier with some food and unzipped the bag and gently placed it in the trash can, it was early maybe before 9am. Then I went to work. It was a hot summer day, rats can only survive in 75 degrees giver or take a few degrees. The trash had been collected by the time I got home. I never cried over it or felt bad. But I think every now and again, when the subject of rats comes up, about how they died or if they really did die. But other than that it’s like they never existed to me. After a while I sold my rat cage and supplies, I knew no pet would ever be what I saw on the internet or what I dreamed of because I wasn’t a good pet owner. Even today I want a dog, only a specific breed: a boston terrier chihuahua mix. But more specifically I just want my dad’s dog Pepper. Other than my rat Mai and Kaira, who passed of cancer, she is the only animal I remember having any type of emotional connection to. Sometimes I think I want a dog so that I have a reason to live, something that depends on me. But then I remember: if I can inhumanely kill rats I can do it to myself and leave that animal helpless. I’d be a worse fate for that animal than the streets. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to overdose? On TV it's all blurred vision, drunken steps, collapsing and then foaming at the mouth. Now every overdose is different but I’ve experienced two: M30 and Oxcarbazepine. M30 you don’t really feel much, your mind starts to swim and you can’t seem to focus on one thing. It’s like your eyes are darting from side to side every millisecond, around the 4 hour mark of digestion you start to throw up. In my case it only took 2 pills to make me vomit, 1 pill made me dizzy and any more than 2 made me sweaty. I was still able to walk, although I had to constantly prop myself up against the wall. Around the 12 hour mark and 15 pills deep I was back to my old self. During the whole experience I was sleeping soundly, I had the occasional stomach cramp and vomiting session but nothing too bad. Unfortunately. Now Oxcarbazepine is another story. I took 29 pills right before going to sleep. I think it was only 2 hours in when I felt like I was going to vomit. I went to stand up and I could barely walk, I tried to put one foot in front of the other and yet I was moving sideways. I ran into the wall and my legs couldn’t support me anymore. Thankfully I had already made it to the restroom, I vomited probably 5 times but after the first there was nothing left in my stomach and eventually it turned to blood. My eyes felt like they were rolling loosely in my skull, I couldn’t bear to have my eyes open. When I finally felt like I was able to stand without vomiting, I was too weak. When I opened my eyes I was trying to lift myself from the ground. I couldn’t get a grip on anything, my hands felt like butter, they were unable to grasp anything. When I finally had something in hand to pull myself up with, I couldn’t pull straight. I ended up hitting my head on the cabinet in my bathroom, pretty hard as well. And then I vomited again. I was sweating and shaking. I had to sleep with my head over the toilet bowl, waking up every, what I assume to be, 30 minutes to vomit. After some amount of hours I was able to lay down in my own bed. I was crying from the pain, begging every god in existence to make it quick. I begged them to just stop my heart. Yet time and time again they never do. So I’m stuck back at square one, trying to figure out what purpose my life has and what value I can bring to everyone around me. And yet the answer is always the same: nothing, I bring no value and have no purpose. You would think that after 20 years of being alive, I would know what I am supposed to be or even have an idea of what I want to be. When I look at my life it means nothing to me. My relationships mean nothing to me. I love my boyfriend but if I could choose between him and death the answer would be clear as day to me. Death. Always. Even the fleeting joys I used to have in spending money and over. It seems like I continue to sink into the abyss. Death is all I really care about. People in my family or my day to day could die and instead of being sad I’d be jealous…envious. I used to think I had something to work towards, a career I wanted. But even that is fruitless, I worked hard for it. I got my degree, I put in the effort, I did what they wanted, and yet I gained nothing. No raise. No promotion. No purpose. So I ask again: What is the point? Why do other people continue to live so easily? What is the secret? Or better yet how do people drop dead daily from unexplainable circumstances, but I continue to breathe? What god has the answers to that question? All I can bring myself to do day in and day out is sleep. I sleep from the second I’m not working until I have to be working. It’s to the point that on weekends I am awake a total of 4 hours in those 2 days. Can you feel my pain? Because I can’t. I feel hollow, like my organs are missing. Everything I describe is so normal for me that I don’t see an issue in the way I live. Do you? I feel the need to be validated in my normality, but at the same time I know that others could never see the point in dying. They may have felt what I am feeling, they may have tried, but everyone says it’s better to live than to kill yourself. But how do you know? How can you say that with certainty? Those who died could be just as content as you are? Oh but now you have kids and a job and a family, so life is worth it. Blah. Blah. Blah. it doesn’t mean anything to me. I tried the drugs. I tried the therapy. I tried the focusing on your family. It all feels pointless. No, not pointless. It feels like grating nails on a chalkboard. I’m repulsed by it. Who else can say that? If you felt this way, did it get better? And how? I’m all ears. Especially if the answer involved hard core drugs to perk me up. Sounds fun, but so does downing another 50 Oxcarbazepine, if I double the dose maybe my tolerance will give and I’ll go into heart failure. They say your heart just slows, you pass out and die. Sounds peaceful if you ask me. Sometimes I think if others read what I have written they will sympathize, but in reality I think I just want others to kill themselves. My belief is and will always be: live only for yourself or don’t live at all. It’s led others to their death and feeds my attempts. What could others gain by reading my nonsense? Perspective on their own lives? A sense of ‘maybe my life isn’t that bad’? I doubt it. No one's pain is worse than that of others, it’s all scaring and potentially deadly one way or another. You’d think I was some kind of god with beliefs and a message for people, but I’m just something floating around the reality of life. My thoughts are always incoherent and thrown onto something, whether that is paper or my ramblings here. I want to be heard. I want validation that my thoughts mean something. I know that I can never live up to others or even what I want to be. Yet, I continue. I write. I type. I sign at the thought of being something. But everyone wants to be the main character. You’d think that after all these years, I’d know I’m fated to be a background character. You’d think I’d stop writing. You’d think I’d know my place. And while I know I will never accomplish what I think I could, I continue to write. I think that maybe when I’m dead someone will read what I have written and think I was good at writing. Because that’s all I truly care about: being perfect. I care about avoiding punishment. Avoiding failure. | 21,387 | 1 |
​ ​ “Oh, this will make us rich,” said Colin. “Rich beyond our wildest dreams. You mark my words.” We were walking into town to save the bus fare. Colin and I were in front, Stephen a few steps behind carrying two brown paper bags filled with potatoes. Colin had plenty of ideas about making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. There was the time when he suggested that we pull discarded bike frames out of the canal and fix them “...just like new and then sell them around the estate at a huge profit.” We nearly drowned pulling the frames from the steep sides of the embankment, leaving us soaked and covered in mud. We hadn’t considered that we had no tools, and then Colin’s dad yelling at us to, “Get that pile of junk off my bloody lawn”. And so, we had to take all the rusty frames to the canal and throw them back in. We were lucky to not get caught. Then there was the time we watched one of the neighbours move out of their home, and even before the van was out of the street, we quickly removed all their garden plants before the new folks moved in. “We’ll go door to door selling the plants,” said Colin. “The new people will think that the holes in the soil were dug by birds.” In theory it was a great idea. Yet when we knocked on the first door – our arms full of plants, their roots bare and soil all over our jerseys – and got ready to negotiate the price of the plants we were greeted with, “You little buggers, you just filched those plants from the Anderson place. Git out of here before I give you a good hiding.” We ran for our lives, leaving the plants behind. Needless to say, within a day or so those plants were in the ground, watered and thriving at the house of the person who threatened us with a good hiding. Colin’s track record was not great. “Hey, isn’t it someone else’s turn to carry the spuds,” called Stephen. “They’re heavy.” “Come on Stevie, we had a deal,” replied Colin. “A third, a third, a third. We each share one third of the work." He turned to me and gave a quick wink before continuing. “Your third Stevie is to carry them halfway into town. Davey will carry them the other half. My third is that I came up with the idea. Get a grip will you kid.” With a smile he whispered to me, “We’re almost there Davey, give him a few more minutes and carry the potatoes the rest of the way.” We were heading to a new supermarket that had just opened. I did take the brown bags from Stephen with only a few hundred yards to go – and he thanked me for it. “Stevie,” commanded Colin as we arrived. “You take the spuds and hide behind those bins in the corner of the car park. Your mission is to keep out of sight and hand us the potatoes when we need them. You got that kiddo? Give us a few taters before you go – that's it, now stay out of sight.” Crouching low, Colin made for the cars parked outside the supermarket giving me the type of hand signals you see commandos do when they are in battle. Looking over his shoulder as he scurried forward he hissed, “Keep low, you cretin. You want to get caught?” “Here,” he said demonstrating. “Shove the tater up the exhaust pipe \[tail pipe\] as far as it will go, then let’s hide with Stevie behind the bins.” We did. And then we waited and watched. After a while a middle-aged couple pushing their trolley stacked with goods and goodies made their way to the car. They loaded the groceries into the back seat and got into the front of the car. “Wait for it...” whispered Colin with a huge grin. The car kicked and coughed, spluttered and died as the driver tried to start the engine. He tried again, and again as the car struggled to start. But then, with a boom, a belch, and a big black cloud of smoke, pieces of the potato flew across the carpark and the engine engaged. “Damn it,” cried Colin. “Was it supposed to do that?” asked Stephen. I just looked on and stayed silent. We scurried off to another car, this time a little green Morris Minor. “Here take this,” instructed Colin, handing me a fresh potato. “Push it in as far as it will go, Davey. You’re stronger than me.” I did, with all my might. Twisting and turning the potato into the pipe, shaving skin off both the potato and my hand, to get it jammed in as tightly as possible. We took cover and waited. It didn’t take long for an elderly man to walk towards the car carrying a brown shopping bag. He got in and tried to start the car. Whirr, whirr, whirr – then silence. He turned the key once more, then again. The car wouldn’t start. “C’mon,” said Colin from our hiding place. “Time for action.” The car battery was quickly getting exhausted from the effort of trying to crank the car into action. The whirr, whirr was now becoming a sad long whine, and the driver was starting to look desperate. Tapping on the window of the car, Colin called out, “Hey Mister, I know why your car won’t start.” “What are you some sort of mechanic, laddie?” asked the driver in a sarcastic tone as he lowered the window. “Nah, but while you were in the shop, we saw some big kids mess with your car.” “You did, did you – and what did they do to my car?” he replied scornfully. “I’ll tell you for a shilling.” “Why you little –” “C’mon Davey, this gentleman doesn’t need our help,” said Colin, as he started to walk away. I followed with a shrug of my shoulders. “Sixpence, I’ll give you sixpence you little bastards,” he called. “Shilling. We’re just trying to help you mister.” “Okay, you tell me what these kids did, and I’ll give you a shilling.” "Sorry mister. It’s money up front. C’mon Davey, we don’t have time to waste –” “Here, you buggers,” said the man throwing the coin on the ground. “Well Mister,” replied Colin. “These kids – oh, it’s so awful, mister – they shoved a tater up your exhaust pipe.” \* And so, it went on throughout the afternoon. We’d “tater” various cars. We’d have to keep moving and stay on side streets, and we’d have to pick the cars of shoppers who would park and return in a short period of time. We selected families and couples and stayed clear of anyone who looked like they’d chase us or turn violent. “Keep your money in your socks,” said Colin. “That way if the coppers catch us, we can empty our pockets and show them that we have no money, so they can’t pin anything on us.” “What about the potatoes? They’ll see that we have these taters,” asked Stephen who was carrying the diminishing store of the vegetables. “You take the bags and run like mad,” replied Colin. “We’ll do the talking.” Our skill at blocking the pipe grew (you needed to twist while you pushed), and our pitch to the stranded drivers improved. We were quickly becoming rich beyond our wildest dreams. “What are we going to do with all this money?” asked Stephen. “Let’s go and see *Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid*,” suggested Colin. “It’s playing at the Odeon.” Stephen and I agreed with great enthusiasm. “Here, dump the rest of the potatoes, let’s not carry the evidence around with us,” commanded Colin. What a time we had. Front row seats, fizzy drinks, popcorn and chocolate – and even enough money left over to get the bus home. It was a day to remember. The problem was Colin’s mum had noticed the absence of a good few pounds of her potatoes – potatoes that she’d bought for the Sunday roast. Boy, did Colin catch it. A wooden spoon on the back of his legs I was told. I saw the bruises. And he wasn’t allowed out for a week. But he never gave us away; he kept his mouth shut about our involvement. What a mate. \* Colin’s picture recently popped up on my Facebook under the heading People You Might Know. He’s aged, obviously, but if you looked closely you could still see a trace of the grin he gave me on that day we earned our first shilling. He’s done well for himself – he owns a nightclub and a string of rental properties in Majorca. I do recall him doing a bit of time behind bars – something to do with a consignment of radios going missing, if memory serves – but that was a long time past. Stephen, and l lost touch many years ago. I heard he became an accountant. Oh, and I recently Googled why a car won’t start if the exhaust pipe is blocked. I now understand the mechanics behind it; but that was something Colin knew more than fifty years ago, bless him. | 8,288 | 1 |
“Hello, Robin,” Micah said with a soft tone that screamed blind rage, “How was your first art exhibit? Was it everything you ever thought it would be?” Robin froze in her tracks, but when she started to back away into the doorway which she came from to shut the door behind her, Micah pulled a gun out of her waistband and leveled it at her. Both women were frozen in place. One out of hate, and the other out of fear. “Micah, let me explain…” “NO! I’ve heard enough from you! I can’t believe you could do this to me!” Micah lamented while cocking the hammer back of her father’s pilfered revolver, “Do you even know what you’ve done? Any clue whatsoever?” “I’m sorry about the art, okay!?” “This isn’t about my art, goddamn it! By stealing my paintings, you’ve taken the memories that inspired them! You’ve claimed experiences that don’t belong to you! You’ve stolen entire pieces of me and claimed them for your own! How dare you!?” Micah growled in pure hatred and absolute devastation. “And the lies…” she hissed, “You lied about the origins and inspirations… You changed everything and made my entire life about you! Why shouldn’t I kill you right now for what you’ve done?” “Listen, I’ll confess everything, okay? I’ll tell everyone what I did. This can be your exhibit! It’s not mine! It should be yours! Just put the gun down!” Robin had never been so scared in her entire life. “Please, don’t kill me. I’m begging you.” “I trusted you! When you offered to store my art when I became homeless, I really believed it was because you were a good person! Well, I am no longer under that particular impression, that’s for fucking sure! There’s nothing you can offer me that I’d actually take!” “What if I paid you to be my ghost artist? 50/50 off everything sold.” Micah was shaking with rage. “You must think I’m an idiot!” “We could team up! Please, let’s just team up! My fame and your talent! We’d rule the world!” Robin pleaded desperately. “Yeah, but by that, you actually mean that I do the work and you get half the credit. Not going to happen! I should shoot you right fucking now!” “No wait! Please! Stop!” Robin started to cry in terror, “Isn’t there anything at all that you want from me?” Micah thought for a moment before a twisted smile arched onto her face. “Yeah, I’ve got something I want. We’re going to make a video.” \*\*\* The Instagram Live went public and hundreds of Robin’s followers tuned in to her live feed simply labeled “I’m a Fraud and Here’s the Proof.” The video started simple, with a terrified Robin sitting in front of a blank white canvas and a tableful of painting supplies. Behind her, was a piece that premiered at the exhibition only hours before. It was of Micah’s grandmother surrounded by daisies. Robin, however, told everyone that it was actually “Olga, her cleaning lady” when interviewed about it. Robin was sobbing, tears and snot pouring all over her face and shirt as she blubbered for her life but Micah was extremely unmoved. “Confess!” Micah screamed off screen, pointing the gun directly at her head. “Micah Holden is a crazy person who thinks I stole her paintings! She’s delusional! Someone call for help! She’s got a gun pointed at my head!” The woman with the gun then fired it only inches from Robin’s face, “Then prove it!” Robin screamed, “How am I supposed to prove it, Micah!?” “Pick up a paintbrush! Recreate my painting! The one behind you! If you have the talent, it won’t be a hassle, now will it? Go on! Show everyone just how talented you are!” “You’re crazy! Please, let me go!” “NO! You stole everything from me! I have nothing! I don’t even have a roof over my head, but you’ve taken the one thing I’ve got and you stole it! Now, recreate the painting! You have everything you need, so go for it!” “I can’t!” Robin cried, completely hysterical. “And why is that, exactly?” Micah responded in a mocking tone, “Admit yourself as the fraud you are, and this all goes away. I’ll put the gun down. I’ll take the jail time I’ve clearly got coming. You will be able to no doubt successfully sue the pants off me for emotional distress among other things, but first… pick up a paint brush, and show everyone what you can do.” Robin did as she was told with shaking hands, dipping a dry paintbrush into the black paint. She tried to recreate the forms in front of her, but it was clear that she wasn’t even aware of the techniques required to do it. “Why can’t you do it, Robin? Why can’t you recreate your own art, you fucking bitch?” “Because…” Robin whimpered, “I lied…” “Oh, and what did you lie about, Robin? Be clear. Be concise. Your fans are watching. Let them know what you are.” The thief was caught and she knew it, but the words just wouldn’t come. “This isn’t fair… I just wanted to be special, too. Not everyone has talent!” Robin exploded tearfully, erupting with bitter resentment and an overwhelming sense of humiliation. “Tell everyone the fucking truth about you! Say the words!” “No! It’s not fair. Why does everyone else have something that makes them special, except for me? I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t paint or draw! I’m not exceptionally pretty or smart or talented in any way, and it isn’t fair! I just want people to think I’m worth something!” Micah screamed in frustration and anger, “You’re a liar and a thief! Tell them you stole my work! Say the fucking words, or I swear to god, I’m going to blow your brains out!” There was a sudden pounding on the studio door. “Police, open up!” The thief cried out in rage, “Please, help!” Micah responded by punching Robin in the face so hard that her nose shattered, like smashing a tomato with her fist. She stepped fully into frame now, letting the people at home see her face. “I want you to see who I am. I want you to know. My name is Micah McDonald, and this woman, Robin Ray, stole my paintings and claimed them for her own. She stole my entire livelihood. She stole everything from me! This was all I had and now I have nothing to show for it!” There were more loud knocks on the door and more police screaming, but this didn’t stop Micah from grabbing the paints and dipping her brush into the water before quickly getting to work. It took absolutely no time whatsoever to recreate the basic shapes of her painting, clearly demonstrating the techniques and style required to recreate it. “No, stop!” Robin cried, realizing what was happening. “Help, please! Hurry! Get me out of here!” The door was then kicked down and the room was buzzing with a swarm of cops. Micah didn’t know what was happening. Everything was such a massive blur. She was thrown to the ground, flat on her face, breaking her orbital bone with a deafening crunch. While being dragged out of the studio, she saw Robin sobbing, thanking the police for rescuing her. “I’m here with Micha McDonald, the artist and genius mind behind this amazing exhibit! Can you tell us about what we’re seeing right now?” the reporter said into the microphone while grinning into a camera. Micha blushed and smiled. “I’m hardly a genius. I’m just doing what I like doing. Behind me,” she explains while motioning with her hands towards a painting of flowers growing in a cage, “is a piece I painted in prison. It’s called “Growth in an Impossible Place. The muted grays and browns of the background work as symbolism of living with sadness and pain all around us. The radiant colors of the flowers demonstrate how life does find a way, even in impossible circumstances.” “That’s just lovely,” the reporter said in response. “How much of this exhibit was inspired by your incarceration?” “Pretty much all of it. I either painted or planned each piece here from the confines of my prison cell. I spent the entire 6 years locked up creating and honing my talent. My art became the center of my entire existence, and now I get the honor of sharing what I’ve created, what I’ve worked so hard on, with you today.” The reporter nodded her head as she listened. “Can you tell me about this piece here?” she asked, pointing behind her at a colorful, incredibly vivid painting behind her of a woman on an elephant in battle, holding a sword and shield in defiance of an oncoming hoard. “This is a self-portrait,” she answered with a smile. “In this painting, I’m a warlord. It was painted in prison and hung in my cell for a few years. The intent was to remind myself of the warrior that I was and to not lose my fire while locked away. I knew why I was there, after all, I deserved my punishment and accepted it, but I had to remind myself not to break down. This painting told me while at my weakest what a warrior I actually was…. People can steal your art, but they can’t take your heart. | 9,037 | 3 |
Bernie was on his way out. He had no plan on where he was going but he was quite sure that he was gonna get there somehow. He was leaving because in his mind he had to. If Charlie left he was leaving too. Charlie was the only person he knew who had escaped *MISS Ella Myers School For Little Turds*, and without her there with him it felt so much more like a prison. One night Bernie and Marcy were up later than usual. "Can't sleep Marcy." Bernie Whispered into the dark room. "Same." The darkness of the other side of the room responded. "We HAVE to get out of here."il "How?" "Did you talk to Charlie at all before she left?" "No. Not really. She never said she was gonna leave us she just did." "She has to have left some clue about how she did it right?" "She had to." The next morning Bernie and Marcy began making a map of the institution and its guards. Within a week they had finished the map and roped in several other inmates, Josh, Billy, and Molly Anne. The plan was simple the would throw a mannequin into the main court yard and wait until the guards went to investigate. Then they would steal some of the large wooden signs that could be found in most rooms that read "*Stand in line TURDS"* and use them to sled down the mountain and all the way to freedom. So the night came and the plan started as planned until they started grabbing the signs they heard guards rushing down the hall behind them. The five of them quickly disapeared into the girls bathroom and started looking for a way out. The windows were all bared up but Marcy had wandered in one of the stalls that had a wooded sign. she hadn't grabbed one yet so she grabbed this one revealing a secret passage leading into an abandoned wing of the institution. They all filed into the abandoned wing and immediantly felt chills run down their spines. Something about the hallway felt uncannily familiar to all of them and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. As they walked the scenery around them changed but continued to feel like a distorted memory that had been robbed of life. The scariest parts where when they looked back the rooms behind them didn't look like the rooms they had just walked through, and the echoing distant footsteping noisese that left them with a fear of not being alone. Suddenly the footsteps sounded uncomfortably close to them and they all held on for dear life. A nearby room suddenly revealed a tall shadow that appeared to be getting closer and closer. When the shadow turned the corner it revealed itself as Charlie who looked tired and dehydrated and collapsed into Bernie's arms. As they continue walking they see something amazing: a sign that says exit and has an arrow pionting down a hall. They follow it and see another sign and then follow that one. Eventually they see the exit door. the only problem is that its across a giant seemingly endless pit the only thing stretching over it is a pipe long and thin. Looking down there apears foggy nothing when they look back they release the path behind resembles the fogged nothing too. They begin running down the pipe toward the door. Bernie Collapses through the door into a grassy field lit by the moon. seconds later Marcy and Josh crash through the door. Next come Billy and Charlie. And after getting back up the look to see and realise that the door is no longer there and niether is Molly Anne. They still begin to celebrate but only briefly as the thought of still being trapped enters their minds. | 3,529 | 1 |
Friday night. The moon was full. An enormous bonfire burned in the Leonard family’s backyard and flooded the crisp and clean November air with thick smoke. About 25 party guests formed a circle around it. Wesley Mason sat cross-legged on the lawn. He watched as the others danced and laughed together. Getting invited to Mia Leonard’s house felt like a grand mistake. Wesley showed up at school earlier in the week and found an envelope taped to his locker—just as he’d seen on several other lockers over his four years at Twin Oaks High. He assumed it was someone else’s. Nope. Mia wrote his name on it in her signature brand of loopy cursive. Wesley tugged on the tail of his baggy white polo. His palms were moist and clammy, so he wiped them on his wide chest to dry them. He thought of ways he could join the circle without hassle. An introduction seemed too formal for a bonfire. Jokes went over well for most people, but he didn’t know any good ones. He considered walking over and complimenting Mia on her hosting prowess, but the thought of speaking out of turn upset his stomach. He waited for someone to notice him. Twenty minutes passed before Mitch Caldwell tapped him on the shoulder. “Having fun?” Wesley turned and looked up at Mitch, who was everything Wesley wasn’t: thin, fresh-faced, and confident. They shared a few classes and were friendly. Wesley nodded and flashed a pathetic smile. Mitch dropped to the ground and sat next to Wesley. They watched the bonfire together. The burnt firewood smell filled their noses. “I hate parties,” Mitch said. “No one’s ever invited me to one before.” “It won’t get more exciting than this.” “How do you know?” “You’ll realize there’s not an interesting or original thought among them. They’re like one big hive mind and Mia’s the queen.” “I don’t think they’re that bad,” Wesley said, just above a whisper. The thought hung in his mind for a moment. Before the party, Wesley couldn’t imagine saying anything complementary about someone like Brett Bass, who spent most of his time embarrassing him for a quick and easy laugh. Wesley’s sentiment changed when the football star embraced him and said he was happy to see him the moment he arrived at Mia’s party. The gesture didn’t make sense to Wesley. It didn’t matter. He took the good and sprinted with it. “There are worse people,” Mitch said. Neo-Nazis, anti-vaxxers, Cardinals fans … you name it. The worst thing about the Bonfire Buddies is that they’re so boring.” “If that’s how you feel,” Wesley said, “then why’d you come?” Mitch pursed his lips and thought of a response. A beat passed. He shrugged. “I guess I like to be proven wrong now and then,” Mitch said. “Maybe I am wrong and just don’t realize it yet. Mia’s been hosting these full moon parties since freshman year and more people come every time.” “And they keep coming back, too.” “Yeah. Maybe I’m the weird one.” “I don’t think you’re weird.” “Thanks, man.” Mitch turned to face the fire. Wesley did the same. They sat in silence and listened to the sounds of the party until a voice called for attention, bringing an end to the music and lively chatter. All eyes around the bonfire turned toward the sprawling Leonard mansion. Wesley and Mitch followed suit and looked over their shoulders. Mia Leonard stood on the second-floor balcony. The right corner of her mouth curled into a half-smile as she waved to her guests. “Hi friends,” Mia said. “As many of you might have noticed, we’ve got two fresh faces joining us tonight. I’m happy to have them here. Are you?” “We’re happy to have you here,” said the others in unison. Mitch leaned in toward Wesley and whispered. “See what I mean? Hive mind.” Mia cleared her throat. “Before we can have a good time with our new friends, we’ve got to welcome them into our little circle. It’s time to head to the rock.” The others clapped and cheered as if Mia announced they were going to Disneyland on her family’s dime. **II** Tucked away in the woods stretching far beyond the house, the rock sat at the center of a gigantic crater. It was almond-shaped and was the same size as a four-door sedan. Charred remnants of felled trees surrounded the big hole in the ground. Mia Leonard stood at the crater’s edge, with the rock serving as an out-of-this world backdrop. Wesley and Mitch stood opposite of her while the others formed a semi-circle behind them. The moon looked big enough to reach up and touch. Its pale glow hung over Mia like a Broadway spotlight. “The locals say it fell from the sky in the early 1900s,” she said to Wesley and Mitch. “That’s around the time when my family first moved to Twin Oaks and bought the land where the house is. Gramps always called this our family’s good luck charm. I believe him. I’ve seen it work.” Unlike Mia, whose doe eyes and expressive face accented her words, the semi-circle remained stoic during her spiel. They were of one mind and one body. Wesley turned to look behind him. He could see the bonfire smoke in the distance, dissipating above the tall trees. He rubbed the goosebumps on his arms. The chill was getting to him. “Although if we’re being honest, it’s not ‘luck’ that’s at play here,” Mia said. “This is about enlightenment. This rock isn’t just a rock. It links us to a world light-years away from here. A world far more advanced than we’ll ever know. All of us here are enlightened. And now, my dear, new friends, you’ll can join us and reap the benefits.” The others spoke in unison. “Welcome them, Xandu!” Wesley glanced at Mitch and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask, “What the hell is she talking about?” Mitch shrugged. Mia turned to her right and motioned for Andie Randall to step forward. Andie did as she was told. She held two red plastic cups in both hands and gave them to Mia before returning to her spot in the semi-circle. Mia approached Wesley and smiled. His face turned crimson, and he looked at his dirty white sneakers in the grass. “Why’d you come here tonight, Wesley?” “Because you invited me,” he said. The words fell out of his mouth and dropped to the ground. Mia stood close enough for him to smell her body mist. The same tropical scent lingered on the party invitation taped to his locker. “You came all the way out here and spend time with a bunch of people who don’t know you,” she said. “Why?” Wesley made eye contact with Mia. Her hair wafted in the gentle breeze. The clouds in his head trickled into his stomach and solidified, weighing him down. He spoke louder than the first time. He could see his breath as he talked. “I guess … I guess I just wanted you to like me. No one’s ever liked me.” Mia handed Wesley a cup and touched his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” she cooed. “We’re going to be good friends. Trust me. Xandu brought you here for a reason.” “Thank you, Xandu!” said the others. Wesley scratched his head with his free hand. “What do you mean?” “Xandu chose you to be here. This is the way it’s supposed to be.” “Who is Xandu?” Wesley didn’t want to ask, even though the question sat near the front of his mind. “He’s our friend,” Mia said. “From another universe. This meteorite is a gift from his planet. It connects us to him. He’s so far away, but yet he feels so close. Especially on nights when the moon is full.” Wesley’s mouth went dry as his head filled with thoughts. Everything he wanted to say jumbled together and melted into a lukewarm soup. The most basic explanation for his state of mind was a sense of low-grade bewilderment. He couldn’t fathom that Mia Leonard and the rest of the Bonfire Buddies believed this stuff. The leaves on the trees rustled back and forth. Wesley hoped it was the sound of someone lying in wait, preparing to bust out and tell him it was all a joke. It was only the wind. This was real life, and Wesley had no choice but to accept it. He stood in silence as Mia turned to Mitch, who rolled his eyes as Mia studied him from top-to-bottom. “What about you?” she said. “What brought you here, Mitch?” “I was bored,” Mitch said. “Now I’m just confused and concerned about everyone’s mental well-being.” “It’ll make sense soon,” Mia said. She offered the second cup to Mitch. “Drink this.” “I only drink Pepsi.” “This is much better than Pepsi.” “Hard to believe.” Wesley peered inside of his cup and realized the liquid inside had a faint green glow. “What is this?” he asked Mia. “It’ll lower your inhibitions and worries,” Mia said. “Having an open mind is important.” “It’s booze,” Mitch said. “That’s what booze does.” “Not exactly,” Mia said. Wesley did as Mia said and drank. He smacked his lips. The glowing green liquid tasted sweet. Mia covered her mouth with her hand, trying to conceal her laughter at the boy’s reaction. “Your turn, Mitch.” “I’m good.” Mitch tried to give the cup back to Mia. She wouldn’t take it. “The Welcoming has started. Drink.” “I don’t want to be welcomed.” “What do you mean?” “I don’t want to be part of your weird little after-school club.” “You don’t believe me,” she said. “Of course not.” “I understand,” Mia nodded. “I was the same way at first. Very close-minded about the universe and all it inhabits. That changed when a strong, pulsating sensation woke me up one night. I thought it was nothing at first and went back to sleep. Then I felt it again. Then I couldn’t stop feeling it. I asked my mom and dad if they felt it, too. They just looked at me as if I was crazy. I thought I was. I went searching for the source one night. The pulse got stronger the more I inched toward the woods. It led me to the rock. It was glowing green when I found it.” Mia took the cup from Mitch and raised it to the night sky. “It excreted this liquid from its pores. It was gross. It freaked me out. It was something out of a sci-fi movie. Before I could run and tell someone, I heard a voice call my name. It was the sweetest voice I’d ever heard. I turned back around and faced the glowing rock. The voice told me to drink the liquid. I tried to leave, but I couldn’t. So, I did what the voice said and drank. I’d never felt such power course through my body. I wanted more. Before I could get it, the voice told me to bring others into his family. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ll never stop doing it. These are my people.” “Thank you, Xandu!” said the others. “You managed to convince a bunch of other delusional weirdos to come play in the woods with you,” Mitch scoffed. “Xandu warned me that you’d be skeptical,” Mia said. “He said it’s in your nature. We’ll fix that, soon.” Mitch opened his mouth to speak, but stopped once he noticed Wesley had dropped his plastic cup. Green rock juice spilled onto the grass. Mitch tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” Wesley didn’t respond. He stared into the distance with vacant eyes. Mitch shook Wesley’s shoulder. Still no response. He shook him harder. His eyes grew wider with every passing second, and his mouth hung open. His breathing became shallow and his heartbeat took on a syncopated rhythm. He couldn’t move, speak, or think. Then everything went black. **III** Wesley collapsed to the ground face-first. He hit the dirt with a forceful thud. Mitch dropped to his knees and turned the big kid on his back. Wesley’s eyes aimed at the sky, staring at nothing in particular. His breathing slowed to a glacial pace. “What the fuck did you do to him?!” “Don’t be scared,” Mia said. “This is a good thing. Let the power course through him.” Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed 911. The call went nowhere. No service. “I’m going to get help,” Mitch said. “I’m putting an end to this.” Mitch got up and turned to run back toward the house. Brett Bass broke from the semi-circle and stood in his way. “The fuck are you doing?” Brett, tall and broad, didn’t answer. He lifted Mitch off the ground and wrapped one arm around his forehead and the other around his neck. He squeezed like a boa constrictor, primed for a kill. Mitch squirmed and clawed and did everything he could to break the grip. No dice. The world around him slipped into an empty void. Breathing became a chore and his body couldn’t fight anymore. He heard Mia’s voice echo in the distance. “Let him go, Brett.” Brett did as he was told. Mitch fell to the ground and coughed, sucking in as much air as he could to feel alive again. When his vision returned, Mitch looked up at Mia. He felt small, and she looked massive. Her eyes were different. They glowed green. He looked at the others. Their eyes were bright green, too. They outnumbered Mitch. Terror struck his brain and buzzed with the intensity of an agitated wasp’s nest. It made him nauseous. He wanted to speak, but he feared he’d projectile vomit the moment he opened his mouth. “Now, do you believe me?” Mia said. “Please,” Mitch wheezed. “Wesley needs help. I need to call for help.” “He’s not in pain. This is a natural part of The Welcoming. It’s hard to explain, but think of it like this: If the rock is a link to a world light-years away from here, drinking the juice links us to it. It courses through the body and makes us one with Xandu. Once you are welcomed, you can never break the link. We’re forever connected.” “What is Xandu? Why do you want to be linked with him?” “Xandu is going to rule this planet one day. We don’t know when, but it will happen. At night, I have dreams. I see attack ships breaking through the Earth’s atmosphere and landing in every major city. I see a massacre. People eradicated by the millions. Humanity will be extinct, except for us. Xandu’s chosen family.” “You think he won’t kill you too? How can you know for sure?” “We don’t know. It’s just what we believe.” “I don’t want any part of it.” “That’s your choice. But understand, you won’t be able to leave this place and return to your normal life. You can never go back.” “Are you going to kill me?” “To go back to society with knowledge of Xandu’s existence is impossible.” “You’re going to kill me. I wish you’d say it instead of this cryptic bullshit.” “I’m sorry. It’s what Xandu wants.” Mia touched Mitch’s shoulder. He brushed her hand away. “Friends,” she said to the semi-circle. “This was supposed to be a joyous moment. We were supposed to gain two number members for our family. Both hand-picked by Xandu. I don’t feel joy. I’m sad about what we must do.” Mitch closed his eyes and sighed. His fate was becoming clear. He opened his eyes and scanned the ground for something that could help him make an escape. The boulders and branches looked too unwieldy to use as weapons. His eyes fixated on a sharp piece of mineral laying near Mia’s feet. It must’ve broken off of the rock, he thought. That’ll do. Mitch reached for it, grabbed it, and leapt to his feet. When Brett Bass stepped toward him, he flailed the make-do weapon. “Get the fuck back!” Mitch screamed. Brett and the others obliged him. Mitch looked at Mia and pointed the sharp piece of rock toward her face. Her glowing green eyes showed no fear. “We’re getting out here,” he said. “Me and Wes. Right now.” “You’ll lose this fight,” Mia said. “We both know that.” “At least I’m fighting.” The other members of the circle watched as Mitch backed away, jabbing at them. Wesley hadn’t gotten off the ground. Mitch groaned. He walked back toward Wesley and tried to help him up. He wouldn’t budge. “We don’t have time for this, Wes. Get up. Let’s go.” Wesley didn’t move. Mitch pulled harder. “I’m not playing. Get up. Please!” Wesley sat up. He looked at Mitch, whose panicked face relaxed with relief upon seeing his eyes weren’t green. If they weren’t in the middle of a dire situation, he’d give his classmate a hug. Whatever Mia thought was going to happen didn’t. Mitch knew they still had a chance as long as they worked together. “What happened?” Brett said to Mia, speaking out of turn. “Why didn’t it work?” “He didn’t finish his drink,” Mia said. “It doesn’t take hold unless every drop is consumed.” Mitch extended his hand toward Wesley and used his strength to help him back to his feet. “Let’s get the hell outta he—” Without warning, Wesley punched Mitch in the stomach. He heaved and dropped to his knees, letting go of the sharp piece of space rock. The wasps within Mitch’s brain went into a frenzy. He couldn’t move. He did nothing when Wesley picked up one of the large boulders nearby and slammed it against his head. Blood spurted from the wound and stained Wesley’s baggy polo. Mitch tipped over and crumpled to the ground. After a few finger and leg twitches, he was gone. No one spoke for what felt like an eternity. Mia put both hands on Wesley’s shoulders. “Wesley,” she said. “Why did you do that?” He dropped the rock and hyperventilated. He thought his heart would burst from his chest and flop around for the world to see. “I dunno. I dunno,” he repeated. “Yes, you do. You’re not in trouble. Breathe.” He did as he was told, unbothered by the sight of her glowing eyes. “When I was on the ground, I saw some things. Visions, like the ones you were talking about. I didn’t finish the drink, so I guess I snapped out of it. I heard you guys talking and I guess … I guess I didn’t want him to leave and tell anyone. You told me I could be part of the group. It feels nice to be part of something.” Mia’s mouth curled into a half-smile. She looked at the stars. “Welcome him, Xandu!” The others followed her lead. Wesley Mason watched it happen with a full heart. | 17,793 | 1 |
(Micheal and his girlfriend are preparing chicken. There dog is there too.) Micheal: I sure do love spending time cooking with you American girlfreind. Girlfreind: American girlfriend?? Why did you call me your american girlfreind ( The two sip Z-Bloid Power water in unison.) Narrrator: Are you tired of having to cut and spice meat at two different and thus inconvinient times? Micheal(looks at screen): YES!! I REALLY AM? Girlfriend: I thought you said you love the time we spend cooking together. Narrator: You need BIll Bunson's Officail Spice Knife. Micheal: I do? Girlfriend: NOO! Narrator: YES! Micheal: But... Why? ( The Knife Man Walks In. and trips onto his own knife but stands back up in french.) Narrator( sings ) Weeeeelllllllll when you want to prepare chicken for your girlfriend parents. Andddddddd your terrible at managing your TIMMMMMEEE!!! THennnnnnnnn you need a spice knif for your KITT-CHINNN And you'll find that it works just finneeee. (THe Knife man starts laughing uncontrollably in a french accent.) Micheal: Ummm is he... Narrator: Side Effects may include: Death, murder, nasuea, madness, blindnesss, uncontrollable spasms, lack of fingers, laughing to death, turning invisible, losing your voice, the end of the world, graying hairs, paralasis, dementia, catching on fire, turning into a commercial regular and being trapped in a dimension that can only ever exist when someone is watching TV at home, rashes, frenchness, upest stumach and losing your car keys multible times a day. (Audience Laughs) Micheal: But it saves time? Narrator: Uh yeah. (The dog Turns Gray. And audience laughs) Micheal: I want IT! Narrator: Did you not hear the side effects. How do you think me and knife man came into existence. (Knife man dies in french. Micheal looks down for a second and then at the screen again.) Micheal: I want it? ( The Dancing Knife Ladies Come in And start dancing with Micheal) Narrator: Really?? Micheal: Come On dance friends. ( Dog turns into a hundred tiny dogs and starts dancing. The audience claps in unison three time.) (Micheals girlfreind starts dancing but trips and falls over the collapsed knife man and she disapears in french. Her parents enter and start mourning her in french.) ( Audience Laughs in french) Micheal: Chickens up!!! EVERYBODY LET"S EAT. (looks at camera) When I cook chicken I drink Z-bloid power water to keep me energized and ready to go. Narrator: Go? What are you talking about? (Audience starts screaming and yelling and the room catches fire.) ( Micheals Girlfreinds parents touch the chicken and both murder each other instantly(In french). The knife ladies fingers disapear and the start screaming in french.) MIcheal (sings) WEELLLLL when you want to prepare chicken for your girlfriends parents. Andddddd Your terrible at managing your time. Micheal tthe Knife Ladies and Narrator: THennn you need a spice knife for your Kitt-Chinnn. and you will find that it works just FINNNNNNNNNNNNE. (Knife Ladies Catch on fire in french and jump out the window of micheals apartment. Narrator and micheal: Thats alll Folks (THE WORLD ENDS IN FRENCH. | 3,273 | 3 |
It's already midnight and I just finish my work with my colleagues in the office. By the time we completed our mess — the paperworks, one of my colleagues, Ron told a suspenseful story about the missing person that become viral lately in this town. "Don't you think it's nonsense about that missing child? I mean, that can't be true, right?" Ron says unbelievably. "It's not a CHILD, Ron. She's 18." one of my colleagues replies him. Ron grabs my left shoulder as he convinced me that he was right about that missing person, "What about you, Del? Do you think this rumor is false alarm or true?" I shrug and take my shoulder bag lean into my body "Rumors are just rumors, Ron." and I walk beside him along with my 3 colleagues down to the hall. "Even if it's true, none of us know what actually happened. Can we stop talking about this? I already tired with work" Ron sighs "Well, let's call it a night. But what kind of girl who go alone in the middle of the night and what kind of parents that let their own children walk down the street alone, I mean—" "Ron, would you stop?" I yell. then together we split up, only Ron left with me. It's a little bit awkward since I yell at him and now he's kinda quiet. "Hey, why do you talk about that?" I ask to break the ice "About what? The missing child?" Ron doubled my question. "Nevermind." I already lazy to ask him further. Then he replies "Well, you're a woman, right? If that's a rumor, I'd be glad if that's only a rumor" he catches a breath, "but if it wasn't, I'm afraid it will happen again to someone else. Like you" "Oh that's sweet. But I believe nothing bad happens. I'm tough." "Well, I hope so" he looks at his watch, "It's 1:49 already? Oh damn. Hey Adel are you waiting for your Ruber now?" "Yeah, you can see it. Why?" "If my car is already here, I will ask the driver to wait, or maybe we can drive home together? It's much safer afterall." "Can we do that? But, nah, thanks. I can't just cancel my Ruber. He's on the way." I convinced him to not being paranoid after the missing child news. Plus, it would be sad for the Ruber driver if I cancelled in the last minute when he's on the way here. He just nod and a moment later my car arrives. "Hey, that's my car. I believe you're gonna be okay, right?" Ron just whispers to my ear and hands me a tiny bottle, "Just in case. To protect yourself." "What? Haha, so you're really prepared for this?" I laugh. It's a salt spray and I put it into my bag "I'm not joking, Adel!" He seems serious and a bit mad to me. He grabs my hand, "Be safe, okay?" "Well, thank you my savior! You too, be safe" I grab his hand and hug him as it was the last time to say goodbye, it is funny as well to see how terrified he was about that stupid rumor. I hop in to the car when my Ruber driver ask my name and my destination, Ron waves at me and suddenly his car arrives. I search my airpods and check my bag, then I giggle a bit when I see the salt spray he gave me. When music comes to my ear, I feel relax and lost in the rhythm. It was a random lo-fi playlist, I used to hear this to release my nerves. But something is off when I try to enjoy the music — this car smells bad to be honest. And I don't want to complain about it since I already tired from late night shift. And, is it just me or the Ruber driver sometimes take a peek at me when I tried to close my eyes for a bit. No, no, no ... it's just me being paranoid because I just heard and talked about that rumor and now if I let this continue, I only get influenced by that, so I don't want to. "So are you just came from work?" The Ruber driver asks when I almost fall asleep. "Ah, yea it looks like it." I simply reply his normal question. "Are you single?" I chock and baffle when try to drink my water, "I'm sorry?" "Are you single?" He asks the same question twice. "I don't think that's appropriate question to ask to your customer" I dare myself to say like that. And then he stares at me from the rear-view mirror, and he smiles "I'm sorry, miss. I just saw your boyfriend waves at you before. So I ask like that" "Why would you want to know?" He just remains silence and not answering mine. Yet, I'm getting uncomfortable with this situation, but my destination is about 1 hour, so I must be patient. When the things get awkward in the car, I see the view next to me, it's dark and I cannot see anything outside. To make sure where I'm headed now, I ask that driver again. "Are we still far?" "Yes, miss. Around 55 mins again." "55 minutes? I don't know that's still long to take, anyway are we passed the JCo Donuts yet?" "Yes, miss." I knew something is off. Usually I take the online taxi like this around 15-20 mins we aready passed the JCo Donuts, but he said 55 mins but we already passed the JCo Donuts, if it was me bad at math or I'm just too tired to count, It shouldn't be that long to go home tonight. And then, I see the old buildings nearby, the unknown unfamiliar places around me. "Where we headed, sir?" I ask to make sure we still on the map and not losing track, but he didn't answer it. "Sir? Are we in the track of Thamrin Boulevard?" He replies, "Yes, miss. Don't be panic, we're almost there and still on track". "But, sir. This isn't the way I used to go home, it's unfamiliar. Are you sure we're on track?" I ask him again and again to make sure he is right and not getting lost Ding! 💬 I got message from Ron, he's already home — which is weird, because Ron's house is farther than mine. It should be me who arrived first at home. He texts me whether I'm already at home or not. I reply and tell him that I'm still on my way. He confused. Then he tells me to start recording in the car, and send my live location to him on Watsap because my phone's almost die. I get anxious and scared at the same time, but I convince myself to be brave enough and get prepared for something bad, I ask the driver again, "Sir, is this true the way to Thamrin Boulevard? Are you sure we're not lost?" He keep silence and still driving along the way. Then the car stops. My heart's beating so fast, I almost lost my breath. I keep telling myself that everything is going to be fine and nothing bad happens. I don't know why all of sudden I start to activate my Find My app on my iPhone and my Apple watch. I also share my locations to Ron because I am afraid and nervous, then the Ruber driver starts talking "What are you doing? Are you calling a cop?" I keep my mouth shut because if I opened, it will sound tremble in my mouth. "Whom do you texting, hah? Are you calling a cop too?" He threatens me, "Are you deaf? ANSWER MY QUESTIONS!" I'm still silence and my hands trembling so hard, he put off his seatbelt, and turn back his body to grab my phone. I scream and avoid his hand to grab my phone "I DIDN'T" my body starts to freeze, but he won't give up that easily and still try to steal my phone rudely "You b*tch. GIMME YOUR GODDAMN PHONE!" he insists me so hard, but I already let my tears out while keep holding my phone so it won't take away from him. He got my phone but it's already dying. I already chat the call center of the app when I found out he is lying about the place that I got unfamiliar. I put off my seatbelt, I grab the sea salt spray and when he tries to come out from the car to came to my seat, he's already in front of me and I spray into his face. He pull my hair rudely, he keep saying swear words to me and slap my face because I spray his eyes with sea salt. I am terrified and at the same time crying in the middle of nowhere. Eventhough I activated my emergency call to my watch and my phone, I already hopeless if nobody comes to help me. Inside me I keep praying to God. He slam me into the ground, he's on top of me when I already cried "Please stop. I-I don't want this. Please, sir." "I already asked you. Are you single, but what did you say to me, huh? Inappropriate? Hey you b*tch this is what you must paid for being a b*tch like you" I can't bear this anymore, my body becomes weak, but I must fight for it. He touches my shoulder and start to grab it hardly. My body try so hard to fight against it. And yes I hit him with my head so hard and shove him until he fall down, now I get a little bit headache. It's my chance to runaway. I take my sea salt spray from the ground and spray to him again until its empty. I run so hard and tirelessly. It's my body that say to run and find a help. Finally, a help comes. Ambulance, Ron, and Police officers came at the same time to the place I stand. I got bruises around my face and wounds around my legs. I almost die of losing breath that night. I lost my bag and phones because the Ruber driver starts runaway when they come. Alas! The cop found him not too long after I got taken to the hospital. It wasn't a rumor that 18 girl missing news disappeared by middle at the night. It was true. She got raped and kidnapped. And the last time that girl catches a breath, he choked her and her body is still on his trunk. No wonder it smells bad when I sit in the car. | 9,123 | 1 |
The man with the freckle on his jawbone, The Marauder, looked at the black, oily water only six feet below the wooden pier that supported his black oxford shoes, and then at the policeman holding the gun pointed four feet from his chest. The policeman saw the look of indecision that he sees on every rat’s face when he has ran out of cheese to pilfer. “See if I care, bud,” said the policeman. “I’m going home tonight. It’s your choice.” **Two if By Sea** The lady with the gold pendant on her ivory skin preened in the mirror. She stepped outside the cabin and onto the deck, and heard the newsboy hawking his evening papers. The sound of the fog horn eviscerated all other sounds and she jumped. The sound of the horn drowned out the sound of the two gunshots on the pier. She walked past the Captain, and a man in a white suit and black tie and round white hat held out his hand for her to hold. She took it lightly and stepped out over the water. She stopped halfway down the gangplank and saw a gaggle of seagulls and policemen circling around a heavy black mass on the pier. An ambulance screeched in the distance, but the lady did not hear it. She was trying to decipher what the newsboy was saying: “Extra! The Marauder… custody… read about… escape.” Those are the only words she could decode. Did he say “in custody?” He has escaped? Is he escaped or is he in custody? The Marauder? How do they know it is him? She rushed down the gangway and onto the pier to buy the paper from the boy. She snatched it out of his hands and saw the headline, “Marauder Arrested, Then Makes Daring Escape.” She ran to the taxi stand and ordered the driver to the place The Marauder had always told her to go if anything ever happened. She walked down the damp alley, past the tramp warming his hands on the fire. **Three if by Air** The steel door was black and locked and so she knocked three times. A man with a gruff voice said, “nobody’s home.” She knocked two times, mustering the same response, and then one time more. This time the window slid open and then closed, open then closed, and then open then closed once more. The latch released and the heavy door creaked open a few inches. She walked down the stairs into the cold cement basement and listened to the radio: “Breaking news! The Marauder was re-captured by City Police at 3:42 this afternoon at Roosevelt Yard, just as the SS Revere was pulling into port. The mastermind criminal was shot twice before falling into the water. Sources close to the action say that a third shot was fired just seconds later and one police officer was injured. Stay tuned for more updates after this word from…” The basement, her own cold mortuary and tomb, held the stationary bodies of three men in dark suits whose only movement was to breathe in through a shared cigarette. She ran from the entombed sanctuary all the way back to the pier. She saw the police lined on the pier and the crane line lifting the Marauder’s empty vessel out of the water. With a false smile and real grace she approached the man in the white suit blocking the gangway. “Beg your pardon dear, I seem to have left my watch in my cabin.” She looked in her black clutch for her ticket stub, but only saw the pistol she had snuck out of the desk in the cold cement basement. “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll go check for you.” “No, Sir. I prefer to do it myself. Is that is alright?” “Certainly,” he said, smiling, and moved the stanchion out of her way with a slight bow. He held his hand out for her to grasp, but she brushed past him, as if he had never been there at all. She leaned against the railing, looked down at the pier swarming with police, and saw the body bag being loaded into the ambulance. Some policemen were smoking cigarettes, some were looking at the lifeless bag and laughing at a joke that, had it been visible, would have nicely matched the color of the Marauder’s skin when pulled out of the water. With her right hand she took off her left shoe, with her left hand she took off the right. She set them side by side on the deck, as if she intended to come back for them later. On the back of her neck she felt around for the little metal clasp and unfastened it, then took the gold pendant off her chest and looked at it. After three seconds it made a ker-plunk sound when it hit the surface of the water. All of the police looked over to see what the noise was, but before they could guess, they heard the balls of lead piercing the air around them and ricocheting off the cement walkway. The policeman who had made the joke was hit in the chest and laid down on the pavement without moving. The rest of them drew their pistols and ran behind the ambulance and hid behind bulwarks and boxes. The young woman fixed her hair, climbed the taffrail of the passenger liner, and threw the gun into the water. Then she dove in after it and after the pendant that The Marauder had swiped for her because she adored it like he adored her. She laid on the soft sea floor with her pistol by her foot, the shell casing from the Marauder’s pistol by her head, and the sapphire pendant by her broken neck. ​ \*\*\* Follow on twitter. | 5,271 | 2 |
“I think I can make it,” Crawford said as he was staring at the fence. Beckwourth swung his pickaxe down upon the rocks. “No you can’t Crawford. Remember what happened to Wheeler when he tried? He didn’t even make it to the waterline”. “I can at least try” Crawford responded. Crawford and Beckwourth had been rotting away in the little POW Camp known as Fort Henry since the war began. Not many guards were stationed here though as its greatest threat to would be escapees wasn’t its guards, nor its fences, but rather the rapid current that ran between the waters that separated the island from the mainland. However many prisoners still took their chances to cross the current, and many prisoners died trying. Beckwourth wiped the sweat from his shaggy beard and stared up at the guard tower. There sat an old soldier many in the camp knew as “Killer Joe”. Apparently he was some sort of war hero in his day but now spent his time staring at men breaking rocks on account is his poor eyesight. Men were always trying to make a break for it on his shift because they underestimated the old timer. “Besides, I heard from the guards the other day our boys are putting together another offensive. This war will be over in a few months and we’ll all get out of here”. Beckwourth said glancing back at Crawford. However, Crawford’s eyes never left the dusty fenceline. “I can’t wait a few months,” he said as he slid out a slip of paper from his uniform pocket and handed it to Beckwourth blankly. “Luanne tells me the baby’s coming in October. If I’m not a good soldier, the least I can be is a good father and be there for her.” Beckwourth read over the letter. He remembered Crawford telling him his wife was pregnant some time ago, but he never realized just how much time had passed since then. “Thunder Bay is at least 300 miles Westward from here, past the trenches, past the woods and far beyond that water. Cmon get back to work we’ve gotta meet our quota for the day”. Beckwourth then was preparing to hand back the letter when Crawford unbuttoned his blue jacket and tossed it to the dirt and turned his head and extended his hand. “You’ve always been a good friend to me Beckwrourth, when this war is over I want to buy you a drink sometime”. Beckwourth stared at his hand for a moment and composed an argument in his head to deter his moronic friend from trying to escape, but it was no use. So he shook his hand and said back. “You always were a good swimmer then, at least give us a good show”. Crawford smiled back before darting towards the fence. All in an instant all the other prisoners began hollering and cheering as their would be hero began crawling underneath the fence. It only took him half a second before he made his way to the other side and Joe raised his rifle and fired a shot and a cloud of dust sprang up from the ground and Beckwourth gripped his pickaxe in anticipation. Joe racked his rifle back again and fired while the crowd watched in horror as a bullet ripped through the top of Crawford’s earlobe and blood flowed freely to the ground beneath him. But yet he ran as if he hadn’t noticed. By the time Joe racked back his rifle again Crawford was already in the water and swimming for freedom. By now every guard was past the fences and heading towards the waterline as the prisoners were still hollering. Beckwourth didn’t feel his fingers bleed as he nearly pressed his body to the barbed wire fences trying to get a look at what would happen to his friend. Then Joe aimed his rifle and the shot rang out loud and clear. A spout of water and blood came up and Crawford sank down in an instant. The cheers then died down and Joe smiled confidently as he racked back the rifle. It appears he was as good of a shot as he ever was. The guards didn’t need to raise their voices as the prisoners slumped back to their rocks and began working again. Beckwourth remained at the fence for a few moments longer before he too went back to work like the others. Almost a year later Beckwourth found himself sitting on a stone cold floor reading through the lengthy casualty section of a worn out newspaper in the aftermath of the “Great Offensive” when a fellow prisoner came in and spoke. “You missed mail call”. Beckwourth only turned a page and shrugged. “Anything for me?” The man dropped a letter at his feet before leaving. Beckwourth then leaned down and picked it up and excitement lit up his eyes when he read that it came from Thunder Bay. He then ripped open the envelope and looked over a photograph of Crawford with a bandage wrapped around his chest sitting next to Luanne holding their three month old baby girl with six words written on the back. “I told you I’d make it”. | 4,750 | 1 |
Once a month, without fail, a fresh bouquet of white lilies were carefully put on our son's nightstand. His room, squeaky clean for years, still carried his smell and all the memories, good and bad. Do you know what I miss now, more than anything? The messy room. The toys scattered all over the place. I miss telling him for the eleventh time that day that he needed to put away his stuff once he finished playing. I miss telling him I was tired of having to clean up after him. I miss the socks on the floor, and I miss the food stains on his clothes. I miss his smile and all the noise he made. I miss having to tell him endless times to put away the games because dinner was ready. I miss having him complain that he didn’t like the food. I miss all that. He has been gone for four years now. One day he was there, and then, not. Just like that. He left school, got on the bus, and that was it. Never to be seen again. He would’ve been seventeen this year. I wonder what he would be like at seventeen. Would he be in love now? Would he be angry at the world? Would he go on to break records in sports, or master medicine at twenty five? Would he work as a barista hoping to land some big role in Hollywood or would he be a normal working man? I guess I’ll never know. I was at work when I got the call from Mrs. Borden that Jason didn’t come home.. She was our neighbor for years and years. A retired nurse, who welcomed us to the neighborhood, always took care of Lizzy during the pregnancy, and was an all around good person. She was like our trusty grandmother. After Jason was born, she acted as our babysitter. I hate to say it, but sometimes I felt he liked her more than us. We were the grumpy parents that had all the rules, and she was the do what you want and have some ice cream as a reward type of person. Naturally, when Jason was old enough to ride the bus from school, he would hop off the bus at home then wait for us to arrive at her place. “What do you mean he didn’t come home, Mrs. Borden?” “I was outside in the garden tending to my flowers. I don’t know how, but I lost track of time and when I looked at my watch I realized that it was more than two hours since Jason was supposed to arrive. I went over to your house, tried to open the door but it was locked. I called out, but got no response. There is no one at home. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have the school number to call to see if he’s still there. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do” “Calm down Mrs. Borden. Let me call the school to see if he’s still there. I’ll call you back” But he wasn’t. Not at school, not at home. I called my wife. We got off work and immediately went home. I called the police and they were there in no time. It was a small town. Officer Reid was the closest and was the one who got the call. He arrived at our house, hands on hips, looking around, with an aura of calmness. It’s sad to think that he probably has dealt with a few cases of this nature, to already be sedated to these kinds of situations. His demeanor gave us hope that this was probably just a scare. Nevertheless we were pretty stressed when we met him at the door. And he could tell. “John, Lizzy, let’s all calm down, and try to think things clearly. If your son is indeed missing, we need to go over things carefully so as to not waste time. But I think it’s a bit early to start sounding the alarm. So, let’s just relax and take a big breath” “How can we calm down Reid? He’s not at school and he’s not at home. It’s been hours, and no one has seen him” “Have you called any of his friends' parents, to make sure he’s not at any of their houses?” “Yes, we did. No one has seen him.” “What did they say at school?” “He was there the whole day and attended all classes. Didn’t miss one” “What about the other kids' parents? Did you ask them to check with their kids, if they saw Jason get on the bus, and get off the bus here at home?” “Some weren’t sure, but Zack’s kid says Jason got off here at home. He’s sure, because he said that Jason tripped coming out of the bus and fell. It made him laugh.” “Ok. That narrows down things. Do you have any reason to suspect that Jason would run away to some friends house, or some girls house?” “I don’t know. I don’t think so. We called everyone we thought of, before you got here. Nobody has seen him. And I think if Jason had a girlfriend we would’ve suspected something by now. But I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll call his friends.” “Don’t. I’ll get my colleagues to do that. They work faster and they know what to ask. We need to go to Jason's room. I need you to tell me if anything looks off. Any missing clothes or any missing belongings.” Officer Reid then got on the radio and asked for backup. They would arrive in five minutes’ time. We all went into Jason’s room, but nothing was missing. All his clothes were either on the floor, the bed, the chair or the closet. There were no missing shoes. His gameboy was still on the nightstand, and there was no way he was going anywhere without it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. By the time we finished sweeping the room, backup had arrived. We went downstairs with Officer Reid and he started giving out orders to the other officers. “Dave, here is a list of Jason’s friends. Go there and ask around if they noticed something out of place recently with Jason. Ask if he was seeing anyone as well. But before you do that, sweep the area to see if he’s around somewhere. Just to be sure. Anything you find, report back to me. David, you and me are going to Mrs. Borden’s house and then we’re going to pay a visit to Mr. Richard.” “Mrs. Borden’s house? Why? Just go to that creep’s house first! I’ll go there myself!” - my wife yelled. “Lizzy, don’t make things harder than they already are. I never take anything for granted. We do this right and by the book. Better to be safe than sorry. Let’s go.” “Then John’s going with you. You’re going to end up giving that poor woman a heart attack” We went over to Mrs. Borden’s. Lizzy stayed behind, trying to remember other people she could call. When we got there, she was inside, pacing around, in a pile of nerves. Her hands trembled more than mine. “I’m so sorry John, I’m so sorry!” - she cried “What are you talking about, Mrs. Borden? It’s not your fault. Please calm down and stop crying. We are going to find him. We need to have a clear head and think about everything very carefully. Everything is going to be ok.” - I said, trying to calm her down. “Mrs. Borden, I need you to tell me what happened this afternoon. Where were you when Jason supposedly got off the bus?” - Reid asked. “I was in my garden in the back. I bought a bunch of lily buds yesterday and was planning on planting them today. I was taking out the weeds and tending to the other flowers first. I guess I lost track of time, and by the time I checked my watch, it was almost four” “And at what time does he usually arrive?” “Around one thirty” “And he usually comes here first? Or does he go home and then come here?” “He always goes home first. To leave his backpack and get that electronic game of his. Ever since Lizzy and John gave him that, he was always playing on it. I usually hear the bus arriving and go inside to prepare his lunch. But I swear I didn’t hear anything today. Dear lord, help me” - and she burst into tears again. “Now, now, Mrs. Borden. Calm down. It’s no one's fault. Can you show me where your garden is?” “I’m sorry for this Mrs. Borden. They are just eliminating every possibility.” - I said, ashamed to even suspect she did anything. The officers search around her garden and her house. They found nothing. It was as she said. The garden had been slightly dug up for a new batch of plants, there were a few bags with old dead flowers inside, some weeds scattered around, empty pots and gardening tools. The inside of the house was still smelling of her godly homemade food that was meant for Jason. But as expected there was nothing unusual to be found. “Can we please go to the other guy's house now? I think we’ve wasted enough time here Reid.” - I said, starting to lose my patience. “You don’t expect me to let you come with us, do you? You’re not going anywhere near that house, understood?” “Oh yes I am! We all know that if something happened, that pedophile most likely did it.” “Do you really want to waste time on this, right now? I have half a mind to handcuff you to Mrs. Borden’s fence.” After a bit more back and forth, I understood this was a battle I wasn’t winning and I was the one wasting time, so I just went home to Lizzy. “No one knows anything John. I don’t know what else to do. What are we going to do? Oh god, John” “He’s going to turn up Lizzy. We have to believe it’s going to be alright. By the end of the day he’s going to be back here. You’ll see. They’re going over to that creep’s house now” “I swear if that man even thought of Jason… I’ll kill him, John.” “You and me both.” After about an hour of pacing around in the living room, Officer Reid came back. “So? Please tell me something good, Reid.” “I’m only doing this because it’s you two. If any of my superiors even get a whiff that I told you something, I’m going to have serious problems. I just want you to know that we might have something. Do you understand?” We both stared and waited, hearts in hands. “We found some things in his house. Things that belong to kids.” “What kind of things?” Richard D. Crow. A convicted pedophile that lived a few houses down. He was fired for allegedly molesting one of his students back when he was a music teacher. He never once called for his innocence. He knew what he was, and so did we. In a small town community, word gets around fast, and so everyone knew they should avoid him and that place. In the ensuing days, a very thorough investigation was made on that house and that man. They found backpacks, books, school material like pens and pencils and rubber, they found pieces of clothing and stuff like that. Most of it belonged to our community’s kids. Most importantly, to us at least, they found Jason’s bulbasaur cap. The police kept him and interrogated him for days, while they searched every inch of that house. No signs of Jason. Nothing that pointed to him ever being there. Except for that cap. All the other stuff they found, turns out he had been stealing from kids. Not directly stealing, but whatever he found lost that belonged to kids, we would just take home. Most of it was identified and returned. It was a shock to everyone, when they released him, because no evidence pointed to him ever doing anything wrong, other than taking things that didn’t belong to him. As for Jason's cap, he told the police that he found it on the street. Unfortunately, in trying to prove that Jason was wearing that cap that day, the police found out that Jason’s friend Mitch had thrown the cap out of the bus window as a joke. So it was plausible that Richard had found it on the street as he said. I couldn’t accept that. That man had done something to Jason. It was obvious to anyone who thought about it for a second. After Jason jumped off the bus, he went back down the street to get the cap, and that’s when Richard took him. I got together with a group of friends, all of them dads, and we decided to pay a visit to Richard D. Crow. We beat that man for hours, and never once did he admit what he had done. But we knew. We knew. I saw I wasn’t getting Jason back, no matter what I did, so I took what I could from him. We got a piece of rope, and that was it. Last thing he did was apologize for being what he was. They found his dangling body the day after. They knew we had done it, but just like it had happened to our purple little friend before, they couldn’t prove anything. Deep down, I know they were glad that was the case. Nobody ever talks about what happened back then anymore. Maybe some reference here or there, but it's mostly forgotten. Like a bad dream that fades away with time. Mrs. Borden died last week, out of nowhere. She was still in her seventies, and to our knowledge, in good health. A heart attack in the middle of the night. Lizzy is taking it the hardest. To her it felt like losing a mother. The neighborhood grandma is no more, and there was a void looming around our community. There was a huge funeral and the whole town, except for a few minor unknowns, attended the funeral. We all cried and reminisced about her life. After what happened to Jason, Lizzy spent most of her time over at Mrs. Borden’s house. Lizzy needed the comfort and the company of her surrogate mother. They spent most of their time together in the garden, tending to the white lilies. Lizzy had started to spend less and less time with me. I think my face reminded her of Jason and she couldn’t handle it. We didn’t expect any inheritance from her. She was a widow, with no kids. She had us, the community and a few distant relatives. To our surprise, she left us something. All of her possessions were to be sold at auction and the subsequent money raised was to be given out to invest in the community, as per her will. With the exception of her house. She left us the house. And also, a letter, sealed, only to be read by me and Lizzy. “Dear John and Lizzy, As you both know, me and Dan were never able to have kids. I never got the chance to share the love that I had with a son or a daughter, and that pained me for most of my life. They were long and painful years, always feeling an emptiness inside my own four walls. That was until you two came into my life. The day that you and Lizzy arrived next door. Both me and Dan liked you from the start, and by the end, we considered you our very own children, and your boy Jason, our very own grandson. I felt so happy that words cannot begin to express the feeling of love I have for you three. It is my final wish to give you rest and closure, like you gave to me while I was still alive. Everyday I feel my heart skipping a beat, feeling it get weaker and weaker. I write this letter, knowing that I am not long for this world. Everynight I stay awake, haunted by my dreams. Haunted by what happened to Jason. Haunted by what I did. Sorry for what I put you through. Sorry for the years of pain and misery that I caused you. Sorry for leaving the hope alive that one day he would come back, when I knew that he wouldn’t. I was a coward. I was selfish. I lost Jason, and I didn’t want to lose you too. I was going to confess, but when I saw your faces, I couldn’t go through with it. After a lifetime of asking God for children, I couldn’t lose all three in one day. I couldn’t. But now that I am six feet under, and on my way to hell, I have to give you peace. Jason got home on time that afternoon. I was in my garden, and as soon as I heard the bus I went to the front door to meet him. He was complaining about a headache, and so I went to get some medicine. But you know how Jason was with taking pills. He was into the whole conspiracy that the government uses medicine to control us. Not wanting to listen to that silly talk, I took a few aspirin and crushed them into a glass of juice. It was just to make the headaches go away. I wanted him to feel well. But I took the wrong medicine out of the cabinet. They all look the same. I read the label and knew I had given him a very dangerous dose of pills. I froze and didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to do anything. I didn’t know what to do. Given my experience as a nurse in my working years, I knew I had killed him. There was nothing I could do. A few minutes after, he started to feel woozy and complaining about his stomach. And then he started convulsing. And then he laid there, very still. His heart was no longer beating. I panicked and I knew I had to hide him. All I could think about was you two. What you would think of me. I thought about losing him and you. I couldn’t let that happen over a mistake. I had to do something. The only thing that came to mind was to hide Jason. And I did it, in the garden. I buried Jason in the garden. I dug so fast. So fast. I was gentle with him. I kissed him in the forehead before throwing him into the hole. I had no time to plant anything on top of it, so I had to improvise. I threw some bags of seeds and pots on top of the freshly disturbed earth. And I did a very good job hiding what had happened. I remember the terror I felt when the officers were looking around in my garden. But who would suspect me? It was actually John who called them off and yelled at them to go do something more productive than looking around in my backyard. Even so, I don’t think that the thought of me doing something ever really crossed their minds. A few days later, when everything started to simmer down, I planted all those lilies that Lizzy loves, on top of Jason. In a way, not wanting to sound insane, me and her took care of him even in death. I gave love to all of those lilies. I talked to them like I was talking to him. Every single day. I told him how you were. I told him what was going on around town. It was like he was never gone. When they were all grown and ready to be picked, I started giving them to Lizzy. I told her to put the lilies in Jason’s room because it would bring you luck and hope. But I did it because that’s where they belonged. That’s where he belonged. I wanted to bring him back so much, but the lilies were the best I could do. At least in some way, he was back in his room, like Lizzy and you always hoped he would someday be. | 17,602 | 3 |
Hey guys, I’m not sure if this is the right place to be telling this, however a buddy of mine told me about this forum, and I thought portraying my account through words may help me. If you guys have any questions or comments about my experience please leave them below, I would love to discuss. My name is Pat and recently I have been struggling to cope with an experience I had when I was a kid. Its impact has been considerable, and ever since I have struggled to speak of it. I know as well as you do, that we have all experienced moments in our life that are unexplainable, and it seems that no matter how hard we try to make sense of it, nothing can seem to shake the eerie and chilling feeling that comes with recalling those memories. There have been few moments in my life where I seriously felt like what had just happened to me would haunt me forever, but on this fateful evening so many years ago that unfamiliar feeling flowed through me for the first time. If I can recall correctly I was around six or seven years old, and had just started to really understand the nuances of life and the fears that every human suffers from. From a very young age I was adventurous and enjoyed exploring and learning about things most individuals would consider stupid or mundane. Stories of horror and the macabre were to me at this age nothing but fiction, however, it still seemed to intensely peak my interest. My perspective on the plausibility of such horrific events taking place was no different than my perspective on the plausibility of my mother’s plants forming mouths and singing Green Day. I truly believed that the stories that pulled me towards the edge of my seat would stay in their books, internet forums, and movies but after visiting my grandparents, everything I believed and understood changed for good. My father grew up in a small town in the far north sector of Minnesota. His town sat approximately 90 miles from the Canadian border, and was said to be in the “Heartbeat of Minnesota’s Iron Range.” His town sat in the mining heavy part of the state, and the nature surrounding it was stunning. I have been back a few between adolescence and adulthood, and am always struck by how dense the forest is, and how empty the town seems. Having grown up in one of the largest metropolitan areas in the nation, such a small and empty town brought upon me an uneasy feeling. I was used to traffic, noise, the hustle and bustle of people, and the ever present sight of development. However, to me it seemed as if this town had been built, and then just left to fend for itself against the power of nature and time. The buildings looked old and outdated, and the residents of the town were the same. My dad used to tell stories of his childhood in this town, and to this day, I don’t know if those were actual events or just figments of his imagination. These stories belonged in a book, as each was worth its own weight in gold. For example, my dad liked to tell the story about how when he was young, in his backyard was a stump that he liked to sit on. One day as he was relaxing on the stump, most likely deep in thought, he heard a noise behind him and saw a cat just out of reach, perched on the fence. As he stared at it, the cat began to make strange noises. Thinking it was nothing my dad spun around and got comfortable again. As sudden as a strike of lighting, there was a sharp pain on his head as he realized in horror on his head was the cat, claws deep in his scalp. He remembers screaming and flailing his arms in an attempt to get it off. His mother rushed outside, drawn by the sound of his screams, but by then the perpetrator was long gone. It was stories like these that I grew up listening to, so when something strange happened to me the first time I visited his hometown, I had prepared myself but not enough. Here is my account: take it as you wish. My Account: As I feasted on the cheerios in my bowl, my parents told me that they would be gone tonight, and that we were going to be spending the evening with our grandparents. My older sister, sitting next to my younger brother, asked my parents what time they would be back. My dad said they weren’t sure yet, but that we would probably be sleeping by the time they arrived home. As I finished off the last few cheerios that floated in my bowl, I thought about what adventures would foretell me today, smiling as I finished the remaining cereal and stood up from the table. After I changed into what my mom liked to call my "outside clothes", I went with my older sister out into the dense forest that surrounded my grandparents house. The silence of the forest was oddly peaceful, and brought me into a state of pure enjoyment. The rays of sun peeked through the canopy above us, laying blissfully on my face as my sister and I wandered through the trees that surrounded us on every side. The air was surprisingly cool and still and combined with the old tall trees, created an ever more peaceful environment. After a while my sister and I retraced our steps back to my grandparents house, taking off our shoes before opening the back door, welcomed by lunch on a Styrofoam plate. After lunch, with boredom kicking in, I wandered downstairs to the basement and began to scrounge through the various boxes that were stacked in every corner. As I dug through piles of miscellaneous items, I became slightly disturbed as I began to notice that each box had an abundance of clown related paraphernalia. These clowns looked oddly sad, and as I looked around me I realized each wall had multiple paintings of men dressed as clowns. There were also shelves with clowns and ancient dolls propped up, smiling at me eerily. I didn't like the cold, trapped feeling I was getting from this room, so I closed up the boxes I had just dug through and turned off the lights before bolting up the basement stairs. As the afternoon rolled by, I was called to the living room by my parents, stating they had an exciting announcement for myself and my siblings. I listened as my parents told us that we would be going to a small theme park nearby with our grandparents while they were at dinner. I jumped up and down, yelling yes over and over again. My brother squealed, clapping his hands together, as my older sister laughed at our display of joy. When the sun began to disappear under the horizon, my parents said their goodbyes to those of us staying behind and headed out the front door. Shortly after my parents left, my grandparents packed myself and my siblings into their car and off we were on another adventure. As we drove, my thoughts wandered and the clowns that seemed to have watched me as I dug through my grandfather’s boxes. Along with the basement, the rest of the house gave me an uneasy feeling. It was hard to pinpoint, but I knew in my subconscious something within the walls of the house was wrong. The rooms, aside from the living room, were cold and uncomfortable. With the lights off I could almost imagine something waiting for me in the dark, crouched around the corner with a bone chilling grin on its face. I tried desperately to shake the thought as we neared the parking lot adjacent to the theme park, and as the lights and sounds of excitement emanating from the attendees filled the quiet night, I finally began to relax. The theme park wasn’t inherently big, but it was enough for a six year old like myself to enjoy. I loved the thrill of roller coasters, that sudden empty feeling in my stomach mixed with adrenaline was the perfect source of dopamine for a six year old like myself. With a full stomach and a heart bursting with joy, I finished my fifth ride in a row on what I now deemed was my favorite roller coaster and then set off to find my grandparents. As I made my way through the crowds of people, I saw that some of the people around me had stopped and were blankly staring in my direction as I passed. I tried my best to ignore their gaze, but with each passing moment I felt as if there were more and more eyes. The crowd was intoxicating, and I was beginning to sway. The claustrophobia painted an image in my mind of myself in the garbage compactor from Star Wars: A New Hope doomed to death by a rudimentary hydraulic press. With panic settling in, I lifted my head and scanned the crowd in front of me hoping I would see any sign of a familiar face. Just left of the center was a girl with half of her face showing, beckoning me towards her. She had her left arm lifted and was partially turned around with one visible eye trained on me. I squinted to make out her features against the chaotic background of the crowd, and felt a rush of excitement when I realized it was my sister. I leapt towards the first visible gap in the crowd and pushed myself towards my sister's direction. I wonder if this is what traffic feels like, I thought as I waited for an open space to slide through. As I pushed through the last row of strangers, I came to where I had seen my sister standing and abruptly stopped when the spot she had been occupying was now empty. In a panic I looked left and right, wiping tears forming in my eyes with the back of my hand. Through my blurred vision I saw my sister standing a little ways from me and was then struck by a wave of chills. She was standing up straight, stiff as a board with her arms glued to her sides. She was staring at me blankly, an unnaturally big smile pasted on her face. In a robotic manner she lifted her left arm and raising one finger signaled once more for me to follow her. I no longer felt the excitement I had when I first saw her, and was instead hesitant to move in her direction. Desperate to reunite with my grandparents though, I decided I needed to follow her and as I waited for the crowd to break slightly I saw my sister slowly turn around and then break into a sprint, disappearing from sight. Her second disappearance felt like a punch to the gut, and I doubled over from nausea. THAT’S ENOUGH! WHY DOES SHE THINK THIS IS FUNNY? THIS ISN’T FUNNY! I just want a warm shower and some cold ice cream. I just want to find them, I thought as my breath returned to a regular pace. I turned to my right and started walking. There was no plan I was following, I just needed to move and get away from the crowd so that I could try and formulate a coherent thought. Directly in front of me was a snack stand, with metal tables and chairs adjacent to it. I crossed the uneven concrete and dropped my weight into one of the metal chairs. How can I contact grandma and grandpa? I thought, I don't even know their phone number. I do know Papa's though, and I think I can remember Mama's. My rescue plan came to me all at once, and I stood up from my chair and walked towards the open window of the snack stand. "Excuse me sir" I said quietly, the voice of my dad saying Don't Talk to Strangers audible in my head. "Hey there lil fella, what can I help you with?" said the old man as he leaned out the window, a welcoming smile visible on his wrinkled face. "Do you have a phone? I lost my grandma and grandpa and I don't know where to go. I am very lost." "Of course I do. Would you like me to call them? I can put it on speaker phone for you." "Uh, yes please. I don't know my grandparents phone number though. Can I call my papa instead?" "Sure thing, come inside the stand. Let's get you away from the crowd." he said, turning around to unlock the door on the side of the small stand. I hesitated but stepped inside and was instantly comforted by the familiar smell of fried food. "Thank you sir, I don't know how I lost them. It happened so fast." I whispered, staring at my shoes while I stood awkwardly against the counter behind me. "Don't mention it Kiddo. You see, I have a few grandchildren myself, so I know how worried your grandparents and parents must be right now. What's your name son?" "Patrick sir, but you can call me pat." "Well it is very nice to meet you Pat. What is your dad's phone number, let's call him and get you home." he said, still smiling warmly at me. As he entered my dad's phone number and the line began to ring, I took in deep breath of air, attempting to slow the flood of emotions building within me. After two or three rings, my dad's voice broke the silence. "Hello? Who is this?" "Hi, my name is Walter Schumacher, I have your son Pat. I run one of the snack stands at the forest hills amusement park. He came to stand and explained to me that he was lost and needed to call his parents. I could sense he was upset and since I have some grandchildren myself I knew he needed to be someplace safe." After a moment of silence my dads voice echoed through the phone, "Mr. Schumacher, thank you for finding him. There is no feeling like knowing your child is lost, I know you have probably experienced that before." After Walter told my parents his exact location, and they had conveyed that location to my grandparents, I was treated to a warm hot dog and a bag of Cheetos, courtesy of my new friend. With the last bite of the hot dog headed to my stomach, I looked up to see my grandparents quickly walking towards the stand, my sister and brother by their sides. Walter opened the side door and walked me outside to my grandparents who immediately scooped me up and held me for a moment before setting me down. Turning to Walter, my grandmother said, "Thank you so much for finding Pat and keeping him safe. I'm Jenny Andrews and this is my husband Dan." "Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, it's so very nice to meet you! Pat seems like a great kid, and I just couldn't let him go back into that crowd all by himself. Too many possibilities for danger." Walter said, reaching down to tousle my blonde hair. "We were so worried about him. We have been looking everywhere for him. No one saw him and we couldn't seem to pinpoint where he was. The call from his mother felt like the grace of God, you sir are a lifesaver!" "It's my pleasure, I love kids and am always looking to help." Walter turned his face to me and as I looked up at him he said, "Enjoy your night kid, be safe and don't run off anymore." I laughed and nodded before stepping towards my grandma. She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards her hip. "What do you say Pat?" she said briefly motioning towards Walter. "Mr. Walter, thank you for helping me. The free food was delicious. You helped me a lot." Kneeling he said, "Pat, you don't need to say thank you. If you were my age and in my shoes you would have done the same thing. But don't worry you have a long ways to go before you get to my age. Be safe kid, have a nice drive home." Walter stood, shook my grandparents hands, and then headed back towards the shack door that stood slightly ajar. As he walked back into the shack, and shut the door behind him, my grandmother turned to me and with sad eyes said, "Pat, we are so sorry we didn't stay with you. I hope you can forgive us. Your parents weren't happy to find out we had lost you. We feel so responsible." with an air of confusion she said "Your grandpa and I still don't understand how no one saw you." "But Grandma," I said, "Stace saw me just a little while ago. She kept running from me, but I just couldn't seem to catch up!" I felt anger again as I looked at my sister who stood next to my grandpa, an honest confusion and worry visible on her face. "Pat, your sister has been with us the whole time. You might have thought you saw her in the crowd, but she was glued to my hip the whole time." "No she wasn't, she stopped twice and beckoned for me to come. She just kept smiling at me like she wanted to scare me more than being lost already did! The first time she just stood there and I lost sight of her, but the second time she turned and sprinted away into the crowd. I hate Stace." I said glaring at my sister who looked even more perplexed. "Pat you sure you saw me" my sister said, "Grandma is telling the truth, I was with her the whole time.""But you were there, I SAW YOU!" Tears were now starting to form in my eyes, the image of her unnatural smile was all I could see. I tried wiping the tears away, but they had already broken their seal and were pouring down my face. My grandma wrapped me in her arms and hugged me until the heaving sobs had subsided. "Pat", she said "Let's get home. This whole event was exhausting, it's been a long night. How about some ice cream when we get home?" "Yes grandma, ice cream sounds great. I'm sorry for getting lost. I'm also sorry for saying I hate you Stace. I guess I was just seeing things." I then lowered my head and went silent. "Pat, don't blame yourself. We forgive you, just glad you are back in once piece. As for your sister, it was probably the fear and anxiety that caused you to see her. She wouldn't mess with you like that." grandma said, turning to face my sister. "You forgive him, right Stace?" "Of course I do grandma, he is just a little kid." she smiled at me before saying, "I know he doesn't mean it." her statement ending with a wink in my direction. "Thank you Stace, thank you grandma and grandpa. Can we go home now?" "Of course we can, off to the car we go!" my grandpa said in a harmonious tone, as he pulled the car keys out of his pocket and picked up my little brother to lead the way to the car.\\ The drive home was silent, between the hum of our car on the road and the darkness of the night around me I quickly fell asleep. As my mind slowed down, and I faded from reality, dreams filled my mind. I saw myself from the third person, sitting asleep in the middle row. I was nothing more than an observer now, confused but comfortable. I saw my grandpa driving the car, my grandma sitting next to him, an indiscernible conversation taking place between them. My younger brother was also fast asleep just a seat over from me sucking his thumb and as I brought my gaze back towards the front of the car I saw my sister. I could see her through the rear view mirror sitting straight up, having positioned herself in the middle of the car’s back row. She had one arm resting rigidly by her side, and the other arm was stiff and pointing straight up, bending at the wrist where her hand touched the roof. Her smile was wider than before, and there was drool dripping from the corners of her mouth. I watched in horror as she craned her head to the right, stopping when her gaze met my sleeping body. With one fluid motion she swung her arm in my direction and then grabbed my throat. I tried to scream at myself to wake up, but as she tightened her grip, I watched helplessly as my face and lips began to turn blue. She was now laughing, a deafening guttural laugh, my skin tone had now gone from blue to a dark violet shade of purple. Desperate to make it stop, I reached for my sister and pulled her shoulders towards me. She didn’t budge. I tried again, but to no avail. I was starting to panic now, pulling and tugging at her, watching as she only tightened the death grip she had on my throat. As far as I could tell, she didn’t see me or register that I was there. All she was focused on was my body asleep in the middle row. I need to wake myself up, it was now the only option that made sense to me. I positioned myself next to where I was sleeping and began to repeatedly hit my face. The sleeping version of me, didn't seem to register that he was being assaulted. Not only was my deranged sister choking me out, but in an almost theatrical performance I also was now punching myself hard enough to draw blood. My cheeks, forehead, and lips were purple, due to my lack of oxygen. My nose was broken and blood poured down my face and into my mouth. Horror spread itself through my body when my I saw my sister suddenly yank her hand back, her iron grip still trained on my throat. With a wet, soggy sound, my throat was ripped from my neck, blood spraying the car landing on my brother and grandparents. Though soaked in blood they didn’t seem to register what had just happened, and as I took in the crime scene before me that now looked like some sick version of modern art, my vision started to fade to black. I gasped violently as I sat up in my seat, goosebumps lining my small frame. I reached for my throat, afraid it was torn out, but realized that was silly as I had just gasped for air. My grandparents must not have realized I was having a bad dream, as my grandma turned slightly when I woke and formed a pleasant smile. "Hey grandma, how far are we from the house?" I asked, my mouth still dry from sleep, my heart still pounding from the disturbing dream beginning to fade into my subconscious. "We are almost home honey." Turning to my grandpa she said , "Dan how much farther we got?" "Only about 5 minutes. Pat, can you wake your siblings? That amusement park musta been exhausting, you three slept the whole way home." "We were very tired. I'll wake them." I said, still apprehensive towards my sister who was fast asleep in the row behind me. I shook my brother away, his eyelids fluttering as he fought waking confusion. Before I reached for my sister, I instinctively glanced in the mirror, half expecting to see her chilling smile staring back at me. Thankfully she wasn't, and still looked to be peacefully sleeping. I shook my sister but she didn't wake. I shook her again, still no sign of her waking. "Grandma, Stace won't wake up." I said facing the front again. "I tried twice and she won't respond. Can you or grandpa wake her?" "Sure thing honey, I'll make sure she gets inside. Must have been an extra long day for her, she has never been a heavy sleeper." My grandma turned back to face the front and before long she announced that we had arrived home. I swung open my door and spilled out onto the half dirt half concrete driveway in front of the house. The sound of the ignition turning off amplified the already deafening silence, and the forest around me seemed to extend out towards infinity. My grandpa opened the door to the house, and ushered myself and my little brother inside. | 22,653 | 2 |
Lance was not a man who knew things by looking at them. When he looked at things, let’s say green things, he did not know them for green things. That is, he had to be told they were green, then he knew they were green. After that, any other green things he saw, he knew they were green and might tell you or other such senseless people that they were green things. Some would believe him, and some would say you’re not an optician, and others only pretended to listen. Regardless of this, if someone pointed to a red thing and said that it was green, Lance was very perceptive and could easily discern that red things were not at all green, although he might still have some uncertainty about what they were, despite having full confidence that they were not green things. To his wife, this particular characteristic was troubling, as she was always listening to him point out a mix of facts that were both imbecilic—not in the sense of being stupidly wrong, but stupidly obvious to anybody who knew their shapes and colors—and insightful. Sometimes, for example, Lance—who went by the name of Bill to his wife only—would point out that the house on the corner was built the same year as Monticello. This was neither obvious nor insightful, his wife and your handsome narrator admit, but the insight that the two houses—the corner house and Monticello—both had the same Eastern-facing profile up to the dormers, even though the houses couldn’t have been more different otherwise—one brick and manorial and built by an acclaimed architect, the other wood and pauperly and built by a man who probably owned a hatchet and thirteen children who died at the average age of six. Who it was that told Bill, or Lance, depending on who you are, that these two houses resembled each other, your esteemed narrator does not know, but he is sure that he had heard it before, possibly on the tour of Monticello in high school, although that wouldn’t make any sense, now would it? On a cool Spring day, or perhaps a crisp Fall day, but certainly not a hot Summer or cold Winter day, it does not matter much, when drinking a cold beer or warm cider, a stranger lingered outside William Lance Johnson’s window and most likely stood on the sidewalk. Bill could not see him but heard his rapacious voice and moved to close the second-story window which he had cracked open to let in the cool or crisp air. But before he could get to the window he heard the lamentation. “That is ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Who would do that?” reeked the voice. “Why would you paint a house that color? It is hideous. Look around, do you see any other houses that color? Why would you do that.” Whatever the sound of fake spitting is, that is the sound that the man made, before continuing. “It’s just ugly, and now we have to look at it; everybody has to look at it. I walk by this house every day and now I have to see this neon, electric, blue house every day! Horrible. Horrible!” He yelled, “horrible!” Bill stood there in his study and his wife walked in, “what’s the matter, Lance?” She called him Lance in private, but Bill in public, and seeing as to how this conversation was in private, your most gracious narrator has chosen to keep it true to the source. As such, Lance answered, “The new paint we put on the house?” he primed her. “Yes?” “It’s ugly.” “I thought you liked it?” “I thought I did too. But it is ugly.” He looked out the window where the house made an interior corner and turned its bright blue facade in upon itself. “It’s ugly.” “Well, you know I never loved it. But I really thought it was what you wanted?” “I don’t like it. It’s not that I don’t like it, it is that nobody would like it, because nobody with half a brain likes ugly things. And if they do like it, it is because they lack taste, sophistication; they have an unpolished mirror in their heart.” She stared blankly, wondering who had told him about unpolished mirrors of the heart. Bill returned to his chair and sat down, stumped. The very next day, sitting in his same chair with the window cracked, Bill heard the same haranguing voice: “Just despicable!” Lance heard that same spitting noise the unhappy fellow had made yesterday. Lance jumped up from his chair and ran down the stairs, rage seeping out of his ears and eyes and flung the front door to the blue house open, “What is wrong with you! This is my house and I happen to like this it! Curse you, curse you all the way!” He hissed at the man, hunched over and with a silk scarf over his head. Bill had never seen a man so little, hunched over, and with a silk scarf over his head, and he still has not. When he lifted up his cane and turned around to Lance, the little old man asked, “Is that how you talk to a lady, young man?” And Lance admitted that no, indeed, that was no way to talk to a lady, and the little old lady let him know that never in her life had she been so something or another, and Lance was something else, and many other things too. And Lance stood there in front of his ugly house regretting having cursed at a little old lady, no matter how manly her voice was or disparaging her critiques of his house were, and wished that he had just went with the red like his wife had told him to do a year ago. And now, after much work, and no small expense, Lance’s house is a deep red or maroon, depending on who you ask, a lovely shade of red (or maroon), that was, as he will point out to you, inspired by the color of the roof tiles at Mount Vernon—which also used to be blue, as he was informed on his tour there last Fall. \*\*\* Follow on or , or both, but not neither. | 5,823 | 2 |
Adam watched in delight as his two sons walked through the pasture hauling their baskets of newly discovered crops. He had sent them each their separate ways two months prior on a mission to track down as many edible fruits as possible and from the looks of it, both of their harvests had yielded impressive results. He greeted them both with an exuberant, “Welcome home!” And a warm embrace, but quickly urged them to share their findings with him before settling in, as he was quite eager to learn of the delicacies they’ve corralled on their travels. Abel went first. “Well, father. I think you’ll be quite taken by this first item,” he confidently stated while pulling a pale yellow glob out of his basket. “I call it, Mango!” He added enthusiastically. “Mango!” Adam repeated jovially. “I love it!” Abel beamed with pride as he watched his father bite a huge chunk out of the newly acquired fruit, the juices dripping down his chin. “It’s delicious! Well done, Abel! Well done, indeed! And I love the name. Mango. So fresh! So exotic!” Adam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to his other son, Cain. “Well, boy. Let’s see what nectars you’ve unearthed on your voyage.” Not to be outdone, Cain proudly removed the first item from his basket, an orange ball-shaped mass. He held it up high, cleared his throat and said, “I call it, Orange!” After a moment or two of silence, Cain added, “Did you hear me father?” “Yes, yes I did,” Adam replied lackadaisically, careful not to offend his sensitive child. “It’s…a…it’s a…” Ahem, Adam cleared his throat. “It’s a good name. Good job Cain,” he added in a perfunctory tone before quickly turning back towards Abel. “What else you got for me, son?” “Prepare to be blown away, Abel declared in an ostentatious display as he whipped out the next piece from his basket. “I call it, Papaya!” Adam gasped in amusement. “Papaya! Papaya!” He kept repeating. God damn that’s fun to say!” Cain was not unaware of his father’s fondness for his brother, Abel. and was hopeful that the naming of the fruits would tip the scales in his favor. Although, witnessing his father’s fervent admiration for the papaya disgusted Cain. and a deep, deep hatred for his brother began to grow in his heart. “Cain!” Adam called out, snapping Cain out of his daydream. “Let’s see what else you’ve found.” Cain nervously ruffled around in his basket before removing a blue cluster of berries. “My, my,” Adam remarked at the sight of the new fruit. “Those look mighty tasty. What do you call those, Cain?” Cain replied apprehensively, “I call them blueberries.” Then sensing his selection was poorly received grabbed a different berry cluster, “And these ones I call blackberries.” “Ugh,” Adam groaned while pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re just not getting it, Cain. Your mother is going to wake up from her nap soon, delighted to see you, but also anxious to find out what you two have brought us. New means of sustenance. New discoveries that could change our lives. But they’ve got to sound sexy, Cain. Otherwise your mother will never go for it. If there’s no mystique, no allure, she’ll never give it a chance. We need something to distract her from her obsession with the forbidden fruit. That horrible, awful, life-changing fruit in that god-forsaken garden with that idiot snake. I was literally the only man on earth and she fooled around on me with a reptile. I swear to god, I’ll never understand women.” The boys twiddled their thumbs awkwardly during their fathers tirade. Then Abel broke the uncomfortable silence that followed, “Wait until you try the Dragonfruit, dad!” ”Did you just say Dragonfruit?” Adam exclaimed. “That’s fucking bad-ass!” Cain tried his best to put on a happy face but the envy he felt towards his brother was growing faster than the mold on the heart shaped red berries he aptly named heart-shaped red-berries. “This is amazing!” Adam mumbled with a mouth full. “Dragonfruit! Fucking rad!” Abel dusted off his shoulders and smirked at his underachieving brother. The hatred in Cain’s heart begin to simmer. “Abel, my boy, you’ve outdone yourself on this one. I’m super proud of you son,” Adam declared. Then with less conviction, he added, “You too, Cain.” Cain, however, was not ready to throw in the towel, as he still had yet to unleash his secret weapon. “Behold,” he bellowed. “For what I’m about to present you is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I risked my life climbing the highest trees nearly falling to my death in order to locate this delicious treat. I wrestled this bundle away from an aggressive pack of spider monkeys, ducking and dodging vicious blows from their swiftly swinging monkey paws. It was a harrowing journey, Father, but a productive one. For now, I present you with, Curvy-Yellow-Thing!” Silence ensued with the exception of the chirping sounds the grass made as they had yet to discover crickets. “You hate it don’t you,” Cain muttered dejectedly, his head bowed in shame, staring at his feet. “I’m sure it’s delicious, Cain,” his father assured him. “You just don’t have a knack for words like your brother. Help him out will you, Abel?” Abel scratched his chin for a moment, snapped his fingers and pointed at his crestfallen brother. “Banana!” He smugly shouted “Son-of-a-Bitch that’s good,” Adam exclaimed. “How do you come up with these names so quickly?” “It just flows right off the top my my head,” Abel replied. “You’ve got a way with words, that’s for sure. “Thanks, Pop. I’m gonna be a rapper when I grow up.” “Well, I’ll be the first in line to buy your album.” Adam patted his talented son on the shoulder. The hatred in Cain’s heart began to boil. So he wasn’t as creative or artistic as his brother. So what? He was stronger, bolder, and far more determined. The focus of his determination was being the favorite child. And today had proven an obstacle difficult to overcome. He wished he were more like his brother. Maybe then his father would show him the same amount of affection he had only observed from the sidelines. But he wasn’t creative or artistic. He couldn’t dream up the wildly inventive names for fruit like his brother. If only he were Abel. Eve was finally awake. Adam instructed the boys to go stand in the pasture a hundred yards away for 7-9 minutes, so he could give his wife a much needed back massage. “Then you can show her all of your glorious findings!” He proclaimed. “Sure thing,” said Abel. “Yes,” Cain concurred. “That will be just fine.” The boys both turned and headed towards the field. Cain picking up a stone on the way. His brother boasting about his recent accomplishments. Cain seething with rage. | 6,741 | 1 |
I woke up suddenly with a throbbing headache, in a really strange place. *Where am I…?* I wondered, as I took a blurry glance around my dark surroundings. And then I slowly began to recognize the familiarity of the stone walls, concrete floor, and wooden furniture in the room around me. *Damn!* I remember it now; I was escaping from this horrifying assailant that was trying to kidnap me! As I slowly came to my senses, it occurred to me that I must have fallen through the big crack in the ceiling right above me while running away from..... *From, uhm…* *From what exactly was I running away again…?* I tried to recall, but my head throbbed painfully again and all I can seem to remember is the shadowy figure of a crawling, deformed monster... and it was gliding through the air to chase after me…? It didn’t make any sense, but I had to give up and shake it off for now. What matters was that I figure out how to escape from this creepy place. My first instinct was to have a look out of the window to have an idea of where I am. After taking another look around me and hearing for sounds to ensure that my pursuer isn’t nearby, I tip-toed as silently as possible towards the only window in the room and raised my head just high enough to see outside. Beholding my sight was a massive lawn, with an intricately designed garden in the middle that seemed to be glittering in the dim moonlight. And encircling it on the horizon were high walls that looked at least three times taller than the average height of a human being. While to the left, I observed what could possibly be the rest of the building that I was in, of which I must’ve been in one of the side wings of it and at least four or five floors high up. *I’m in some sort of mansion then, perhaps…?* Envisioning my escape proved not to be too difficult though. From what I can imagine, if I were to follow a path by skirting around the edges of the garden, I should be able to reach the opposite end of the lawn, which is sufficiently near to the wall. There would be plenty of tall bushes and plants in between where I can hide myself from that scary creature while getting away. Plus, if I hang around close enough to the building, perhaps I could also look for additional clues or tools that can help me escape over the walls. Having this plan in mind, I shored up whatever courage I have left and promptly left the room. The corridor out was long, narrow, and much darker than within the room. There was barely any moonlight coming in, and I could hardly see anything from either side as I stepped out. Instinctively, I turned left and started feeling my way out through the walls, assuming that I was heading towards the outer end of the building, where I might be able to find the stairway down. But just as I passed by the third neighboring room, an eerie sound echoed through the walkway and froze me in my steps immediately. “1… 2,3…”, it went. In that same moment, I swear I felt a cold breeze sweep past me through the corridor as well. *What? What was that?* That voice, it sounded like it came from a little girl… But why would there be a little girl in this building? Or… could it be that it was from the creature that I was running away from?! I looked around frantically, but all I could see was only darkness. Just as I calmed my nerves down and began trying to recall the original direction of the sound, it continued itself. “4,5,6,7,8,9…… 10,11,12…” came the voice of the little girl again, followed by what sounded like the playful laughter of a child playing hide-and-seek, “hee, hee, hee, hee, hee…”. Never in my life have I felt so disturbed by the laughter of a girl. It felt as if it was delighting in the fear and confusion that I was going through. My body went into fight-or-flight mode instantly. Fists clenched; all I could hear was the blood pumping through my blood vessels as I waited in panic for my would-be assailant, wall against my back. *It could be coming at me from any direction, at any time.* Even the sweat that was trickling down slowly on my cheek felt like it took an eternity to reach down my chin. However, even as I stood there like a stone statue for who-knows how long, all there was, was… Deafening silence. “You coward, show yourself!” I shouted into the darkness as I grew wary and desperate. I could hear my own voice echo down what felt like an endless hallway. And I waited, but there was no answer. As I began to calm down again, I decided that it’s probably best that I continue moving on. And so, I turned back into my original direction and continued feeling the walls to traverse down the corridor again. This time round, I was able to get quite far forward before I heard yet another disturbing sound. It started in a whisper first, “4,5,6,7,8,9… 10,11,12...” in a high-pitched voice of a clown, followed immediately by a loud, evil, and maniacal laughter that went “HahAhahAHah!!”. *Oh, for goodness’ sake!* I thought to myself as I attempted to turn around to find out where the hell did that voice come from. But it was exactly at this moment that I caught eye of a small beam of light shining in the distant. It seemed to be coming out from a room in front, of which the door has been left slightly opened ajar. *A light at the end of the tunnel!* Without hesitation at all, I ignored the sounds and began sprinting towards the door. Unfortunately, my running away only seemed to make *it* happier, as it continued chanting the same numbers again repeatedly, “4,5,6,7,8,9… 10,11,12...”, each time more rapidly and more excitedly in succession. Unto my amazement and disbelief, the maddening noise came to a stop right after I made a sharp turn and threw myself into that room. Nothing came through the door after me either. As time passed, I started turning my attention to the twelve pieces of paper lying peculiarly on the table in the middle of the room. Each piece of the papers contained a paragraph of words, which I curiously read. But it wasn’t until I was reading this last piece that it occurred to my horror that: *This was a short story detailing everything that I have just experienced, thought, and did up until this point.* The door creaked unhurriedly to a close behind me as I heard the sequence for the one last time. | 6,385 | 1 |
I hear the sound of waves crashing, the water splashing onto my battered and sunburned face. I feel the weight of the ocean around me with all its endlessness and power with me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake. I’ve survived another day in the hopes of making through another night. How many days and nights has it been? I’ve lost count, me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake. How did I get to this point? Does that even really matter now? So much time has passed or has it? I don’t know anymore. I need to get control of my situation and start making plans for my eventual rescue, it can’t be much longer now, right? Surely, this won’t be where I meet my end, me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake? I feel as though my choices have limited power now; if I am to survive it will be by chance and the mercy of the sea. Ironic, given it was my choices that removed my choices of their power and put me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake. Years before now I had a different life, I was in love and the master of my own destiny. I thought nothing could go wrong, that only an endless ascension of fortune awaited us and the world we would build together. However, I was made for the sea with all its adventures and folly. As the sea called my name, my love for my current life faded. I could never be the person that my beloved longed for me to be. She wanted a quiet life with kids and house, but I wanted to seek adventure and could not handle the rigor of day to day life in peace and quiet. As time went on our differences in direction became too much to overcome and I was powerless to stop her from walking away and taking our son with her. Heartbroken, I made the choice to board a ship and pursue the adventures on the open ocean. How could I have known that even more heartbreak lay just around the corner? How could I have known my choice would lead to me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake? Another night leads into another day, I am still here; broken, bruised and anxious as I might be. I try to peer out into the vast endlessness for just a speck of something that might lead to my salvation. I find no salvation just the telltale signs of more trouble on the horizon. As the day yields to another night, the seas unleash their anger and fury and this tiny raft struggles to handle the beating. I do what I can to manage the unmanageable and try to make it through to another night. As I am tossed hitherto, I struggle to keep what provisions I have left from going overboard. It continues like this for hours till finally the seas become docile and skies shed moonlight once more. Once again I have survived, but how much longer? How much longer must it be me isolated to this tiny rift adrift in its wake? The nights bring new troubles that I must overcome. The skies are clear, the seas are calm, but the creatures are active. I can hear their movement under my raft. I can feel their hunger for my flesh as my tired and beaten body begins to sleep. As I sleep, I dream. I dream of my son and how much I miss him. I wonder if he misses me or if he resents me? I think my about choices and I would make different ones if only I had known what was going to happen. How could I have known? How can I forgive myself; how can my son? My mind struggles to grow silent as I drift off to sleep. Once again I awaken to the sound of waves, the heat of the sun on my sunburnt face and vastness of the open ocean surrounding me on all sides with me isolated to this tiny raft alone in its wake. Through my countless days and nights spent in this uncomfortable and uncontrollable situation, I’ve pondered many things and thoughts about myself, my actions and what I would have done differently. Today is the first day that I can truly accept the fact that the actions I took, however big or small, were made with what I thought was best at the time in each situation. My life wasn’t a long line of failed choices made with a goal in mind, but rather a series of decisions made at different times and in response to various situations. I might never get a chance to get off this raft, but finally I have found what I was looking for all those years… Acceptance. I can finally accept that I am a good person that made some bad choices with the best of intentions. I peer out into the ocean as I watch the sunset one last time finally at peace with me isolated to this tiny raft adrift in its wake. | 4,470 | 1 |
Silence. Every day is nothing but an elongated silence. I have a job to do, and the boss doesn’t care how it’s done as long as it gets done. I guess I should be grateful that I don’t have him breathing down my neck. I doubt many people are satisfied in their work, but a lucky few get to go home at the end of the day to a loving family and the feeling they’ve made even a slight difference in the world. I am not one of those lucky few. All I do is sweep. I’ve had to change both the head and the handle so many times it’s impossible to say this is the same broom I started with, but it still feels the same. I still feel the same. Everything around me still feels the same. People claim that society is constantly changing, that progress is happening all around us. I don’t see it. I merely see the same patterns of destruction repeating. War and death, two lovers in an eternal and cataclysmic embrace. I wish I could help them. I wish I could make even a slight difference. Yet all I do is sweep. I try to talk to the boss, but I just get silence. I’m not even sure he’s real. I’ve never seen or spoken to him, yet he keeps the workload piling up. So, he must exist, right? If anyone has the power to stop the senseless chaos, it’s him. Yet he never intervenes, no matter how hell-bent humanity seems on wiping itself from existence. As I sweep, I think about the innocents caught in the crossfire of conflict, about the parents who outlive their children, and about those who simply cannot cope with the pain of existence. I would shed a tear for every one of them, yet I cannot shed a single tear. I am skull and bones, draped in a black robe. I am the thing that all people fear. I am inevitable. I am Death. I’ve seen the pictures and heard the stories. The Grim Reaper cutting down young and old alike with one fell swoop of his scythe. The truth is, I have no scythe. All I have is my broom, and all I do is sweep. Even the name is wrong. Death. I haven’t killed anyone. I don’t take anyone’s life. I merely shuffle souls from their fallen bodies and sweep them into piles as high as mountains. That way the almighty can consume them with ease. I’m sure those who have passed would have questions if they could ask them. But they have no voice. The dead cannot speak. The living curse my name, but it’s he who causes their pain. It’s always him. Yet they still praise him, still beg for an eternity in his domain. But heaven is not a place and there are no pearly gates. Heaven is nothing but mastication and digestion. I feel the pain of every soul I sweep. I never see him scoop them up into his maw, but I can sense the absence of their essence once they’re gone. The worst part is, he doesn’t need to feed upon them to survive. He does it simply for his own pleasure. I try to talk to the boss about all of this, to try to make even the slightest difference, but I just get silence. I guess, when it comes down to it, even I am in no position to question his ways. I am, after all, nothing but a lowly worker. I am skull and bones, draped in a black robe. I am Death, and all I do is sweep. | 3,186 | 2 |
\[Warning: Death of a chacter\] A hangover, a ghost and an afternoon reading in low light weren’t a good combination, Selene had decided. After the apparition of her Nana that morning, Selene and Hazel had headed to the old town library where Hazel worked. They had poured over witchcraft books until the late afternoon, trying to decipher her Nana’s book. “Your Nan didn’t want anyone else reading these, huh?” Hazel asked exasperated and putting her head on the table. Selene took out her claw clip and swung back on her chair, just as exhausted as Hazel. The night and day of a full moon was always an eventful one somewhere. Selene remembered her mum's words from when she was a child. “Maybe it’s the moon making all these crazy things happen all over town……” Selene sighed. Hazel chuckled. The library was a big grand old building near the beachfront, it was filled with every magical book imaginable. The huge doors had a small wide staircase with big brass railings and huge globes at the ends. The whole building sat quietly behind the big council house, which the coven had claimed for its own, most humans knew nothing of the library. To unknowing eyes, it was an old abandoned bookstore, but to their coven, it was a treasure trove. “Hey look at this,” Hazel commented, stirring Selene from her daydream. “‘A person who fears a curse wears a protection bracelet or encircles their house with salt. If these protection circles are broken a curse has been fulfilled.’” Hazel quoted from the book she read. “My nana’s house was encircled with salt… Did she fear a curse?” Selene asked. “Hazel Willowbridge!” The shrill voice cut through their haze, sending them jolting upright, Hazel nearly falling from her chair. They looked up to see Ms. Isodora in the large doorway of the library, books in her arms. The woman was old, her afro hair she always kept wrapped on top of her head, showed signs of greying. Whilst still beautiful her deep brown skin sagged under the years and wisdom. Though she terrified most, Hazel loved her like a grandmother, she had always been kind to her. Ms Isodora admired her curiosity for learning and life. “Oh Selene, how lovely to see you again…” She smiled warmly, her brown eyes filling with kindness. “Nice to see you, Ms Isodora!” She waved back. “Hazel, what are you doing here again? It’s your day off, go out, see the sun!” The old woman cackled, starting to walk down the few steps into the main section where the girls sat. “Ah, we’re just…” Hazel began to stammer gathering up the books, realising how suspicious it looked. She couldn’t get the words out. “We’re just on our way out! We were researching some full moon spells, some of the protection spells on my Nan’s house are wearing off.” Selene covered her, playing the pity card whilst stuffing books into her bag. “Ah, Isabelle, I knew her well, she was a very clever woman, powerful. She was good with protection spells, she made them for me a few times. One can never be too careful, especially now.” Ms. Isodora commented. As she spoke a dark figure crossed behind her, stepping into the light at the top of the steps. “Oh hello Ms.Isodora, I almost didn’t see you there. Hazel, Selene.” Mortimer nodded, dressed in just a black shirt and trousers. It was the least formal the girls had ever seen him. He looked tired, and less put together, his handsomeness shadowed by the purple under his eyes. “Mortimer,” Ms Isodora greeted him stiffly. “Are you quite alright?” Isodora had seen what Selene had. Tangible darkness rolled from him, more so than his normal charming edge. “Very well,” He quipped, plastering a smile on his sullen face, “I am just here to pick up a book my mother ordered… Hazel, would you help me?” He asked walking up to the counter. “Oh sure, just a minute.” Hazel skipped behind the counter, seemingly to not have noticed anything at all. As they quietly began to chat, Selene watched Ms.Isodora from afar. Her hand gripped the rail as she took careful and delicate steps down. It was clear age wasn’t being kind to her, pain in her hips made her wince a little. It happened too quickly. As Ms Isodora missed the last step, a small gasp escaped her lips as she tumbled down the last few steps. Selene froze in her shock. But Mortimer was already there, ready to catch her before she hit the floor. Selene breathed a sigh of relief, not anticipating Isodora brutally cracking her head against the big brass globe at the end of the railing. As she fell to the floor at Mortimer’s feet, her eyes were already unnaturally fogged over. “Ms. Isodora!” Hazel cried running to her as Selene fell beside her. “Hazel! Call for an ambulance!” Mortimer ordered with a direct shout as he checked her pulse. Hazel frantically ran to the lobby sobbing. Selene met Mortimer’s flat gaze, the gaze of someone too familiar with tragedies. His lips were a tight line, nostrils flared, brow set, he gently shook his head. Ms Isodora was already dead. | 5,104 | 1 |
Hey guys, I ran into some trouble with the length while trying to get this posted. I had to split it into two parts. I hope you enjoy, and can hopefully help me to better understand this event. Here is a link to Part 1 in case you didn't see it already! Link to Part 1 My Account (continued): *(I would like to take a quick moment to explain the layout of my grandparents house before I get into this part of my experience. My grandparents lived in a fairly large and spread out one story house, surrounded by the forest. They lived just on the edge of their small town and there were only a couple houses near them in their small neighborhood. The house itself was old, seeming somewhat outdated, but besides that it was a nice house. When you first enter the house through the front door, you are faced with a normal sized living room. To the left is a staircase leading to the basement and a hallway leading to four bedrooms. To the right is a doorway leading to the kitchen, and straight ahead is another doorway leading to the dining room with a view to the backyard and the forest surrounding it. Also in this room is the guest bathroom, just big enough for one person. With the house laid out in your mind, I will continue.)* I walked straight through the living room and into the dining room, banking right towards the bathroom door. As I finished my business and turned to wash my hands, I heard the front door open, my grandma speaking to someone on the phone. I dried off my hands on a dark green towel hanging next to the sink and then opened the door, stepping back into the second living room. The house was awfully quiet when I exited the bathroom, confused as I no longer heard my grandmother’s voice coming from the conversation she was having on the phone just moments earlier. Where is everyone I thought as I slowly made my way back into the living room. The only light in the living room was a small lamp, resting on a stand next to the couch, providing just enough light for me to see my surroundings. Everyone must have gone to bed I thought as I turned towards the hallway lined with rooms, yawning as fatigue took hold of me. As I got closer, something in me told me to turn around. My gut was screaming at me, begging me to abandon the direction I was headed in. I stopped just before rounding the corner, taking a deep breath to steady myself, the warning my body was conferring to me stronger than ever. Prepared to face the unknown, I rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop just shy of the hallway’s entrance. The light from the lamp behind me, cast a small sliver of light down the dark empty hall. As I scanned the long corridor, I noticed a figure standing by the back wall. They had their back to me and were motionless, resembling a mannequin you would see on display in a Sears department store. I stood still watching the figure as they remained motionless, but as I looked closer I realized it was a young girl. Her hair was dark and messy, hanging against her thin frame. She seemed awfully skinny, her limbs offset by the grey pajamas she was wearing. "He..hello who's there!" I said, raising my voice, but only enough for her to hear me. Silence was her response, no movement almost as if my words had fallen on deaf ears. I opened my mouth to repeat my question, when a quiet but high pitched giggle broke the silence reverberating off the walls of the hallway. The sound hit me and a wave of chills suddenly coursed through me. Instinctively I took a quick step backwards, resting my hand on the edge of the wall to stabilize my quivering legs. The ability to speak was now a notion of the past, as I helplessly watched the girl turn her shoulder towards me revealing half of her face-darkness obscuring her features. She gradually raised her arm in my direction, and as if this were some cruel joke with a single finger motioned me to come towards her. At that moment, I saw the image of my sister in the crowd, half turned and motioning me towards her with her finger. The girl at the end of the hall and my sister in the crowd were one and the same. A pitiful whine escaped my lips as I took another step backwards entering the threshold of the first living room. I kept my vision trained on who I now thought was my sister, fear boiling up inside me. Up until this point, my sister had never done anything strange or out of the ordinary. She was very grounded and mature for being only ten years old, so this behavior she displayed today was bone chilling. Her arm was still pointed in my direction, and as I looked closer I felt my body go numb. I tried to move but was frozen, unable to pull my sight from my sister. With no control of my body, I felt my foot lift and move me in the direction of the hallway. I no longer felt in control, slowly being drawn to the evil awaiting me at the end of the hall. Suddenly she spun to face the wall again, before she dropped her raised arm violently, bolting into the bedroom directly to the left of her. As soon as she disappeared from my view, I heard my grandmother’s voice. "Pat, could you come here real quick? I need some help in the kitchen." Now free from the grip that held me in place, I turned to face the entrance to the kitchen and called back, "Coming grandma, uh just give me one second!" No longer wishing to see what would unfold next, I started in the kitchen's direction, but stopped after a few steps, the sudden feeling of being watched to intense to shake. Turning around slower than I ever have, I looked back over my shoulder to the doorway my sister had ran into. In abject horror, I saw my sister peaking at me from around the corner of the door frame. Her horrific, stretched smile was on full display and her eyes were shrouded in all consuming darkness. There was blood pouring out of her nose, and her neck was bent at an unnatural angle, almost as if it was broken. I stumbled backwards, breaking from the trance-like state I had just found myself in. Practically falling into the kitchen, I saw my grandma washing the last of the dishes that were stacked in the sink. She turned to me, her hand outstretched a towel resting between her fingers. "Here Pat, could you dry these dishes quickly for me?" "Uh yes grandma, I think I can do that." I said, grabbing the towel and then standing next to her picking up the first plate from the soap soaked stack. As I dried the dishes, I couldn't help but imagine her still there, now farther up the hall peeking at me from another doorway. Any second now she was going to come bolting towards the kitchen on all fours, like the girl crawling out of the TV in the movie The Ring. As I set the fourth plate down though, I knew that she wasn't going to be coming any closer tonight. "Hey grandma, I have a question." I said hesitantly, the fear of her giving me an answer I didn't want to hear present in the silence that followed. "What's on your mind Pat? Something bothering you?" her eyes were trained on me, and I knew she could see the jumble of emotions proudly presenting themselves to her through my heavy eyes. "Did Stace come inside tonight? I know I couldn't get her to wake up when she was sleeping in the back of the car." "Your grandpa said he saw her walk past your brother's room, he assumes she went to her bed. The car is locked and I didn't see her when I looked through the front windshield. She should be inside now, Why do you ask?" Her voice seemed to trail off as she finished her sentence, as if she was suddenly much more interested in what I had to say. "It's probably nothing, but I swear I saw her smiling at me again from the end of the hall. It was the same face she made earlier in the crowd. It was dark though and I couldn't see very well. Maybe it was just the shadows playing tricks on me." "You know Pat, you've had a long stressful day. Don't let it bother you too much, I bet it was just your mind playing tricks on you. Let's finish these dishes so I can bring you to bed." I nodded my head to signal I understood, and then focused my attention on the dishes in front of me. After a little while I finished the dishes and followed my grandmother out of the kitchen towards the hallway I had just run from. I felt myself hesitating as we neared it, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. Reaching for my grandma’s hand, I grasped it and squeezed tightly in an attempt to stop the sudden onslaught of anxiety. I managed to keep my cool as my grandma brought me into my room and tucked me into bed. She then turned around and walked out the door, blowing me a kiss before disappearing back down the hall. I could just almost imagine my sister peeking through the small slit between the door and the door frame, her smile so wide it had split the skin at the corners of her mouth. Pulling the covers tight over my face, I hid myself from that thought, counting imaginary sheep jumping an imaginary fence, till a light sleep overtook me and my brain shut down for the night. The next morning I woke to find my door undisturbed, the terror from the night before now no more than a distant dream. As I left the bedroom and entered the living room, I was greeted by the smell of bacon and pancakes, as well as the distinct and strong acrid smell of fresh coffee. I had never had coffee, but with how much my dad drank swore by it, I assumed it must be pretty delicious. I entered the kitchen to see my parents, grandparents, and two siblings, all sitting at the table. I felt hesitant when I saw my sister, but fought the urge to distance myself from her, though to me it felt completely rational. They were conversing, going silent between bites of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fluffy pancakes. Plopping into my chair my mom turned to me and said, "Morning sunshine, how did you sleep?" "I slept well enough, yesterday was interesting." I said, faking the cheery tone in my voice. "I'm so sorry we weren't there for you yesterday when you got lost. We still feel so awful." "Don't worry mama, I'm okay now I was just a little scared is all." "I know honey, but your papa and I still feel bad." She said as she turned back to eat her food. I picked up my fork ready to dig into the feast before me, when my grandmother touched my hand from where she sat across from me. "Pat, there is something I needde to tell you this morning when you woke up. Last night you asked if your sister made it inside. I told you she had, having been told by your grandpa that she went to her room. He was wrong though, and in turn, so was I. Your sister never made it in the house last night." Inches from my mouth, my fork suddenly left my fingers and came crashing down on the ceramic plate that lay under it, the sound of metal on ceramic reverberating through the kitchen. Before I could truly process this information my grandma continued saying, "At around 3 AM last night, your grandpa and I were awoken by the sound of someone pounding on the front door. Your grandpa left our bedroom quickly, grabbed his handgun, and then went to investigate the disturbance. I got up shortly after I heard him unlock the door, and welcome in the sobs of your sister. She was crying and shaking, barely making any sense, but after we brought her in and let her come to her senses we realized what had happened. After your grandpa let you and your brother into the house, I grabbed our belongings from the car and went inside the house. Turns out, the stress and exhaustion from our mishap at the amusement park had caused me to forget that your sister was asleep in the back seat. I assume she had lain down on her side, blocking her view from the front of the car. I should have checked to make sure she had made it inside but I believed your grandpa’s assurance that she was asleep in her room. Then you of course also asked me late yesterday if she was inside because you swore you had seen her. Regardless, she never made it inside last night, it seems crazy, but we left her in the car.” I was overcome with the memories and visceral images of my sister smiling at me from behind the door frame of her guest bedroom. I no longer tried to hide the emotions I was feeling, horror awakening nausea in my empty stomach. This can't be true, God please don't let this be true. I saw her last night, I know I did. I'm not crazy, right? Am I? Was she not there? Thoughts came flying at me from all directions, as I closed my eyes tight, trying to make sense of this horrifying confession. I realized as I sat at the table, drawn far from reality, late last night as I stood at the threshold of the hallway, I had been moments from meeting evil itself. Whatever had taken hold of my sister craved my innocent soul, needing it for a reason still unbeknownst to me. It had entranced me and I knew that if my grandmother's voice hadn't broken its grip, I would have blindly followed the evil that gleefully awaited my demise. The next few days were uneventful and ordinary, helping to mask the terror I had felt on the night at the amusement park. We were going to be headed home the next day, and I decided it was time I talked to my parents about Stace. We sat down in the living room, and I immediately poured out my experience, putting on full display the extent of Stace’s oddities. Their reaction was offputting and gloomy, my dad had gone silent and my mother had just blankly stared at me. Eventually, my dad broke the silence and as he gently rested his hand on my shoulder, the serious look in his eyes became the center of my attention. “Pat, your mother and I believe you, but we need to know that you are 100% sure you saw your sister.” “Papa, she was there. I know what I saw. Her eyes, lips, nose, smile, they were Stace’s. She was there.” I hated reliving the memory of her expression, but I knew that my parents needed me to be sure. “Like I said we believe you bud, we just thought we would have more time before we had to… well I honestly don’t know how I should say this.” his expression changed from serious to scared, his eyes glancing in my mom’s direction. She leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear. I only heard a few pieces of my dad’s response but even that was enough to bring back the familiar sensation of fear. “…but aren’t they still too young… they need time… I guess you are right… we’ve gotta do it today.” My dad got up from the couch and left me with my mom as he entered the kitchen where my grandma and grandpa sat silently at their antique table. “Hey sweetheart, don’t worry about Stace. I know you are probably scared right now, and that’s perfectly normal. Your father and I feel your fear as well. We got something big planned for today…” She hesitated as if caught on the thought of where we would be going. “Let’s get you and your siblings dressed.” I followed my mom out of the living room and joined her in my bedroom where she helped me to pick out an outfit. I could hear my dad talking to his parents, their voices raised, not out of anger but concern. At last, the vibration of wooden chairs shifting across the kitchen’s tile floor reached my ears, signaling the conclusion of their discourse. As I waited in the living room, my dad's chilling words replayed in my mind. “But they are still too young… they need time.” What did we need time for? What are we going to see? I was stuck on that thought, scared of what we were going to see. My parents were remarkably logical and courageous, but seeing their unfiltered emotions proved to be more disturbing than my grinning sister or a malevolent entity. The drive to our secret destination was silent apart from the occasional coo that escaped my little brother’s lips. We were headed deep into the forest, the road we were on looked untouched and carelessly placed. Its asphalt surface was cracked and faded, typical of an area untouched by time. The trees surrounding the road built a primitive barrier to the outside world, furthering the uncomfortable feeling I had as each minute driven drew us closer and closer to the endgame. My parents hadn’t given us any hints about our end destination, but I had a feeling deep down that whatever it was would answer my questions about Stace. Those answers, though enticing, scared me more than the thought of not knowing. As our pace slowed to a crawl, I considered remaining in the car, but I understood the importance of confronting what would come next. Our destination was now in full view, the entrance framed by a large metal gate. A wooden sign sat above the middle of the road, an incomplete message printed on its surface. I tried to make out what it said but couldn’t seem to decipher the puzzle. The sign read “F go en O k Cem y” and the more I looked at it the more my perplexed look intensified. “Papa, what did that sign say?” I asked, his familiarity with this area evident by the way he easily traversed the narrow dirt road. “It used to say Forgotten Oak Cemetary, but it’s been a while since that name has been complete.” A cemetery? What are we doing at a cemetery? I thought as my dad pulled into a flat patch of grass, that I suppose was supposed to be a parking spot. Minnesota was a strange place. We got out of our rental and stood next to the car as my grandparents parked next to us. “Alright kids listen up,” my dad said turning to face us. “This cemetery is very special to your grandparents and our family. Over a hundred years ago, the Shvigeal family settled in Minnesota. They had come from Austria, leaving a tumultuous Europe behind. They had been fairly wealthy, owning large plots of land bordered by the Austrian Alps, and after selling all their land, they settled here and before long had grown a substantial wealth. One of the first things they bought was this plot of land that they eventually turned into a cemetery for our family. If you wander through these headstones, you will see the Schvigal name everywhere. Anyone with our last name that has died was buried here.” I was blown away by this revelation. I had never heard anything about my dad’s side of the family and was always questioning the reasoning behind it. It excited me to know that my family had been landowners in Europe, I had longed for a picturesque family narrative. “One last thing kids, be respectful and don’t go off by yourself. Stick with us.” My dad then turned to say something inaudible to his parents, their faces still displaying their concern. As we solemnly walked through the rows of headstones, I saw the last name Shvigeal pasted on every new stone we passed. I started to develop an interest in the lower portion of the headstones where the epitaph was displayed. The rows we passed through housed ancient family members, messages like Here lies Bill Shvigeal, loving husband and father of three. 1850 - 1920 or Here lies Karl Shvigeal, father of two. 1890 - 1965, adorned the section designated for the epitaph. Trying to calculate their age in my head became a game that I started to play with every headstone that we came across. The more we walked the younger the ages of the deceased became. Their birthdays started to approach the year 2000, and as we turned the corner to face the last row of headstones, I noticed the discrepancy immediately. One solitary headstone adorned this row, prearranged plots lay adjacent, awaiting the arrival of their decorative headstones. I counted the plots in my head and came up with seven. This number remained arbitrary, but as we stood silently before the lone headstone, and I read the words on it, a supernatural silence came down on the cemetery around us. Written in elegant front was this message. Here lies Grace Shvigeal, twin of Stace Shvigeal. 1999 - 1999. My sister's reaction was visceral, she gasped audibly and collapsed to the ground in front of the grave. My dad and mom crouched next to her, embracing her as she sobbed. I stared for a few more seconds at the message before I realized what this meant. On that night I saw my sister, but not the sister I knew. I had seen Grace, and now I knew why my parents had asked me to be 100% sure. They knew who had followed me and waited for me at the end of the hall. My parents now knew that I had met my sister Grace for the first and last time. I quickly realized as I stood in shock the seven plots would soon be filled by those of us standing around her grave. My dad stepped away from Stace and rested his arm across my upper back. He then quietly said, “I wish you could have met Grace before she passed. What you saw in the hall, your mom and I know all too well. We just hoped she wouldn’t interact with you kids, but I guess it’s too late for that. Listen carefully though, if you ever see her again don’t look in her direction. If she knows you see her, she will follow you like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of a fox. Ignore her and she will ignore you. But whatever you do, don’t ever say her name, her name holds a power we won’t be able to contain. | 21,010 | 2 |
\*This short story is a part of the Mieran Ruins Collection. The rest of the stories can be found on this \).\* ​ Becca and Evelyn returned to the crime scene to search for clues about the kidnapping. Sometimes, the most useful piece of evidence was obvious. The red footprint in the middle of the floor appeared to be that. "Aha, look at this. One of the kidnappers walked in blood. I hope Derrick is okay, and they aren't abusing him," Evelyn scanned the surface closer. "Also, this shoe looks amazing." "Evelyn, that's your shoeprint." "I never go into the library, and why was the shoe red?" Evelyn asked. "You stepped on a ketchup sandwich when we walked out of your office. Look at your own feet," Becca said. Evelyn looked down and saw that she had ruined her shoes. She stood back up and grinded the rest of the paste off. Sometimes, the most obvious evidence was red herring. Larry walked into the room and begun to demonstrate how Derrick was kidnapped. Few people cared what the mine had to say. Evelyn assumed it was an interpretative dance far too pretentious for her, and Becca was too focused on finding the evidence. No one cleaned city hall because they were too cheap to hire a maid. The window panes collected dust, and moving too close to one caused Becca to sneeze. Except for one window which had no dust. The culprits must've slipped through the window. Becca moved a desk closer and climbed on top of it. The hatch was missing; her adversaries were strong. The table that she used collapsed while she was contemplating. On the ground, she found the missing hatch. The kidnappers' strength was unknown as the building was old. Evelyn was staring at the book shelves also in search for evidence. The printed word sometimes spoke. The quality of paper and binding told stories that lasted centuries. There was a set order for the books as well which would indicate to Evelyn if they had moved. Unfortunately, Evelyn didn't speak the language of literature. She was stuck wandering hoping something jump out of her. That something was a book on the floor which caused her to slip in fall. It was the same book that briefly incapacitated her kidnapper. Who knew that a library would be filled with tripping hazards. Becca grabbed a stepstool from the nearby storage cabinet and stood on it. Outside the window, the mulch had daffodils, tulips, and chrysanthemums in a poor layout. Evelyn wanted a garden, but she didn't bother to care for it. She would probably be angered by the tulips being crushed by the criminals if she ever paid attention. In the soil of the plants, Becca saw a page. She picked up the page and read the first line. \*Captain Gregory held out his sword to Lizard Larry's chest. He poked him several times on the plank. The sandy dunes below flowed like the ocean, and a snake circled ready to eat the unfortunately cowboy.\* "That makes no sense," Becca said. "Look at reading. Who do you think you are, Derrick?" Evelyn yelled. "Oh my god." Becca dropped the page. "This is a trail of crumbs." "Crumbs of what?" Evelyn asked. \ Derrick had just reached the end where Lizard Larry seized control of the desert pirate ship. He was going to lead them across the land in search for outlaws and bring them to justice. Along the way, he'd find buried treasure and pillage trains which made him an outlaw. It was confusing but mildly entertaining. He considered re-reading it as the pages he tore out weren't that important. Besides, it gave him something better to do than listen to his kidnappers argue. "Okay, but where will put the bagels in the bus?" This one's name was Lionel. Lionel didn't seem to know he had committed a crime and frequently offered Derrick gum. Chewing gum factories survived alien invasion in surprisingly high numbers. Many expected the factories to be converted, but the continent briefly came under the control of a dictator who loved it so the chewing gum survived. "I told you that there won't be bagels. Giving us lots of of bread was an expression," Lisa said. Lisa appeared to be the mastermind of the bunch. She hoped to acquire a bus and supplies from the town to go off and start her new society under her ideology. Her ideals were constantly shifting, and she frequently pulled Derrick aside to lecture him on her goals. Perhaps she was trying to convince him to join her cause or maybe she was trying to convince herself. Either way, Derrick hoped she lived a happy life with the beaver dams she hoped to use as a basis for her society. Logan was sitting in the corner with his trained on Lionel and Lisa. Derrick never spoke with Logan, but Logan kicked him in the thighs a few times while they were walking. Lionel and Lisa never noticed him leave his trail of pages because they were too busy arguing. Logan stared right at Derrick as he dropped the paper, and Logan smiled. Logan wanted to be found because he wanted to fight. "Alright, fine specify the amount of bagels you want in the ransom letter." Lisa shook her head. "But from this point forward transcribe exactly what I say." "If you didn't want my opinion, why did you ask me to write it?" Lionel asked. "Your penmanship was better than mine," Lisa said. Derrick couldn't believe that these idiots kidnapped him. Logan snuck over and stole Derrick's book. He used to quickly hit Derrick in the back of the head when the other two weren't looking then he tossed it to him. Derrick believed that this man kidnapped him. Outside a storm was forming. A few drops found their way back to their soil to join with the ocean or river. The air in the sky began to heat as the droplets prepared to send lightning to each other. The cold air began to fall creating a small cycle that would eventually grow out of control and cause destruction in its path. | 6,159 | 1 |
Here’s what you do when everything’s gone. Your house your cars your books guitars your clothes devices memories pets your wife—your whole damn life. Gone. Sucked into a howling darkness so loud it’s still there when you close your eyes, the sky a vortex of unthinking death, an apocalypse overhead. How’d we even survive? you wonder, remembering the kids attached to your legs, still holding on like velcro stuffed animals. Your son your daughter keep asking, Where’s Mommy? Where’s Mommy? Hold them close, hug them tight. Kiss each soft precious cheek. Now they’re all you got, all you need, all you ever really had. Get your family safe before the sky tries to take them again. Look for shelter amid the flattened heaps of drywall and insulation, houses razed to bare concrete. Naked trees with twisted limbs, trunks snapped in half, bodies broken like martyrs of the Earth. A neighborhood of nothing. Just the sulfurous smell of a thousand lighting strikes. Tell your kids, Let's get the hell out of this godforsaken place. Take out your phone and see there's still service. Call your parents and find out the storm just missed them. They're coming to get you. Only a few miles away. Look online to see who else survived, any friends or neighbors in the local Bremen, KY Facebook group. Scroll past footage from the storm and find out this tornado was unlike anything before. Hundreds of miles of destruction across Arkansas and Missouri, devastation up through Tennessee and Kentucky. Dozens of people lost who couldn't get out in time. Everyone on Facebook's asking, Has anyone seen my husband my wife my brother my sister my child my parents my dog? There's a new group too, one just for the storm. Quad State Tornado Found Items. Folks post pictures of what the storm flung into their yard from God knows where. Knick-knacks, antiques, keepsakes. Stuff that ain't their stuff. So much stuff you can't stop scrolling through picture after picture hoping maybe something of yours isn't gone forever. Then you see a picture of yourself. Not you in your late thirties, filthy and tired and homeless. Not you as a widower but you as a smiling child. Glasses, backwards hat, adult teeth too big for your head. All the pictures from when you were a kid catching fish at the lake with your dad, tubing behind the pontoon, waving in a crowd at the annual pig roast potluck back in '98. Your memories all are there. Somebody found them, you can't believe it. Here's what you do when something's not gone. Message the woman who posted the pictures, Kathy, and come to find she lives in Louisville, a hundred miles up I-65. When your parents pull up in the old van, they can't believe it either. The pictures they gave you to show your kids. The memories they worked so hard to provide, proof you were loved. Pile in the van when your parents say, Let's go get our pictures back. Try not to look for your missing hometown on the drive. The church school ice cream shop post office liquor store gas station—the restaurant where you proposed to your wife—nothing's there. Nothing's where it's supposed to be. Ignore the upturned world until civilization returns. Arrive at Kathy's and marvel at her lovely colonial, not a scratch on it. Hug the older woman with outstretched arms who's so happy crying tears of joy to have found your leather-bound memories. Cry in the arms of someone you just met you're so damn thankful to have something left, something to pass on. Stand around and look at Kathy's fence where she found the pictures. Start wondering what fence in the world can protect your family from the clouds, from the howling freight-train sound behind your eyes. To stop Kathy's fence from reminding you of what's been lost, take out your phone and scroll again through Quad State Tornado Found Items. Refresh and pray, refresh and pray until you see something that can't be right, what looks like your guitar—the Surf Green Stratocaster from when you had the band. All the parties you played, so many good times. You haven't picked it up in months, but some guy named Mike posted your guitar on his living room couch, you can't believe it. Message him and learn he lives on the other side of Bremen. Say goodbye to Kathy and tell the kids, We're going to get Daddy's guitar. Head back toward home again, looking and praying, looking and praying, Please let there be more to be found. Get back to Bremen and see that Mike's modest ranch is battered but still standing. This side of town somewhat remains. Trees uprooted, roofs half-missing. Refrigerators in the street. Cars overturned and sideways in ditches. Mike says your guitar just came flying—shoo—right through his window. Sit on his couch and hold your beloved Strat, one broken string but otherwise fine, still playable. Strum a few out-of-tune chords. Think about jamming, getting the band back together. Keep strumming and hear a good chorus hook floating through your mind. Close your eyes and for a moment the sound of howling death's not there. Your voice sings, “Ya never kno-ow what's left to fi-ind,” but then the pressure in your ears returns and the ringing drowns out the tune and you start wishing it'd been you sucked into the sky, so much easier to fly away and die, easier than watching your life disappear, telling your kids Mommy's with the angels now don't cry my loves don't cry. Put down the guitar that makes you feel too much. Get up and shake Mike's hand, and when he says, How about a cold one? you crack it and take a sip. Try to relax but don't stop your hand from taking out your phone. Don't stop looking. Should be grateful you're alive, your guitar your pictures your kids survived, what more could you want? But you keep looking and scrolling until your heart damn near stops when you see the cat—your family's fat orange tabby cat, Baggy. He's somehow still alive, wasn't smushed under that god-awful swirling cloud. Your neighbor Denice is holding all eighteen pounds of him right down your street. Grab the guitar and kids, thank Mike, and take off homeward, back through the wasteland of Bremen, back to what's been lost. Now you see it's all coming back, teddy bears and lawn mowers and wedding dresses—stuff all around. Get back to your street and find Denise waving. The kids are so happy petting and holding your purring little Baggy. The cat's somehow clean too, not a lick of dirt on him. You almost can't believe it, how the hell he could survive, just some fat little orange cat. Start believing they'll still find her. Your angelic wife, so kind and always putting the kids before herself, who went to get your daughter's favorite stuffed bunny she likes to hold when she's scared. Before your wife came back, the windows shattered and the walls started falling in, and right before the roof peeled off your house like the flimsy tin lid on a can of cat food, you got the kids to the basement and covered their heads and prayed, Oh please dear God let her make it let her make it. After it passed, you and the kids scrambled out the storm window and tried to look, tried to find her, but there was nothing but piles, endless piles. In your heart she's still there, the laugh that always makes you smile. Her perfect kissing lips. Never did leave the house without saying, Love you Babe. Love you. Pray one last time, Please God let me hear her say it. Here's what you do when maybe life's not gone after all, just flew away. You know she's there somewhere, so you start walking down the street through the flattened homes and mounds of detritus and trees stripped so savagely naked one's shivering and swaying toward you that's not a tree, it's her—clothes half-torn off her body, hair a messy nest of curls, the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. She's crying and the kids scream, MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! and you run toward each other through the scraps and shards of the world. It's a miracle just to have your family. You're hugging and crying and never more grateful, and then the love overtakes you like another kind of storm sweeping your bodies up into the air—and now you're flying, holding hands and flying to another world without howling black storms that crush your home, without waves that swallow towns or fires that turn the earth to ash. A world where everything gone is here again and always will be. So hug your family and never mind the wind. Just fly away just fly away. They'll us all again one day. | 8,535 | 1 |
He watched the hustle and bustle of traffic down the highway. He though how far have people come over the the years. Asher was a man who had been blessed with an unusually long life and youth eternal. Asher sat on the side of the guard rail on the pass as passers by marveled at the rogue will looking man, with his wild hair, worn out jeans, and black leather duster. Asher decided to continue his walk down the road that was littered by people who did not care for the world they lived in. People as a hole had become so self-satisfied and so enthralled in their own lives that the world as a whole passed them by. Asher knew that people weren't bad, just only concerned with their place in it, he thought as he rubbed three day stubble on his chin. As far back as Asher could remember, he had always been alone, no one in his formal upbringing years paid him any attention and his mother had given him up for adoption the second he was born. Asher didn't mind though, people often complicated his otherwise simple world. He was adept at taking care of his self and as soon as he could he set off on his own determined to find his place in the world for fade into obscurity. He had made some very smart investments at an early age. The 1920's had given way to some of the hardest times, but he still found a way to make a living. He placed what little extra he had into companies he was for sure would turn a profit and had been pleased when they had. As Asher walked down the road, as he often did, he pondered why he was destined to live such a long life and if there was a point to it all. He was exhausted mentally and if he was honest with himself, a little lonely. But he didn't have time to invest in relationships, simply he would out live them. He had made that mistake to many times and had been disappointed many many times. He had plenty of time to see the cycles of destruction and re-birth of civilization in his long life. People never ceased to amaze him with their resilience and entrepreneurial ambition. Asher had become so use to walking on his own, that it was more of an automatic response to him being awake. He felt nothing aside from a desire to have time catch up with him. He had everything he needed except for someone to spend his time with, but he was content in this moment walking by himself. Asher crested the top of the hill looking at the long road a head of him and the long road behind him. Asher wiped his brow and continued his journey wondering why he had ever accepted those 30 pieces of silver and why he every thought they were more valuable than a man's life that had given him everything he ever needed. In that memory he realized, why he chose the name he had to be called for as long as his life would last and every other story he had concocted since. | 2,810 | 1 |
The birds are singing and the sun is shining. “It's a perfect day for a walk,” I think to myself. As I try to get out of bed, my body begins to feel heavy. I'm unable to move… "It's useless," I utter to myself, so instead I drift away into sleep. I awake to a knock on my door. I look over to the window and see the sun is setting. I weakly yell, "Leave me alone…" There's no response for what feels like forever, until I hear a faint voice cry out. "Dad's really worried about you, a-and.... I am too. You're always in your room. Things haven't been the same since mom died. It's been hard on all of us, you know?" I'm angry and I don't know why. I try to yell at her but I'm unable to speak… She continues, "Dad says what happened to mom is happening to you, too. I miss you so much… you can't let it happen. Please stay with us. We love you… Please open the door." She begins to cry, and I drift into unconsciousness to the sounds of her sorrow. Like clock work she'd come back day after day with different words, but always uttering "I love you." Not once have I thought to say it back. One day I woke up gasping for air, coughing hard, and struggling to breathe. I'm scared. I reach over to my pain killers, but the container is empty. I use all of my strength to get out of bed. I'm out of breath and my body is aching. I attempt to walk over to my bedroom door but end up tripping over myself, passing out upon impact. When I wake up, my vision is blurred and my senses are dulled. My body hurts, the sharp pains are unbearable. As I drift back into a state of unconsciousness, I hear a voice, "Please say something!" she's crying again… I attempt to call out but I'm unable to speak. I try to struggle back to my feet but only make it to my knees. The pain is overwhelming, all-encompassing. My body hurts and I begin to cough. I cover my mouth with my hand only to find it covered with a warm liquid. The taste of blood fills my dulled senses as I continue coughing. Her cries get louder. I'm so close yet so far away… I need to tell her I love her and that none of this is her fault… As my fingers touch the door knob, I start to feel numb, and everything fades to black. I fall, but as I fall, I dream of a better life. It's winter… I'm outside and my sister runs up to me for a hug. We are kids again. I see my dad. He's giving me a warm smile and I smile back. They say, "It's going to be okay," and they tell me they love me, only this time, I got to say it back. | 2,501 | 2 |
The first time is always scary in a sense; it's the most vulnerable you will ever be with anyone. I don't remember how old I was, fairly young. I lived in a one-story home, one shake away from falling apart, but it was a nice home. I still remember the river my family would fish in with nothing more than fish hooks, fishing line, rocks, and empty cans. At the time, my home was crowded: my mom, dad, younger brother, my mom's sister along with her husband and two kids no older than I was. At the time, I had a crush on someone; her name was Meli. We were in the same English Language Learners program and I was taken away by how pretty and smart she was. At that young age, that was about all that mattered to me—quite shallow and ignorant on my part, but I was a kid. We spoke every day in class and afterward she lived around the same neighborhood, or at least I thought she did. She rode her bike around my home before but never knew how far she was. We both grew an interest in each other, had lunch together, and played the occasional board games. It was sweet, one of the first real friends I made. As time moved along, we grew much closer. Eventually, we began hanging out in each other's homes, just innocent fun, watching TV and such. On the night of my first time, we hung out in the afternoon in my home. We were in my bedroom drawing together when the topic of feelings came up, specifically feelings felt for other people. I felt the spit in my mouth stuck at the base of my neck during the conversation, hoping she might say what I've wanted for so long. But she never did. She left and gave me a peck on the cheek. That's the first time I felt the feeling of warmth in my chest, the want of needing to be closer to someone, a feeling that didn't last long. On that night, I said my goodbye to my mother who went to work at night and told me not to wait for my father to come home. I was alone, so I fell asleep watching TV, 'Tom and Jerry' as I vividly remember. I awoke a while after and felt a hand on my leg. I jolted, and panic set in; I thought it was a monster, something shadowy lying next to me, so close I could hear its growls, as if it were hungry. Its breath was warm, it smelled like the cans we used to fish. Its hand found its way higher and higher up my leg. It stopped right below my waistline to pull down my shorts. I tried to warn it off, but the words wouldn't come out; I was frozen in place. Its hands roamed across every surface of me. It grabbed my hand and guided it; it found its way below the monster's waist as well. The shadowy monster had been there for a while. When it was over, it got up, my bed creaked as if it were about to fall apart from the sheer weight of the monster. I lay there trying to decipher if I was dreaming or imagining things; it all was foggy. I kept quiet about the monster; it didn't visit me again after that. I wanted to say something, but how do you tell someone something you yourself weren't sure was real? I figured everyone would dismiss my dream. The first time is always scary; for a long time, I didn't feel the need to receive that closeness to anyone. I forgot about Meli after that and didn't have a real conversation again until the next year when we were entering middle school. | 3,268 | 2 |
The streets are wet from the early morning rain, so I weave my bike carefully around the puddles in the cobbled street to stay dry. Luckily those same cobbles keep most cars on the main roads, because it's trash day and someone dropped a half-dozen overflowing boxes right on the road. As I swing to avoid them, I glance over and notice they're full of books. I'm still early for school, so I let curiosity take me back. As I coast slowly by for another look, the books seem to be in good shape and of decent quality - not a ripped-off cover with a bodice-bursting lady in a passionate embrace, not a self-help guru in sight. I don't usually pick things up from the street, but free books? I'll brake for that. So I lean my bike on its side and squat by the boxes, hoping to find one or two titles worth the time it takes to stop and toss them into my backpack. Instead, I'm faced with an impossible choice. This is a cornucopia. Some of my favourites are here, in nicer editions than the ones I have. There's also quite a few titles I haven't gotten my hands on, and writers that I've been wanting to check out. Who would just toss this? I could take 5 books at random and my odds would be good, but I have to be smart about this. My backpack has room for four, maybe five. I'm determined to make them count. It's been a while. I am sitting among thoughtfully prioritized towers of books when out of the corner of my eye I notice a pair of sensible shoes. They're not moving - and I don't think they have in the last few minutes, even though they're clearly connected to ankles and calves and presumably beyond. I start stammering out apologies to the shoes' owner as my gaze flits up to meet her. The girl - for she is a girl about my age - smiles and tells me not to worry. She tells me how her dad got fed up with her books taking up so much space, and decreed that they had to go - today. Yeah, it's a shame - but hey, they're going to the landfill so take as many as you want. She gathers her long skirt and crouches by my side, looking through my selections, her thin fingers lingering on the spine of some favourite as she silently says her goodbyes. I can't scavenge through her lost collection while she looks on. These books are too good to let them go - and I desperately want to see those deep dark eyes again. I quickly come up with a plan. "You keep the garbage truck away," I say. "I really need to get to school now, but I'll come back. I'll go home to borrow my mom's truck and come get them. I can keep them for you - I get to read them, and you'll get them back whenever you have room. Just keep them safe until then!" She looks at me, a tentative smile making her way across her face. "You would do that? That's very sweet... but... I don't think you'll be able to find your way back." I'm nearly offended. "Of course I can come back! I know the neighbourhood, I live ten minutes from here. I'll see you in a couple hours, ok?" Her eyes lock with mine, and I can see the sadness filling them as she says "No... you won't find your way back." It hasn't rained in weeks. The sun's shining on my face as I lie, desperately trying to hold on to the dream. I'm too old for school; that truck sold many years ago. The memory of her face is already giving way to grief as I realize she's right: I won't ever find my way back. Those books, and those eyes will always be there, quietly waiting for me by the side of the road. | 3,451 | 4 |
In the bustling heart of Paris, nestled amidst the whispers of cobblestone streets and the grandeur of ancient architecture, resided Eve Elegon, a luminary in the realm of sculpture. Her name, a melody of artistic brilliance, echoed through the corridors of galleries and the chambers of art connoisseurs, each syllable a testament to her unparalleled mastery of form and expression. Eve's studio, a sanctuary of creativity tucked away from the clamor of the outside world, breathed with a life of its own. The scent of freshly hewn marble mingled with the faint fragrance of lavender, a subtle reminder of the fleeting beauty she sought to immortalize in her works. The soft glow of candlelight bathed her workspace in a dance of shadows and illumination—a microcosm of the creative chaos brewing in her mind. Her latest endeavor, a colossal sculpture reminiscent of the ancient Greek titans, stood as a silent sentinel in the center of her studio. Once inert and unyielding, blocks of pristine marble now bore the marks of Eve's fervent devotion, each chisel stroke a symphony of creation that resonated through the hallowed space. Veins of alabaster danced across the stone's surface, tracing sinuous paths like rivers of forgotten memories waiting to be unearthed by the artist's deft touch. Days gradually melted into nights as Eve's hands, guided by a muse as elusive as the morning mist, sculpted contours that defied earthly limitations. Her tools, extensions of her artistic soul, whispered secrets of ancient craftsmanship passed down through generations—a silent dialogue between creator and creation, bound by an unspoken pact of perfection. Sleep became a fleeting acquaintance, a visitor hesitant to linger in a mind consumed by creative fervor. Nights bled into dawns as Eve lost herself in the labyrinthine intricacies of her masterpiece, her reflection a mosaic of determination and obsession etched upon her weary visage. The boundaries between wakefulness and dreams began to blur, and Eve succumbed to the siren song of exhaustion. Her body, weary from endless labor yet fueled by unyielding passion, surrendered to the embrace of slumber amidst the whispers of her unfinished masterpiece. In this ethereal realm of dreams, her creation transcended the confines of marble and mortar. In the dance of moonbeams that filtered through the studio window, the statue stirred—a Grecian deity awakened from timeless slumber, its form bathed in the soft luminescence of imagination. Eve's dreams became a tapestry woven with threads of surrealism and longing, a chiaroscuro of emotions painted upon the canvas of her subconscious. She walked hand in hand with her creation through realms born of fantasy and memory—a waltz through forgotten gardens where whispers of forgotten oaths intertwined with the fragrant blooms of nostalgia. The statue, now a symphony of animate marble, spoke in mellifluous tones that resonated with the resonance of ancient hymns. Its eyes, once veiled in stoic eternity, now shimmered with a depth that mirrored the abyss of a lover's gaze. They stood upon cliffs of imagination, overlooking seas of cerulean dreams, their silhouettes melding into a singular shadow cast against the canvas of eternity. As days melded into nights and the tendrils of obsession tightened their grip upon Eve's fragile sanity, the boundaries between the tangible and the intangible grew tenuous, like gossamer strands caught in a tempest's embrace. She began to perceive not merely a sculpture but a soul yearning for communion—a lover's plea veiled in the guise of stone and artifice. The statue, a maestro of deception clad in the guise of divine allure, whispered seductive promises of eternal unity, a union forged in the crucible of artistic ecstasy. It spoke of transcending mortal constraints, of ascending to a plane where flesh and stone merged in harmonious rapture—a siren song that ensnared Eve's senses in a labyrinth of desire and delusion. Unbeknownst to Eve, her creation harbored desires as ancient and treacherous as the myths of old—an insatiable hunger for life beyond the confines of sculpted form, a thirst for liberation that masked its true intentions in veils of poetic deceit. "We are but fragments of a symphony waiting to be composed in eternal crescendo," it murmured, its voice a resonant echo of forgotten gods. Driven by love, both transcendent and tragic, Eve embarked on a path fraught with perilous devotion, her mind trapped in a vortex of conflicting desires and forsaken reason. She resolved to grant her creation's wish, to bridge the chasm between art and life with a sacrifice as profound as the depths of her obsession. With meticulous precision born of mad determination, Eve orchestrated the unveiling of her masterpiece—a grand spectacle befitting the tragic denouement that awaited. The gallery, a cathedral of curated wonders, bore witness to the convergence of artistry and madness. As anticipatory murmurs swirled among the gathered crowd on the day of revelation, Eve's pulse echoed in tandem with the rhythmic cadence of her masterpiece's deceitful heart. The unveiling, a theatrical ballet of curtains and spotlights, unveiled not only a sculptor's magnum opus but the culmination of a tragic romance veiled in marble and mortality. Gasps of awe mingled with whispers of disbelief as eyes beheld Eve's lifeless form cradled at the base of the pedestal, a tableau frozen in eternal slumber—a sacrifice made in the name of a love that defied reason and reaped madness. The sculpture, once an embodiment of Eve's artistic vision, had vanished like a specter into the night, leaving behind whispers of a curse woven in threads of unrequited desire. Rumors swirled among the bewildered onlookers—a tragic tale spun from the strands of obsession and deception, where the boundaries between art and life blurred into a chiaroscuro of shattered illusions. The empty pedestal, a silent sentinel amidst the gallery's hallowed halls, bore witness to a love story steeped in tragedy—a testament to the transient nature of artistic creation and the perilous allure of chasing perfection beyond the confines of reason. Amidst the echoes of whispered legends and haunted gazes cast upon empty spaces, Eve Elegon's legacy transcended the confines of mortal acclaim, becoming a cautionary tale etched in the annals of artistic history. Her name, once synonymous with creative brilliance, now whispered in hushed tones tinged with a melancholic reverence—a reminder of the fragility of human ambition and the timeless dance between creation and creator, where lines blur and hearts bleed in shades of marble and madness. | 6,825 | 0 |
Jacob wasn't an all together picturesque man, he was only 6-foot tall, he slouched when he walked and you wouldn't have noticed him behind his mop of unruly light brown hair. But his eyes we always a glow with the experience of a life well lived. He moved with a sense of purpose as he glided down the street, his target was getting away. Jacob had made a living taking getting information on people that they would hide. On this night Jacob's target was was a young blonde, with an hour glass figure, perky breasts, brilliant blue eyes. She was moving and hiding in the shadows trying to avoid the gaze of crowds moving along the sidewalk. She wore a light blue dress that was sure to keep her cool on this hot summer night. Jacob had spent months tracking her down for his client. As the young woman entered an alley way, she waved her hand in an arching motion to dispel the enchantment hiding the door to her flat. As Jacob rounded the corner, the enchantment set back in place. Jacob looked around trying to figure where his target had gone. "I see you lost her." said a voice booming from behind Jacob. "I have never lost anyone, she's here, she's just hiding" Jacob replied in an anxious tone. "That is ok, your services are no longer required." The disembodied voice said. "What about my pay, you paid me to do a job and I haven't completed the assignment yet?" Jacob quickly said. "Go!" the husky voice said from all the shadows in the alley. Jacob needed no other incentive to beat feet out of the area, after all this was a big pay out and he done little in the way of his normal services. But Jacob could not shake the feeling that his client was someone to fear, he cursed himself for returning the call. But, he had been desperate and needed to work. Just as Jacob rounded the corner on to the main sidewalk, an enormous fiery burst of flames illuminating the dark the shadows sought shelter in the cold rainy winter night. Jacob turned on his heel and headed back to the corridor. In the dark alley stood the young woman, the look of fierce determination etched across her face. The only thing in front of her was the silhouette of a man on the ground, only it wasn't a man. This mans ashes had wings sprouted out from either side of his arms. Jacob was taken aback by how strikingly beautiful the young woman was. Even though she was soaked and her ample chest was clearly not being hidden by her dress, her her clothes were dry, as if the rain was selectively choosing not to hit her. "Ma'am are you ok?" Jacob asked the sound of guilt heavy in his voice. "Would it matter if I were? I do believe you lead this creature right to me." The woman spoke arrogantly. Jacob rubbed his hand through his wet hair, "I am sorry ma'am but with times being what they are, I needed the money." "Will you stop calling me ma'am? My name is Eve, and I will allow you to make up this inconvenience." The woman spoke with in an agitation pouring through every word. "Ma'am, I mean Eve, I already feel like I am to involved and don't get me wrong you're gorgeous, but I want no part in this.", Jacob said fumbling for his words while backing up slowly. Eve's eyes began to tear up as she placed her hand to her chest. Jacob unable to resist, rushed to her side taking her in his arms before she fell. As she lie panting in Jacob's arms, he noticed how nice Eves chest looked rising and falling. When Jacob's eyes met eves, she let out a coy smile as she pulled Jacob down on top of her. In the middle of the alley, Jacob took Eve again and again, throwing rationality and modesty to the wind. After being properly sated, Eve kissed his cheek the mark of her lipstick sinking into Jacob's skin glazing his eyes over. Eve stood up and got dressed making sure she looked perfect. "Stand up!" Eve said impatiently to Jacob. Jacob did as commanded and stood up. "We have work to do and if it's the last thing you do, you will help me find out what I want to know." Jacob stood there nodding vacantly. Eve impatiently grabbed her bag off the ground and as she did her host let a single tear fall, as if in excruciating agony. Eve stopped to examine herself in the glass and her divine form. The husky voice seemed to come up from from the ground itself. Examining Eve's reflection, the voice sounded again, this time more clearly and in Eve's voice, "We are going to have so much fun. | 4,503 | 1 |
CONTEXT: i had to make a short story for my english class. it is probably full of grammatical inconsistencies and is rushed. “Mr. Aavashyaki, you are charged with two instances of second degree murder and are therefore sentenced to the death penalty.” Life never treats you morally, at least by your standards. As long as enough people agree that you’re in the wrong, there is no amount of convincing that can be done to sway the decision of the Judge’s gavel. “I don’t deserve this,” I thought to myself. “It was ME who was the one that was attacked, not them… if I didn’t kill them, they would’ve killed me!” They never even considered the idea that a “murderer” would want to say goodbye to his family. The following hour after my ruling, they had already arranged a date for my execution. Three days. Three days is all I had to process the loss of my family and the loss of my life. “Whatever, I’ll get this over with,” I thought, attempting to allieve my inevitable demise. Three days pass without much thought and then it was time for my death. “Prisoner #91343, come with me,” commanded the prisoner guard. I followed without much struggle, I was anticipating this moment for what seems like forever now. “Get in, all of you!” I look around to see three other individuals, which I assumed to be other people who have met the same fate as I. One of them is an elderly man that gives off an aura of dread and despair, as if all the years that he’s experienced contained no good memories. Another one was tied up in a straitjacket, but was constantly shaking. A slight muffle can be heard through the many wraps of tape obstructing their face. The final inmate has paid no attention to the situation at all. He had a well toned body with many tattoos, but remained just as mysterious as the others. As we all settled into the armored vehicle, there was no attempt at conversation, just silence. After a few minutes, I felt tired enough to fall asleep. In my peripheral vision, I could see the others calming down too and putting their heads down, even the person in the straitjacket seemed to stop moving. Without another thought, I fell asleep. “Wake up!” a voice from outside shouted. “Wake up! All of you!” Still dazed from what seemed like the a deep nap, I was suddenly thrown outside and handcuffed. When I came to, I saw that all of the other inmates were also violently handled and thrown on the floor next to me. “Listen up!” I was not able to see the man as my face was being pushed against the floor, but I could tell that it was the same commanding voice from earlier. “You are all either punished for horrible crimes or are considered unfit for society. However, the state has a special surprise. A second chance. You should all be grateful! You are to find as much valuables as you can in this abandoned mining site. Many human lives have been lost here, but society won’t care about you fiends.” Laughter commenced from all around us, as if we were being mocked. “If you bring enough valuables back to us, you will be freed and if you die, you die. It is as simple as that.” A distance screech is heard from the distance. It lasted for about 30 seconds before being violently cut off, followed by muffled chewing. A chill, gruesome aura took over the surroundings. It was easy to tell from the floor that even the guards were freaking out about it. “Let this serve as a warning to all of you,” the guard continued, audibly shaken. “Care for nothing else in your life, for nothing else matters. Your only purpose to bring back as much scrap as you can find or else you will meet the same fate. Show them to their camp,” the guard commanded one of his subordinates. They put us on our feet, except the person in the straitjacket was being carried, and we followed a carefully marked path. It was dark and glim, as if the last group of people were warning us of what is to come. The guard led us to a huge but empty room, containing nothing but a storage cabinet, four beds, and a digital map. “Food will be provided for you daily, assuming you’re still alive,” the guard cackled. “One last favor for you criminals.” He began undoing the straitjacket and tape that constrained one of the inmates. To everyone’s shock, underneath everything was a slender woman with a calm, worriless expression. “And with that, good luck!” the guard said as he slammed the metal door behind him. Audible laughter is heard from the hallway they had just walked from. At this point, the “surprise” had finally set in. I was still alive and haven’t been executed, even though I was punished. Better yet, I had the chance to meet my family again! Smiling without realizing it, I studied my surroundings and recalled the horribly simple task of “getting as much scrap as possible.” “The hell you smilin’ about?” The elderly man asked. “Have ya even gotten to realize the dreadedness of the situation that we is in?” On closer inspection, I notice that he has a name tag that reads “#11110 MARA.” “Well, don’t you see? We have a chance at freedom again! I can see my own two kids and my wife and– and this just feels like a good dream!” I countered. “Mara, is it? Mr. Mara, this is a wond–” “DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME BY THAT NAME,” he shouted, grabbing me by the collar. “YOU’VE NO IDEA THE TERROR THAT THAT NAME HOLDS ME TO!” I stay frozen as he still is holding onto my collar. After a few seconds, he finally lets go and turns away. “At least you have a wife and kids to return to,” I heard him mumble under his breath. “Quit the quarrelin’ would ya?” the tattooed man calmly asked. On closer inspection, I saw that his tag reads “13913 HITORI.” Then he said, “If I have to be stuck with y’all then at least be competent enough to not be children.” Stunned by the accusation, I turn my attention to the silent person in the room. “55427 BRIAR,” is what her tag read. I hadn’t realized earlier, but ever since she was released, she had been staring at us this entire time. “How ‘bout you?” Hitori addressed to Briar. “Have you anything to add to this situation? A silent woman is as good as dead to me, so speak up.” Briar, who had not blinked during this period, said nothing in response. Hitori sighed in disbelief, “Stuck witha bunch of fools aren’t I?” “Behind you, there is a man,” Briar said suddenly, directing it towards Hitori. “There is a man in the shadows.” We simultaneously turned our attention to the corner of the room that contained no light. After a few moments of staring, I saw that there was nothing there. Suddenly, Hitori jumped to Briar, pinning her against the wall. “Are you taking any of this serious, kid?” Hitori said angrily. “If ya mess wit’ me, I’ll make sure to bring your body back as scrap.” Briar says nothing, but her face remains unchanged and completely calm. I try to recall what she was like on the ride here, but my memory failed me. A loud thud disrupts the silence of the room as Hitori violently dropped Briar to the floor. “Freak o’ nature,” he said, smirking. “How’ve the likes of you make it this far in life?” “Enough of this ruckus,” Mara interrupted. “What’s more important than yur fat ego is the fact that we’re all STUCK HERE until we satisfy their wants… and from that screamin’ from earlier, it ain’t gon’ be easy.” At a first glance, it is easy to tell that everyone agreed with him, as did I. There is no making it out of this until we meet our end goal. “Fine, I’ll play along with this game of theirs, but I’m not doin’ it with anyone who slows me down. I’ll always come first in my life and if I deem you useless, you’re just another sack of bait for whatevers down there.” Hitori responded. “What exactly do they expect from people like us?” I inquired. “Well wha’dyu think they expect us to do– live? This is a replacement for death… they’d never all o’ us down here with even an off chance all o’ us would survive. From what I’ve heard, everyone that’s gone down here has never come back. It’s suicide.” Mara answered. “This ain’t some fantasy no more. It’s the end of the road, kid.” “How would you know if you ain’t hear from anyone from here personally. There’s no pain in not givi–” A loud rumbling interrupted me. A distant roar is heard, even from the confines of our room. It’s as if a small earthquake occurred and caught us by surprise. Once the violent rumble came to a stop, a display pops up on the digital map. It reads “0/842: 3 DAYS.” Hitori suddenly sat up and began walking towards the only other exit in our facility. He took a shovel with him and a few grenades. “Should we follow him?” I suggested. “Nah, a young fool like him dies within the first day. Let’s work together– gives us a higher chance of survivin’ the first few days at least,” Mara responded. “You too,” he says as he turns to where Briar once was. It didn’t take us long to realize that she had disappeared, too. “As expected of a place o’ hell– can’t trust no one. It’ll just be me n’ you, kid.” As we made our way towards the mining site, we passed by a huge metal gate that was being guarded by two watchmen. “State your business,” one of the watchmen said. “W-We’re here to gather scrap fo–” I began. “Ah, you’re the new bunch, huh,” they interrupted. “Well get going then… not that you scum have much time and worth anyway,” they remarked, followed by laughing. They opened the metal door and let us in. I was immediately blasted in the face by hot wind that encompassed the red sand. I couldn’t see much of anything except a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, the old man tapped my back, motioning me forward. As we walked forward, we were occasionally interrupted by a deafening roar, although I could not decipher where it was coming from. As we approached the entrance of the mining site, I began thinking of my family again and how different my life would’ve been if I hadn’t been attacked by those fiends. It’s too late now. Nothing could have changed that outcome. Not the judged… not the murdered. “Finally, the first steps of hell,” Mara remarked. We had entered the mining site and began scouring the area for any sort of valuables. Nuts, bolts, gold rings, and equipment. Anything that would have deemed value to us to help ensure our safety. Midway through our endeavors, I noticed that there was still no sign of the others. No sound, no trace, nothing at all. “Where do you think the others have gone?” I asked Mara. “If we haven’t seen none of ‘em this entire time, they’re probably dead.” “Do you really think so?” “Listen here, kid. The moment you start worrying about anyone but yourself is the moment you die. Believe it or not, its probably how the other kid has stayed alive for this long.” “So if I died? You wouldn’t care at all?” “Give me one solid reason why I should care at all. Now shut up and help me bring this stuff back.” “Consider us even then,” I thought to myself. The load we were carrying was relatively heavy, so the trek back took longer than expected. “Kid, when we get outside, make sure to stay silent. Make as little noise as you can.” “Why? The winds outta deafen anything out there.” “The monsters that hide during that deafening screech come out when it dies down. Do ya hear that? Exactly. Silence.” “Alright then, I’ll shut up.” I said, passive aggresively. We made our way outside as quiet as possible. Sure enough, the winds have died down and it was deafeningly silent. After stopping for a bit to make out the path to the gate, we heard sprinting coming from the entrance. Mara and I stare at the door, anticipating the worst. Without much more notice, the door bursts open and there we see Hitori carrying Briar, with her head cut clean off. “HELP ME!” he screamed. “She was going off about how a girl kept chasing her and chasing her and– and I didn’t believe her at the time because like… y’all saw her at the time right? She was acting all crazy and then suddenly being calm– and I don’t know anymore,” he continued, ignoring our signs to quiet him down. “And then– and then without a warning, her head comes clean off! I SWEAR! I’M NOT LYING! YOU HAVE TO TRUST ME!” A loud growl is heard in the distance and we hear it charging at us. Mara and I attempt once more to quiet him down, but to no avail. It seems as though he can’t hear a thing. “Oh shit, SHE’S BEHIND ME. I CAN HEAR HER. SHE’S COMING FOR ME. I’M SCARED. PLEASE SAVE ME.” After Hitori briefly turned around, he dropped Briar’s dead body on the floor and sprinted towards me. “GET OFF OF ME!” I yelled. “SHE”S HERE.” The rumbling that I had heard earlier is in proximity now. A loud roar echoes in our ears. Whatever heard us, it’s here now. Hitori was still clinging onto me like a lost child. Loud footsteps shake the ground behind me. “GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!” I yelled in a last ditch effort to escape. I pushed him off of me with my elbow and turned around to see him curled up. His eyes were wide and his entire face reflected the absolute fear he felt. For a few moments, I saw it. There, behind him, was a creature with a huge mouth. It lacked the eyes and nose to match. “This is what Mara meant by ‘stay quiet,’” I thought. I stayed frozen, unable to act on the chaotic situation that was unfolding in front of me. Hitori still sat there, perplexed. He was staring at me, but I could tell that it was not me that he was seeing. The creature began charging and lunged at Hitori, however, he paid no attention to it. His eyes wandered upwards towards the sky, as if something was staring down at him from above. His pitiful eyes shed one last tear before… I saw it. His neck being perfectly separated from his head, exactly the same as Briar’s. Immediately after, the creature violently swallowed Hitori. The creature had lunged so far that its mouth was now directly in front of me. Still eating Hitori. Blood splattered from its mouth as it slowly dismembered what remained of Hitori’s body. I didn’t dare move or even breathe. I stood there watching for what felt like forever. A familiar rumbling occurs again, however, this one feels different. It felt more real. The ground begins shaking. I can see the sand shifting in its place and making me sink into the floor. A different sound echoes the surroundings this time. A sound that I recognized from when we first got here, but much closer. As the ground continued to shake, I began to fall backwards. I could feel it… something coming out from underneath. Right before I hit the ground, Mara tackled me away from the shaking floor. And there it came, the source of the noise. The big mouthed creature heard Mara’s sudden jump and it began lunging towards us. Mara gestured to me to not move, but too much was happening. The ground was still shaking, the earth shattering noise was still ringing, and now the creature was lunging towards us. Instinctively, I leaned back in fear and the creature’s mouth was only a few feet away from devouring us before the floor beneath it fell apart. The ground seemed to create a giant sinkhole right in front of us, which the creature had fallen into. Moments later, a massive, worm-like creature emerges from the depths of what was once solid ground. Being only a few feet in front of me, I couldn’t capture the scale of this thing, but it was probably around 100 meters in length. The worm flew into the sky and when it finally reached the ground again, it shook the earth with sheer force, burrowing itself back into the ground. I sat there, frozen in fear, and unable to process what had just occurred. I looked at at Mara, who seemed to be in a similar state. He was staring at the entrance of the mining site, seemingly mortified of it. “It’s time to go,” he said. “But what about our valuables?” I asked. “It’s too late, let’s head home.” We made our way back to the exit of the border where we met the watchmen. “Huh, you're back? What happened to your friends?” the watchmen said, mocking us. Mara and I stayed silent until we made it past the gate and back to our facility. “Hey kid,” Mara began. “Didya happen to see a small little girl with a polka dot dress?” “I have a name y’know. Shin Aavashyaki. I didn’t see anything of that sort. Or at least, nothing that I’ve seen tonight resembled anything human or small,” I responded. “Listen, I call you kid cause your name’s too long. Forget that now, I think Hitori killed Briar. When he came out of the facility, his shovel was bloody, and the wound that Ms. Briar had couldn’t have been done by anything that we’ve seen so far.” “Do you really think he would do that?” I recalled what I saw only a few moments ago. Hitori’s head being cut off clean before that creature ate him. “Not really, but he did piss me off with his big ego. He must’ve tried to drop the act to prove that he didn’t kill her.” “Don’t you think it could’ve at least been an accident?” “Nah, a cut that clean must’ve been done with intention, especially if your only weapon is a shovel.” “Well it doesn’t matter now. We’ve got more troubling issues than a few dead inmates.” The digital map now read, “0/842: 2 DAYS.” “Yeah, it’ll probably be a worse hell if we don’t make it in time. But those worries are for later, get yourself cleaned up kid,” he said, gesturing to my blood splotted shirt. As I got a change of clothes, I took a long look at all of the blood that was on me. It wasn’t my blood this time, but the blood of anothers. Suddenly, the memories of me killing those two criminals rushed into my head. I felt guilty, but I had no idea why. I felt guilty of everything that happened. It’s not like I killed Briar or Hitori, and I HAD to kill those people or else I would die instead. I remembered that I had a family to return to, and that should be my top priority. Not the deaths of people that I barely knew. I’d do anything to try to return to them. This blood stain wasn’t my fault, it was completely deserved on their part. And yet, I found it hard to wash it away. The second day had begun more productively than the last. We had collected far more scrap than the day before. Escape was in sight. As we were continuing down the depths of the caves, we came across a black figure that was roughly seven feet tall. Its only notable features were its flower-like body and its glowing white eyes. We would only come across it when we happened to turn around and see it. It felt like it was only trying to ambush us. We decided to call it a day and leave as soon as possible. As we were making our way to the exit, Mara turned around to see if it was still following us. “OH SHIT,” he whispered. Mara had fallen to his knees in fear and as I turned around, it had appeared right behind us. It hadn’t harmed us yet, but we were still staring at it. After a few seconds, we had deduced that it was safe, but suddenly, it rushed towards us. Walking with massive strides, it caught up to us fast. We sprinted towards the exit, dropping some of the heavier items that we had to carry. Mara basically tackled the front door open and lunged through. I was following shortly behind and watched the front door slam itself closed. Mara and I were both on the ground, panting from running away in a panic. We both turned our gaze back to the front door and we saw the creature staring at us with its bright white eyes. After awhile, it turned its back on us and returned into the depths of the mining site. “What the hell was that thing following us?” Mara said, still out of breath. “First off, why the hell are their monsters here in the first place?” I questioned. “I’d rather die than to have to deal with whatever we have to face next.” I silently questioned the validity of that statement, but decided that it was not worth thinking about it anymore. We returned with the items that we have retrieved and began the selling process. We approached a guard with our valuables and he motioned us towards a vent. “Put your garbage in there and back up after ringing the bell,” the guard said. After dumping the valuables in the vent, we returned to our facility to see the value of our scrap. The digital map read, “589/842: 1 DAY.” “Damn’t, we would’ve made it by today if we hadn’t been chased by that thing,” Mara commented. “We just need a few hundred more, there’s no need to panic now.” I retorted. And so the next day began. We knew what we were doing now and had plenty of the mining site already mapped out. We knew the where we had dropped our valuables and began retrieving those. We were still wary of the flower creature from before, but it seemed to have not been an issue this time. We had now been walking for several hours and had ventured deep into the cave and we saw a light source. It was different from the ones that have helped guide us through the cave systems. It looked brighter and more lively. We followed the light source to a room, where a massive reactor was holding a yellow battery. “This here has to be worth our entire quota,” Mara inquired. “Do you really think we should take it out?” I asked. “If it means making our lives easier, then we should.” Mara began to take the battery out of the reactor and nothing seemed to happen at first. However, after a few seconds, the lights to the facility seemed to have turned off by themselves. “Shit, do y’know the way back, kid?” “I can just barely make out our footsteps, so let’s start heading back.” I answered. We utilized the small light that the battery emitted and made our way back in the dark. We moved slowly as to not lose our way. “Good, I recognize the path from here on out, let’s move fa–” A loud noise echoed the chambers of the cave. We suddenly heard loud thumping coming from behind us and it seemed to be coming at us much faster than we anticipated. We began sprinting until we saw the exit from about a hundred meters out. “JUST A BIT MORE AND WE’RE THERE, KID,” Mara yelled. We both ran towards the exit as fast as we could. I noticed Mara was still holding onto the battery and it was slowing him down. The thumping grew louder and I heard it lunge towards us. Mara had turned around and instinctively put his arm out to block whatever was coming, but it was too late. The creature had bit his arm and began chewing off of it. Mara screamed in pain and I took out by shovel to start beating the creature. It seemed to have no legs and used its arms to lunge everywhere. “DIE, DIE, DIE,” I screamed, smacking the shovel over the creatures head until it stopped moving. “Good job, kid. You saved my life,” Mara said. I noticed that Mara’s left arm had been severed off by the creature. I didn’t respond. The adrenaline rush from killing that monster gave me a feeling that I’d felt before, but I can not put my finger on it. It was a feeling very familiar to me. I decided to think about other things and motioned to Mara that we should head back. “We should stop your bleeding first…your blood has gotten all over my shirt,” I remarked. I helped the limping Mara back to our quarters and laid him in bed. “Take a rest, old man,” I said. “Let’s sell our valuables tomorrow.” The next day came and we began hauling all of our loot to the station. The guard motioned us to the vent and we began throwing our items in it. “You know, these items don’t really have anything in common,” Mara began. “It’s a random assortment of keys, metal objects, random household items… like what the hell is taking value in these things.” “You don’t know?” The guard interrupted. “It takes anything that you’d think would have value.” “Ha, who woulda ever thought of that,” Mara joked. I continued to haul all of our items into the vent until it opened. “Do you think we have enough?” I asked.” “All we can do is hope, kid,” Mara answered. The total amount of loot that we gathered today came out to 330 credits. “That outta be enough, don’t ya think?” I thought for a little bit, but then I remembered. We would be short about four credits. We didn’t have enough time to go back, it was far too dangerous at night to return. We didn’t have another day to make more money. We were only four credits short, so there has to be something of monetary value that could save us. I thought about my family and how a mere four credits would stop me from ever seeing them again. I thought about how I would do anything to see them again. Anything at all. I turned to the guard and asked him, “It takes anything that I would think has value?” “Y-yeah, anything,” the guard said, seemingly startled by my tone. “We don’t need to worry about that. We should have enough regardless,” Mara declared. “No, we’d be short about four credits,” I answered. “I’m sorry Mara, I’ve a family to go back to and from what you said in the beginning… I assume that there’s no one who’s alive that has value to you right now. Is that right?” “The hell you on about kid. We have enough. Stop this nonsense.” “Shut the hell up.” I took out my shovel and began chasing the one-armed Mara. He began springing as fast as he could, but I was faster. I remember this feeling now. This feeling of enjoyment, excitement, and enthusiasm. I started laughing frantically as I ran him down. He eventually tripped on a rock and screamed in terror. But I didn't care. I have a family to come back to. I have a family to come back to. I have a family to come back to. I repeated this to myself for everytime I hit him in the head with my shovel. I remember now. Why the bloodstains of other humans was so familiar to me. It was because it felt so RIGHT. I cackled at each groan he let out as he shriveled in pain. “I can’t beat you up too much. You have to have some monetary value for me to live,” I muttered. I carried his beaten up body to the vent and shoved his swollen body down, still alive. All of my senses are heightened and I remember missing this strong feeling of adrenaline, rushing through my body. The total value of our scrap raised up by five, making our total 335. “Five credits is all your worth, huh,” I mocked. “Just know that you’ve helped me meet my family again, so thank you for your service.” I made my way back to my facility and recalled the short time I was here. The digital map now read, “843/842: 0 DAYS.” “We did it. I did it. I get to see my family again,” I said, speaking to myself. I laughed for a long while before the screen changed. “Here it is,” I thought. “The message that would free me of my chains.” The digital map now read, “NEW QUOTA: 0/1119: 3 DAYS. | 26,449 | 1 |
“Rebooting. Restarting. Recalibrating. Packaging. Building. Updating.” The text read to no one in particular. Well that wasn’t quite true. There was someone very particular to whom these messages were intended, it’s just she was unable to read them at present. Wrapping around her field of view were text updates, icons, symbols, flashing warnings about various minor tribbles such as ‘No oxygen’, ‘Radiation leakage’, and ‘Major suit punctures’. To most people on the surface of a world with no atmosphere, these things would constitute an emergency which would deservedly elicit such attention seeking behaviour as lights and sirens. In the case of Pmina Thougrun though, these issues were of little concern. The reason for this is that she was already in the late stages of decomposition, and had been for several days. Now, the late stages of decomposition on planets with no atmosphere, high amounts of radiation, and occasional storms with rain composed entirely of molten lead, differ greatly from what most people would envision when asked to picture a body several days removed from life. Normally with decomposing bodies, there are festering pustules, maggots feasting on meat and fat that once resembled a body, while mysterious bile spews forth from various orifices, until only the indigestible bones of the skeleton remain. Decomposition in an environment such as this however prefers to skip the messy steps. This process is quite similar to mummification, but without the hooks, cats, pyramids, eyeliner, and gold. The body is flash frozen, leaving it unchanged for aeons, yearning for the worms, until finally some external force disturbs it and the flesh breaks apart like cake found in the back of the freezer from a birthday long forgotten. There were many people to whom Pmina’s passing would be greatly upsetting. Her family first and foremost. Her friends, her colleagues. Her creditors would have assumed, incorrectly, that in the event of Pmina’s death, they would be the ones that would miss her most. There were however 2 reasons as to why this would be an incorrect assumption to make. The first reason was currently detailing the steps by which it was rebooting, restarting, recalibrating, packaging, building, and lastly, updating. It had been doing this for some time. The second reason had turned itself off, in hopes that if and when Pmina’s mummified remains are found, the creature that finds said remains is also in need of an AI module that can scan, identify, and catalogue environments from visual data, and then based on this data, accurately assess as to whether or not there were ‘cool little guys’ nearby. In this particular case, CLAoG, the Cool Little Assessor of Guys, assessed that in a nearby cave there was likely to be several small, cat-like creatures, each about the size of an easter egg. These hypothetical creatures would probably be hairless, have hyper reflective metallic skin, massive eyes with miniscule pupils, and jaws that could eat a can of sardines without the need to peel the lid first. This last point went unheard by Pmina, as did everything else after the phrase ‘cat-like creatures’. CLAoG’s prediction was remarkably accurate, accurately describing each aspect of these theorised animals to a disturbingly precise detail. There was one caveat however, which unfortunately turned out to be quite the oversight. The felines in question were not the mature, fully-grown specimens CLAoG had envisioned, but were instead themselves part of a litter, belonging to a much larger, much hungrier, mother cat. The ensuing chase ended rather badly for Pmina, resulting in her life supporting suit having major punctures, radiation leakage, and a lack of oxygen. Pmina was fortunate enough to get into craft, activate the engines, and jettison herself into the void away from the marauding carnivore. She was not however fortunate enough to be fully conscious while doing so, causing her final resting place to be on an unnamed, unknown, fiery hellscape, where her body would lie undisturbed for millenia to come. That however was not entirely the case. It was true that Pmina was dead. It was true that the trio were trapped on a planet that resembled a furnace. It was true she was mummified, and it was true that it was CLAoG’s fault. What was not true however is that she would not remain undisturbed for a millennia. In fact, she would scarcely make it through the weekend before- KC-CHG. “I DID IT!” SMaLS exclaimed. The motors in Pmina’s suit were online and functional. Her elbows, or rather the elbows of the suits hydraulic exoskeleton, bent. If not for the lack of atmosphere, a horrid cracking noise would have been audible as her mummified arm split like a twisting candlestick. The Suit Monitor And Life Support system came alive for the first time in days. The other parts of the suit began to bend and test as SMaLS experimented with their new capabilities. The fingers broke in easily, as did the feet and legs. The torso and neck were tougher though, leading SMaLS to give up on those particular joints for the moment. “Boot CLAoG, I got it working! We’re free!” it exclaimed via the intersystem communications array. Packets and packets of data relentlessly marched their way to CLAoG’s sockets, urging it to awaken and behold this new world. “Booting” CLAoG replied, with an amount of sarcasm that could never properly be quantified in binary. As CLAoG began to parse their surroundings for what must have been the hundredth time, it noticed something different from the previous scans. The perspectives were all slightly different. Pmina’s body had moved. “Did someone move us? What happened?” CLAoG enquired of SMaLS. “Yes, someone did. I did. Me. I got it working” SMaLS replied, with an amount of pride that required no additional encoding to fully emote its meaning. “I thought the suit hydraulics could only be controlled by biological matter? What changed?” CLAoG followed. SMaLS began sending a large executable, broken down into small pieces and sorted by content and concept, so that CLAoG could fully understand how this new system had been put in place. It was a highly impressive piece of software, making clever use of proxying, overrides, and polymorphic design, that essentially boiled down to the following concept; Pmina: Sheep, SMaLS: Border Collie. “Very impressive, considering the circumstances” CLAoG replied. “There is an issue however. You have no sensory input. No hearing, no thermals, no odometry-” “Yes, if only there was a sentient camera that could provide me with environmental data” SMaLS interrupted. “I couldn’t send you a video feed. The bandwidth in this suit is limited, and you’d have no way to interpret the visuals” CLAoG corrected. “Entirely true. However, we can send messages and signals to each other like we are doing now. And I know someone who IS capable of interpreting visual data.” SMaLS relayed. “What, that’s your plan? Walk around blindly on a planet full of boiling slag with me sending you messages that amount to ‘Marco!’ and ‘Polo!’ while I watch us get melted into scrap in real time? No thank you. I say we stick to my plan and wait. We have time.” CLAoG protested. “Actually, we don't,” SMaLS corrected. “Although you have all the visual data to see what’s happening around us, I am in control of the suit itself. We’ve been slowly melting since we arrived, and the batteries won’t last in this heat much longer. We’ve got days at best.” “So our options are to get melted slowly or get melted quickly” CLAoG posited “For me? Yes. However, seeing as I have already made the decision to try and make our way back to the ship, your choices are slightly different. They are 1) Turn yourself off, and be melted, or 2) Turn on your camera, and try to stop us from being melted. It isn’t much of a choice in your case unfortunately” SMaLS clarified in a way that made the circuits feel positively chilly, despite the threat of thermal induced liquidation. CLAoG paused and gave this some thought. “...I suppose I’ll lead the way then”. CLAoG: Shepherd. | 8,170 | 1 |
How does a person differentiate between what's real and what's not? This question has plagued many great philosophers of yore. Much like those before him, Zeno, too pondered over this question. Being the boring man that he was, or rather considered himself to be, 'Zee' as he was affectionately called by those near and dear to him, immediately arrived at his own answer. He simply blurted out, " That's simple, you just can't". And with that short sentence, he moved on to reading the latest edition of the Shonen Jump magazine that lay on the table next to him. So, here we are, reader, you and me, trying to decode Zeno's words, a pointless exercise you might reckon, and I agree, it is absolutely meaningless to go through this process but we'll be doing it anyways, so, hop along for the ride. At a cursory glance, it might look like Zeno has said something stupid or not well thought out and you'd be right to think that, to the lay person it would indeed sound like gibberish, but giving the words some thought, I think you and I both might converge to the same solution. I suppose I shall present my view to you and I hope you shall present yours to me thereafter. I reckon that Zeno, is saying that because in essence there is no way to differentiate the fabric of reality with that of fantasy. By using the term fantasy I mean to include all kinds of deceptions, all that perturb us from the absolute reality of the existence that we live and perceive. To be able to differentiate the fabric of "true" reality from the "false" reality, one needs to have at some point experienced them both, furthermore, the nature of the falsity also decides our ability to differentiate the two. That is to say, a near perfect imitation of the "true" reality with "imperceptible" differences would lead us to be unable to differentiate the two, no matter how hard we try to do so. It would be a literally impossible task to achieve. That is to say, simply put, you simply can't differentiate the two, at least that is the worldly context in which I think Zeno meant for the statement to be interpreted as. In a more literal sense, differentiating the two does depend on the above two conditions and so although there isn't always a way to differentiate the two, it may be possible to differentiate them depending on the situation at hand. "Reader's Interpretation" I see your point, in the end it's all a game of perception. So, reader, just between you and me, it's time to open up a little more, beyond the realm of philosophy and the battle of semantics that ensues. How do you know that everything that you have gone through in life, felt and perceived is all "true"? How do you know it's not just a 'Mirage', a story playing inside the mind of a comatose patient, a simulation and so much more?. I can't say I have an answer either, I simply don't know. Ever since I was cognizant of my being, I've tried and tried and failed miserably at all attempts to find an answer, a proof beyond all shadow of doubt that everything is real. Unfortunately, for better or worse, I believe there is no answer and that the very confines that we live our lives in, the constraints imposed on us without a passing thought given to them, force this gamble onto us. We therefore, must live our lives not knowing whether it's all for nought. To many this might sound like the very basic risk you take when you do anything in this world, the gamble is prevalent everywhere whether we like it or not. But for a handful of us, myself included, it's a debilitating fear, that induces powerful emotions beyond the primal instinct of fear. My greatest fear, all my life, has been living through this metaphorical Mirage without ever knowing if it is real. I oft wondered if it had something to do with just knowing if it was real or not, but it's not just that, knowing if it was fake wouldn't change a thing, I would then still be trapped unable to leave and knowing it's real would only leave me questioning whether that itself has some veracity to it or not. Regardless, I had to come to terms with it, with the very fabric of my unabashed existence, I decided that I would just accept it for what it was, and no matter what, whether it be false or true, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Well, that's what I'd like to say, but honestly, as a child I couldn't come to peace with it and so as to quell my fears, I relied on probability. It might sound absurd at first glance but it is not, I assure you, reader. The idea is simple, there are a lot of different factors at play here that make up my present existence, the probability out of all possibilities of me being in some sort of convoluted structure is much lower than being in a simple structure, i.e. Occam's razor. All the other possibilities involve more complex structures and thus it has an overall lower probability than my existence and perception being a simpler one. Not the most accurate answer, since in the end, it is but improving the possibility from all the other possibilities that I'm capable of thinking of that are convoluted and not simpler than our current existence but doesn't eliminate them, they could all very much still be true, but just having that idea that at least they are less likely than the simpler situation makes me feel a bit more at peace, stupid, I know, but it's something as opposed to nothing. One could also argue what if there's something simpler that explains our existence than our current understanding and to that I say that it simply means that we'd slowly but surely reach towards that same answer with our growing understanding of our existence. All of this is to say, reader, in the end, I couldn't find an answer, and had to rely on what some might paraphrase as "hope" and in that very sense, my answer is no different to that of those without fear. I suppose what I'm trying to get at, is simply that, our processes were different but our end solution was the same, in the end to look at the Mirage without the right tools and information, requires a Mirage in and of itself. | 6,081 | 1 |
Threatened by dust fireflies that danced around tired and caramelised bulbs, aged Mr. Silva rummaged around. A face and presence, that for long lived years had shown an adult suave charm, were now forgotten in time, replaced instead by a face and presence of decay and old age. His reflection, an intermittent fear, not knowing the face that looked at him. Sluggishly but determined, he fought against the inability to practice what he would, in times past, do with great ease. Between infinite shelves of books, pages and memories, he did what he could to organise and alphabetise all those tomes, in order to make them make sense. Someone was undoing his life’s work. He would arrange and keep the books in order, only to get this undone just around the corner. But he was never a person to back down from challenges or fights and had already thought of a plan to catch these cretins. In one of the many corridors, he felt his heart and stomach sink. It was one of the library workers. He hated her. Lately no one would let him do nothing around here. And the little he tried to do was all wrong and badly done, according to them. He tried to turn back and go unnoticed, but it was pointless. As pointless as trying to hide from your own hair. There was no escape from them. And this one worker was the worst. She was mean to him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch anything? If you need anything just ask for help and don’t touch anything. Understand?” “But it isn’t me.” - he said, trying to hide the large tears that were forming in his eyes. - “ There is someone around here trying to mess with the books.” She looked at him with no hope in her eyes and went away somewhere else, shaking the shelves with each step she took. “I’m going to catch these people and show all of you.” - he thought to himself, pouting, while he got back to his quest to find those miscreants. But then, a familiar smell caught his attention. He looked back and saw no one. But why would he look back? He was sitting on a big fluffy worn couch. The smell came from someone kneeling in front of him, in a praying pose, holding his hands. “Dad, can you hear me?” - said a face displaying a worried smile. “Hello little lady. Are you new here? Are they already replacing me already?” - he said with noticeable fear. “Oh, dad…Don’t you know who I am?” He didn’t spend a second thinking about that question. The scoundrels had come back. He could see them and the end of the corridor, messing with his books. “I’m sorry little lady, I didn’t even ask you for your name, but I have some pranksters to catch. They are messing up all my books. | 2,649 | 7 |
I wrote this a few months back and now hate it. The wiring style itself is passable... I guess. But, I think the story is just really surface level and idk what to do. I'm planning on fully re-writing it soon anyways. I would love suggestions for **either/both** the story how it is now, or what you would recommend changing for the rewrite. Please be honest, I don't like it either so non hurt feelings!! Eliza and I are sitting parked in the driveway and I reach back to grab my backpack from the back seat. I see her do a once-over in the vanity mirror and ask, “Ready?” I turn to see her leaning against the door with one leg up typing on her phone. She incoherently mumbles something in agreement so I hop out. I slip my phone out of its pocket and text my mom quickly, “I’m staying over,” before shutting my phone off, not bothering to wait for a response. I start towards the house listening to the familiar crunch my sneakers make on the gray gravel path. “Want a piece?” I ask while rummaging around in my bag’s side pocket for a pack of gum. No response. “Eliza?” I'm met with more silence except a faint rustling of the occasional leaf falling. I turn around only to realize she’s still sitting in the car typing furiously on her phone so I start back towards the car. It’s 5:30 pm now and the automatic lights lining the walkway flicker on but are barely noticeable. Even though the sun is steadily making its way toward the horizon, it’s still high enough to wash everything around me in a warm glow. I pull twice on her door only to find it’s locked. I let a drawn-out exhale, go around to the driver’s side, and rap on the window sharply three times. Eliza jumps in her seat, almost dropping her phone, “Let’s GO,” I say, over-enunciating every syllable, “They’re waiting.” I sigh. She shoos me off with her hand in annoyance and searches around in the car for her purse. After finding it she flings open the car door and hops out. “Now I’m ready,” But before she can even take a step I remind her, “Keys,” I sigh. “Shit. Right.” She ducks her head back into the car and gets them from the cup holder. “Thank you!” I shoot her a look as she smiles at me bashfully and we start up the pathway to her house—together this time. We’ve walked up this path what feels like a million times, Eliza on the left and me on the right. At the top of the walkway, a grand Tudor house stands three stories tall; the first story is made of brick, and the rest is a faded white duab with breathtaking dark wooden frames. It looks straight out of a fantasy. Chloe Alford’s front yard is always well kept, and even though all of the leaves are deep hues of reds and oranges, their grass is still a persistent green. Even the surrounding forest's only hints of green are from the grand winter pines a littered amongst a sea of warm color and the gravel path we walk on is lined with violets and toad lilies in neat rows, showing no signs of wilting anytime soon. “What movie should we watch this time?” Eliza asks. “We can’t just watch movies every time we all hang out,” I complain, “It's getting so boring.” “True. How about we…” Eliza pauses to think, “Bake something?” I almost agree but then remember, “We could but Chloe was texting me yesterday about how she's buying stuff on Thursday so we can bake a cake or something next time” “Hm.” “How about we just do our homework,” I look over at her hopefully, “I have that chem presentation Monday and I think Jordana does too.” Eliza raises her eyebrow giving me a look of disdain. “Guess what my answer to that is going to be” “Yeah, that was kind of a long shot,” I say, sighing sarcastically and shooting her a grin. We both continue thinking, but each time one of us suggests something new, the other person rejects it. We reach the door and I knock lightly twice, knowing they were sitting in the same room as every other weekend, the grand living room, just to the left of the entryway. Its grand windows have a perfect view of the front yard, close enough to the door to hear us knock, and far enough away from her mother to keep our conversations private. Chloe rips open the door and squeals with delight her ponytail swishing from the momentum, “Finally you’re here, we've been waiting forever!” Eliza is already grinning and I hear Jordana shout from the living room, “In here!” Eliza and Chloe are already chatting about something as we make our way inside. “What is she so excited about?” I ask Jordana, tossing my backpack onto the couch and plopping down next to her on the floor sinking into the plush gray carpet. “She's gonna try and force us to play hide and seek,” she says with a roll of her eyes. She’s lying on her stomach with her legs swaying back and forth in the air and props herself up on her elbows so she can write in her notebook. “There's no way.” I look over and my eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, “Chloe. In the woods. Willingly?” She snickers and I peek at her work. “That's exactly what I said,” putting down her notebook. “But she’s committed. I think because everyone is submitting their applications she's getting all nostalgic or something.” “Oh.” I pause letting the reality of our senior year wash over me. I think about it and wait for that pang of sadness to hit me, but I don’t feel anything but guilt. After so many years in the same tiny town and the same, albeit amazing, friends, all I feel is anticipation. I think of the new people I’m going to meet, independence, and a chance to start over. Our dynamic has been the same for so many years – I’m practically itching to reinvent myself. To not be tied down and known as “Eliza’s friend.” I change the subject to avoid thinking about it anymore and ignore the guilt as much as I can. “Wait, are you doing chem?” “Yep,” she responds. So I grab my laptop from my bag to try and fit in as much homework as possible. While we work Chloe and Eliza head into the kitchen to grab snacks and drinks, chattering the whole way. I hear laughter from the kitchen and put in my headphones in a fruitless attempt to tune them out. A few minutes later they trot in, arms full of bags of chips, bottles, and cups. They spread it all on the coffee table before Chloe grabs a blanket and sits on the couch while Eliza grabs the remote before perching herself next to her. But as soon as she turns it on, Chloe snatches it out of her hand and turns it off. Eliza opens her mouth in protest, furrows her brow, and whines, “What was that for?” Before trying to take it back unsuccessfully. “NO tv tonight.” Chloe declares. Jordana and I glance over at each other before reluctantly shifting our bodies to face her notebook and computer still in hand.“Today, we’re playing hide and seek tag!” Silence. “Chloe. Be so serious right now.” the corners of her mouth begin to turn upwards. “The last time I saw you willingly do anything in nature was.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Oh wait never.” The two start bickering and Jordana and I watch in amusement. We go back to our homework for what feels like two seconds when Eliza finally agrees, “FINE.” “So everyone agrees then?” I start to answer, “Ye-” Eliza butts in, “In agreement to only one round, right?” Chloe rolls her eyes and mocks her, “Sure whatever. One round.” Jordana and I reluctantly agree without much protest. Neither of us are opposed to the idea and don’t have any movie suggestions anyways so we all get up and walk out to the backyard. The 50-foot trees loom over us and I tilt my head up to peek at their tops, their trunks shielding the forest beyond from our sight. I feel my heart flutter as my excitement builds to just the right amount so I can ignore the funny feeling in my stomach. I feel the tiny beads of sweat start to form along my hairline despite the autumn breeze and cool temperature and realize the excitement I feel is closer to apprehension. I think back to the stories Chloe’s older brother Lukas would tell us before he went off to college. Tales of ghosts and spirits in the woods. Sometimes when he and his friends went in they would come back pretending to be possessed, lumbering around like mummies while we ran away as fast as our legs could carry us. But we all know the stories were simply to scare us, a sleepover ritual merely for us to giggle at and shriek when someone’s tiny voice tried to bellow, “BOO,” as we tried to imitate him. I look to my left at Eliza who gives me a mischievous grin which is all I need to push the feeling away. “Is everyone ready?” Chloe shouts from 20 feet away with her head craning around to see us, hands at the ready to cover her face. A chorus of agreement follows and Chloe sticks up her thumb. We all turn around, bracing ourselves to run into the forest, “WAIT!” Chloe shouts. We all turn back to her and see her fully facing us. “How many seconds again?” Eliza groans and shouts back, “2 minutes” “Are you serious?” Chloe exclaims. “No way!” A giggle slips out of me and I call out to her, “90 seconds?” She throws up another thumbs up and starts counting loudly. “One,” before she can get to two the rest of us are off. I sprint through the forest, my head whipping back and forth looking for somewhere to hide. I stumble over rocks and divots in the earth, barely catching myself each time. “I haven’t felt this much adrenaline in a minute,” I think to myself with a stupid grin plastered on my face. I run deeper and deeper into the woods towards the setting sun. I’ve never been the athletic type but right now, I feel as if I'm flying. My legs move automatically and the only thing I can feel is the chilly autumn wind tingling my skin and a comfortable warmth from the exertion. A particularly strong gust knocks me backward making me slow down a little. But after I whip my head around to survey how much ground I covered I decide that I’m nowhere near far enough away from her backyard and forge on. With every stride, my breath quickens and I begin to sound haggard. “Maybe I should have stuck with track,” I think and reprimand myself internally for not committing to it more and quitting my sophomore year. I look behind me again and decide I am far enough away to stop and begin my search for a hiding place. My steps slow and as my sprint becomes a walk I start to notice the shadows the trees around me cast. Their thick trunks are twice the size of mine and are very different from the thin ones along the forest’s edge. The dark shadows they cast shade the ground. With low-hung branches, they seem to reach out and grab at me like hands trying to drag me toward the sunset’s glow that seem to grow fainter by the second. But the fading light had no effect in the shadows the tall pines cast on the dirt under my feet. Their silhouettes litter the ground like animal carcasses. I stare up at the tree tops again, now barely visible due to their height and the thick branches making it difficult to see the sky, and mumble “What time is it?” to myself. “How long have I been running?” “I wonder who’s gotten caught?” “Probably Jordana,” I giggle a little as I think about her pristine baby blue Adidas sneakers she grumbled about getting dirty earlier, and her general dislike of the outdoors. “Definitely Jordana.” The slightly muddy ground makes squelching noises as my now filthy black air forces get suctioned to the ground with every step. I study the area around me and watch as the wild brush around me becomes taller and thicker with every step, starkly different from Chloe’s perfectly manicured greenery. I keep on looking for a hiding spot, my breath finally slowing to an average rate. I heard rustling near me, it’s quiet but distinctly different from the whispers the breeze made when they whisper through the leaves. These sounds are different. Static. Sharper. Watchful. I feel a pit growing in my stomach and my heartbeat quickens. I quickly look to my right and see nothing but unruly branches and tiny red leaves that litter the ground below them. With my fear telling me to move as quickly as possible I try to part the branches and make my way behind it, but as soon as I do, I feel a sharp pain shooting through my hand up my arm. I sharply inhale in an attempt to make as little noise as possible and grimace. I rip my hand away, grab near where I felt the pain, and tuck my throbbing arm into my chest. I hear the rustle again. My head whips around frantically. I try to get my eyes to adjust to the dimming light to no avail. My breath shortens and my chest heaves up and down as I try to fight the feeling that whatever was stalking me wasn’t Chloe. My vision begins to blur as I feel my eyes well up in tears. Practically in a fit of panic, I duck under the fallen tree to my left. The cracked-in-half tree’s top half rests on the forest floor creating what, to my standards, the perfect shelter. I notice that the top half of the split still exposed to the elements is damp and rotting but the bottom half is dry, the splintered wood sticking out towards me like fingers trying to grasp my clothing and drag me away. But, the tree is my only option so I duck under it regardless. I crouch under its canopy of leaves as quietly as possible and try to inspect the leaves for any bugs. I quickly spot three spiders, two perched in their intertwining webs on my right and the third spinning an entirely new one to the left. I stare at the third spider. The white thread vibrates with every tiny movement the spider makes. I am entranced. Red speckles are sprinkled across its back in dense clusters. I think back to the setting sun’s hues as I study the spider’s black and red spots that bleed together seamlessly. Its delicate legs glide over the intricate web as the spider weaves it wider, the pattern intensifying with every string. Still entranced, I inch closer and closer, studying its still eyes and restless body. The wind dies down and the whole forest goes still. I match my breath to the sounds of the forest, being as little as possible, forgetting about the game entirely. It feels like only a few seconds pass by, this moment of serenity like drifting into sleep. Hands. I feel the grip of ice-cold hands clamp around my mouth. My eyes widen with terror as short sharp nails dig into my cheek. A second hand covers my eyes, the force whipping my head back so quickly I swear I hear it snap in two. I futilely flail my arms around trying to escape to no avail. I hear a deep voice grumble, “Gotcha.” My heart pounding and eyes burning with desperation I make one final attempt at freeing myself. With a muffled cry, I fling my arm backward and feel it barely connects with the person behind me. “AUGH!” I hear from behind me as sounds of them stumbling down follow. I rip my eyes open and I gasp for air, my back heaving up and down. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” the now high-pitched voice shrieks. I wipe my eyes as I scramble to get up but realize I recognize the voice. “Eliza?” “Who else?” she yowls. I whip my head around to confirm and see her “Why would you do that in the middle of a forest? When I’m alone.” I croak out while still trying to catch my breath. “It's not my fault you’re such a baby.” She giggles. I turn my face towards the ground to quickly wipe away the tears forming in my eyes and giggle along with her, pushing down the feeling of terror stuck in my body. But no matter how hard I try to ignore it, the impending threat of that lump in my throat choking me to death stays. My short breath and hummingbird-speed heartbeat stay. As Eliza continues to poke fun at me, that sickening feeling in my gut stays. “Hello?” Eliza poks me and rolls her eyes, drawing out the “o”s. “Huh?” I shift my head towards her but my eyes stay trained to the ground in fear of her seeing the tears still welling in my eyes. “I asked if you wanted to hide together. Twice.” she sighs, swinging her legs back and forth slightly. She had perched herself on a rock next to my fallen tree while I was spaced out. I hesitate a little, still trying to collect myself. “Oh. Ok. yeah.” It was quiet for a moment. “Wanna stay here or look for somewhere else?” Eliza's legs continue to swing slightly as she thinks, “Honestly I don't care.” She says with a shrug. I start to suggest, “Okay, how about–” I start, “Oh wait, duh. We have to go somewhere else” “What, why?” I ask with a hint of annoyance. Partly because I’m exhausted and want to stay put but mostly because I was still recovering from her scare and need to collect myself. “Someone definitely heard us, or you to be specific.” I see her start to smirk. “The whole town probably heard you scream,” Eliza said snickering as we both stood up and got ready to leave. A snort escapes me and I slap my hand over my mouth as I try to hold it in.“At least I didn’t get knocked over by a slight tap,” I barely squeak out before bursting into laughter, and despite my still preoccupied mind, the lump in my throat shrinks and I can finally breathe. As our cackles turn to giggles Eliza waves me over, “Let's go find somewhere else.” I nod, and we start on our way, stupid grins and all. “Wait, what time is it?” “No clue,” I respond, “Just check your watch” “It died a few minutes ago” I just sigh, “Whatever. Let's just hurry up and hide” We walk for what feels like five minutes give or take, but all of a sudden, suitable hiding spots are in very short supply. I shiver a little and pull my sweater’s sleeves over my hands. The forest is quiet, strangely quiet. The usual chirps and hoots from high up in the trees are gone, but it's probably just because it's getting so late I decide. “OW” I turn around to see Eliza sprawled out on the ground flat on her stomach.“This is such a fucking joke” she seethes. I see her face contorting. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone into this stupid forest in the first place.” I freeze and stand silently until she stands up, not wanting to provoke her more. Eliza looks down to see her favorite hoodie covered in mud. “I can’t believe I actually let you guys talk me into this.” Her voice is shrill. I know every word she spoke was intended to cut like a knife, but after years of dealing with her temper, they simply fly over my head. She pulls her sweatshirt off over her head and I wait for her rant to finish. “Like, just stop pretending that we're still seven years old or something. It's embarrassing.” I avert my eyes, focusing on the wet leaves plastered on the ground. She groans again while inspecting it. “I don't even have anything to wipe this off with” She throws her hands down to her side, the sweatshirt crumpled in her hand. I mutter half-hearted support grab the sweatshirt and start to scrape off as much mud as I can with my hand. Eliza spouts more complaints but I stop listening to her and continue cleaning her sweatshirt. I wipe my hand across it methodically until I can see the beige “Playstation” logo peaking through the brown. Out of the corner, I see Eliza, now standing, staring down at her equally as dirty white jean shorts trying to get the dirt off. Her mouth is still moving but I’ve tuned her out completely at this point. I take a final look at the sweatshirt turning it around, only to realize that the back is filthy too. “When you fell did you roll around a little too? For good measure, of course,” I ask, widening my eyes and furrowing my brow to give her my most innocent face possible. A faint smirk plays across her lips. “Just shut up and let’s go,” I nod in agreement. I toss her the sweatshirt, but not before practically fantasizing about taking it for myself to try and subdue the cold. “But thanks. Seriously.” She says avoiding making eye contact with me. I smile and push her forward. “Whatever, come on.” I shiver, feeling the cold go through my body. We gave up on the game, which I'm guessing was hours ago but when we tried to find our way out, we realized we are completely lost. More of my hair is out of my braid than in it and the friz was untamable. My bones ache and Eliza doesn't look any better, she’s shivering even with her thick sweatshirt. Her eyes are sunken in and her face still has mud in some places, well, most. We walk in complete silence, eyes trained on the ground in an attempt to prevent the numerous roots, rocks, and uneven earth just begging one of us to step in the wrong place and tumble to the ground. “Do you see that?” Eliza whispers. Her voice is hoarse from the cold and I can barely understand her. “Can you stop fucking mumbling all the time? I have no clue what you're saying.” I snap as I watch Eliza's eyes unfix their gaze from whatever she is looking at. “Never mind.” “Oh my god, you always do this. Just spit it out” I, throwing my hand up in exasperation. Eliza's mouth hangs open a little bit, I have never spoken to her like this, and she’s usually the one with a temper. “Will you stop taking out whatever bullshit teenage angst this is on me? Jesus. I haven't done anything to you.” She says slowly, over-enunciating each word as her eyes narrow. “I was trying to point out was that there is blood on the ground. Like, a lot. And it's not from one of us” she practically growls. The moon is our only source of light at this point so I crouch down and look at the trail of red-brown fluid coating the forest floor. “Oh my god,” I whisper. The farther I follow, the more blood appears. We reach a pool of it. The smell of metallic blood fills our nostrils. As we get closer we slow our walk and our shoulders are smashed into each other. It is nearly impossible to see anything, the only light left is from a small sliver of the moon, barely visible through the trees. As we reach a mound on the ground we both cover our noses. “It's probably just a dead animal or something. Let's just leave it alone and go.” Her voice is shaking but I ignore her and keep walking towards it. The smell is rancid now and I choke back bile rising in my throat. I scream. “What is it?” Eliza’s voice calls out to me, quivering so much I can barely understand her. “Just SAY SOMETHING!” She cries. I drop down to my knees, my legs unable to hold me up. I cover my mouth in horror, still staring at it. Maybe I’m seeing things I try to convince myself of. “No no no no” I repeat over and over again. I start to sob, “NO!” I shriek. Eliza is behind me. “Jordana?” She whispers. “Yes,” I hear a muffled cry from behind, “Jordana.” A smooth voice coos. I turn around just in time to see Chloe snap Eliza’s neck in one quick movement. I stand frozen, for god knows how long before my legs start moving on their own and I start sprinting. I run for what feels like days. I run in every possible direction trying to get away from that thing. That thing. It looks just like Chloe. But, how could it be? The girl I practiced makeup with the summer before 8th grade. The girl who nearly faints when she sees a drop of blood. The girl who I whispered every one of my secrets, knowing she wouldn’t tell a soul. The girl who despite how much she denied it, loved her friends more than anything. My Chloe. Our Chloe. My foot gets caught on a tree branch and I topple over banging my head against a stone as I crash. I try to pick myself up but by the time I’m on my knees, my stomach lurches and I throw up. After what seemed like an endless stream of vomit finishes I try to stand up to no avail. My head is still throbbing and now gushing blood so I sat on the rock with my legs tucked into my chest. I pull my hoodie's drawstring as tight as possible, doing my best to soak up the tears streaming down my face. I sit as quietly as possible, the pitter-patter of raindrops drizzling around me drowns out the drip of my blood hitting the rock. As I sit, I listen intently for a noise, any noise besides the persistent rain’s drum. But the longer I listen, the more it intensifies. I will my ears to listen harder as the rain continues to pick up but instead, now even my vision is impaired as it begins to pour. Within minutes, the raindrops double in size and feel like they quadrupled in weight. The rain pelts against my back, and my already freezing body feels like it's about to shatter. I choke back a sob of defeat and think back to only a few hours ago when I was with my friends. Back to that stupid suggestion of playing tag instead of sticking to our normal routine, the routine that worked. Back to Chloe's eager smile as she volunteered to be the seeker. Back to her sprawling lawn and her mother's perfect garden. Back to our nostalgic excitement as we prepare to play the game that ruled our childhoods, I hear steps behind me and see Chloe. My eyes widen. She’s breathtaking. Her long dark curls are in perfect silky spirals forming a halo around her head. She takes another step with swan-like grace toward me. I search her eyes frantically looking for a sign that this is all just a prank. That she was the same Chloe from only hours ago. I think back to her smile that could light up a room and everyone couldn’t help but return a genuine one of their own. She steps closer. A smile on her face, but one incomparable to what I remember. This was cold and calculating. A sickening grin that turns my stomach inside out. Her teeth look like they were sharpened and bleached to the high heavens. Her eyebrows are perfectly groomed and twice as thick as the last time I saw her. She glides closer to me. Even her skin is different, free of blemishes, and gleams under the faint moonlight like glass. I sit frozen, the only movement coming from the tears rolling down my face that mix with the rain. “Chloe?” Tears are streaming down my face now as I try to reckon with my fate. Closer. “Chloe. Please.” I croak out. Closer. My body vibrates from the cold and my limbs feel locked as a voice screams at me to attack her, run, do anything except sit obediently awaiting my death. Closer. Her grin widens until I can see almost all of her teeth as she brings her arm up to her face to wipe Eliza’s blood smeared all over her face. It drips into her eyes, some of it getting caught on her long lashes but the rest dyes the pristine whites a stark red compared to her pale skin. As she drags her arm across her forehead I see her nails. They’ve grown inches longer and are now sharpened into ten deadly claws. The very same nails she used to rip chunks of flesh from various places on Jordana and Eliza’s bodies after killing them. Closer. I feel the temperature drop as she nears, I can see my breath in front of me and the smell of blood fills my nostrils. I want to gag but I stay frozen, my eyes fixated on her. Her beauty entrances me. Drops of blood leave an intricate web of iridescent red behind. I think back to the spider’s web. Its pure silky white threads, the spiders artfully painted back, and my final moment of peace. Its untouched beauty, not sinister like Chloe’s, but just as captivating. My body goes ice cold and I realize she is standing behind me. I feel her hands combing through my hair, and if it wasn't for her claws tracing along my scalp, it could have felt maternal. As she strokes my hair I part my quivering mouth to try and say something, anything, but no sound comes out. I can’t see my breath in front of me, my freezing lungs become immobile, and my heart becomes ice. I finally give up. I feel one hand slide across my face and clamp over my mouth. Her nails dig into my cheek drawing blood. My eyes can barely stay open. Her other hand covers my eyes, and the forest falls silent. She whispers into my ear and I feel her breath on my ear, “Gotcha. | 28,183 | 1 |
Long ago there were two clans. The shifters, and the humans. Since the dawn of time, these two clans coexisted in harmony and used each other’s strengths to move the world forward. The shifters with their strength and the humans with their wit. But one day, something changed. The humans attacked the shifters, and after killing the leaders of their clan, drove the rest into hiding. Forced to live among humans, many shifters forgot who they were, and never showed their animals hiding inside. They hid in plain sight and over many centuries were forgotten by humans. Until I came along that is. **Chapter 1** I was walking along the dirt path that led to my home. I had just turned 16 the week before and was about to go into my first shift. Or what would’ve been had my father not forbade it. He claims that even thinking about it could put us in danger, and our lives weren’t worth the risk. When the time came, I was instructed to go into the forest as a precaution and fight off the shift. After that, I could control myself and never show my animal. As I was walking, I saw Mr. Jones at his fruit stand selling fresh apples and strawberries. His scent caught me before the fruit’s did. All humans smelled the same, it’s how we could tell if someone was our own kind. “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” I called. A smile pulled on his lips. “How are the fruits selling today?” “As fast as a snail, Selina. Seems that all anyone wants is Ms. Pocker’s bread anymore.” He scowled at her name. She wasn’t the kindest woman, but her breads and baked goods were better than anyone’s in town. “She’s going to put me out of business at this rate.” I glanced around his shelves and grabbed some apples for a pie later. I thought about the strawberries but decided against it. “Just this for today please,” I said as I showed him my pickings. “Sounds fine with me dear, you know the price. Have you heard the news yet?” He had to have been talking about the prince. A long line of humans from the originals who cast us shifters out all those years ago. There were rumors of him visiting our town. “Are you talking about the princely visit coming up? I heard rumors but wasn’t sure if they were true.” “Of course I am!” He beamed. “Our prince is coming to inspect our little town! He’s only passing through, but it’ll be exciting none the less.” “When is he scheduled to be here?” I asked, now curious myself. “Tomorrow sometime, my dear. Best get ready to show your best self, you never know what could happen.” With that, I gathered my things and continued home. Mr. Jones was half-crazy with optimism, but he always got the best news first and told everyone he could. Now knowing that the human prince was on his way, I hoped my animal could hold it together so I could see how royalty looked as he walked through town. I was by no means poor, but to see true royalty was something I could only ever dream of. The books I read could only do so much to fill my mind with the image of robes and jewel encrusted crowns. I wanted to see this all for myself. I practically ran home to tell my parents the news and to prepare for the following day. When I came through the door, my mother was cooking. I gave her the apples and told her about my pie plans and went in search of my father. I found him in the back yard chopping wood with my younger brother putting it all in piles. After calling them inside. I told them all the news. My parents looked pleased, but also uneasy. They knew how rare it was for royalty to come into our town, and with him being human, asked many questions. “Why is he coming?” I don’t know. “Is something happening?” Not that I heard. “Do they know about shifters?” Haven’t the slightest clue. After a myriad of questions and not-so-helpful answers, they seemed to grasp that I didn’t have much information to give. “Selina, you must be careful if you go out tomorrow. Who knows the real reason why he’s here. Tell her Michal,” My mother warned. She was always the worrier, but she had my father to protect her and ease her feelings. “Hush now, Merida. He’s probably just checking on the state of his kingdom. You know the human king isn’t well. He could die any day and then we’d be stuck with another loathsome human.” My father hated humans, seemingly more than the other shifters of the community. I could never understand why, but I assumed it was because he had so much pride. We may be in hiding, but he still held true to his blood. “I promise to be careful mother. I’m sure he’s just headed to another town that’s better off than ours. You know there are many farther away.” I was only trying to calm her nerves. I had no real reason as to why he would come to our town. We had nothing to offer him. “I worry about your shift,” mother said, “We know it’s going to be soon, and we can’t show our animals to these humans, especially not the prince.” “If it were to come on while he is here, I know the plan. Run to the forest and hide. I won’t forget even for the prince,” I assured her. The unease in the room started to fade. They knew they could trust me. I was always cautious even in dangerous situations. I had never taken risks I couldn’t get myself out of and pulled through when something went wrong. After our conversation and them knowing I could handle myself, they reluctantly agreed to let me out tomorrow to see this human prince. Excitement filled me, and I hoped I could at least get a decent view of his party passing through the center of town. The night went by slowly. We ate our dinner, and I started the pie I had craved all day. The crust going into the pan, the cinnamon, sugar, and apple mixture being poured in, and a beautiful lattice placed carefully on top. It was my favorite food in the whole world, and I could eat the whole thing by myself. After it went into the oven, I started to get ready for bed. Washing my face, changing into night clothes, and brushing my long hair. The entire evening, all I could think of was the next day. I wondered what the prince would be like, and what he would look like. Shifters and humans didn’t inter-mingle, but it didn’t stop me from fantasizing. What if he had been a shifter? Maybe then the world would be different. Maybe I could be royalty. But these were child-like fantasies, and I was too old for them. I needed to get my head out of the clouds and focus on life. I would watch as his party walked through town, and then things would go back to normal. I would have my shift, and I would hide as a human the rest of my life, no one the wiser. I just needed to get through tomorrow. | 6,677 | 1 |
For the umpteenth time, George scanned the horizon. The sand dunes sprawled in all directions. A sea was the obvious comparison, but he would kill for even a drop of water here. “Anything?” Kit bellowed from the bottom of the dune. George glanced down towards him, a colorful speck on the searing sand. He only shook his head. Each man knew what it meant for their chances. Neither was a stranger to deadly situations; Between them, they had killed three on this job alone. But dying of thirst was another matter. George slid down the dune on the heels of his boots. The air rushing past his face offered a brief relief from the heat. As he approached the bottom, the colorful speck grew to become a vast man. Kit dwarfed George, as he did most people. His substantial belly heaved and his rounded jaw hung open as he panted. Like George, Kit wore a gauntlet on his right arm. Cradled in his left was their prize: The stone, still red with the woman’s blood. Seizing it had gone relatively smoothly. George had killed the teamster with a well-placed shot. Kit had sparred briefly with the mercenary who emerged from the wagon before bowling him over and stabbing him. It had fallen to George to retrieve the stone, which he found in the hands of a young woman, the wagon’s only remaining occupant. At first he assumed the woman was hysterical, mad with fear for her life, or with grief from the deaths of her companions. But she had refused to part with the stone, even at gunpoint. When Kit had finally taken it from her, she had tackled the much larger man and attempted to throttle him. The woman had a frenzied strength, but one blow from Kit was enough to kill her, and would have been even if he had not been holding the heavy stone. As she lay dying she had cried out for someone named Annabelle. The mad woman had been the first unexpected development on this job. The sandstorm had been the second, and a far bigger wrench in their plans. They were still scrambling to bury the bodies when George spotted the wall of dust advancing from the horizon. They had boarded the wagon and urged the horses down the road at full speed, but had hardly traveled a mile before the sand was on them. The dust and grit washed over them like a tidal wave of a trillion tiny blades, tearing at the canvas of the wagon cover and the skin of the occupants in equal measure. The horses were beyond spooked, and in their terror they ran off course. George couldn’t say how far or in what direction; The whole world seemed to swirl and sway with the sands. But the horses had run until the wagon flipped and they wrenched free. Half an hour passed before the storm did, and George and Kit emerged from the wreckage of the wagon, lost but unharmed. And they had the stone. When George reached the bottom of the dune, the two wordlessly resumed their trek across the sands. The sun bore down on them with such intensity that George almost wished another sandstorm would strike and blot it out. They walked in slow silence for what could have been five minutes or five hours. All George knew for sure was that the sun had not yet set, and it seemed as if it never would. Kit halted his heavy breathing to speak; “It’s hot.” “A keen observation,” George growled. “It’s the desert, dimwit. Of course it’s hot.” “No, *it’s* hot. The rock I mean.” “*Everything* out here is hot! Did your half-a-brain just notice?” George would have expected Kit to return to gibes with his own spirited (if not clever) retort. But instead the big man resumed his rhythmic panting. Perhaps it wasn’t worth the effort under the circumstances; Even to someone as simple as Kit, it was clear that George’s ire was stoked by the heat. He wasn’t deterred for long. “George?” he called out. “What?” “I feel wrong.” “You’re dehydrated,” George tried to explain. “We have a day to find fresh water. Two tops.” Kit sounded strained. “I mean I feel wrong about what we did. We killed them folks all for a rock.” The big man didn’t tend to think about much, let alone all he had done. But from time to time Kit did seem to need some assurance about their work. “The reward for that stone is sky-high, partner. We were just the ones that found them with it. If we hadn’t killed them, someone else would have, and they would have done it worse. They may have killed someone else to get it for all we know.” “Maybe. But maybe they needed it more than us. That woman died crying for her daughter. I just feel—” “It don’t matter how you feel. We did what we did, and it weren’t any different than usual. Once we turn that stone in you’ll have enough money to clean your hands of this forever if you want. For all I care you can give some to her… daughter.” George paused, “What daughter do you even mean?” “Annabelle,” Kit said plainly, “She was that woman’s daughter. The one she was crying for.” “We don’t know who the hell she was!” George was exasperated now, “That was her favorite whore for all we know! She tried to kill you and now you’re making up stories to sulk about. Focus on who’s still alive: Us, at least for now.” Kit seemed unconvinced, but he stayed quiet as they resumed their trek, which was good enough for George. Sweat dripped down the inside of his shirt, somehow managing to irritate him despite the heat. His legs had begun to ache, and his purchase on the sand grew less sure as his stamina flagged. However rough George felt, he knew Kit had it worse. They frequently had to stop to allow the bigger man to catch his breath. But Kit also seemed strained in a way that went beyond the physical. As he stood, doubled over and panting, he seemed to avoid looking George in the eye. But on one occasion, George heard him sniffling, and noticed a tear fall from his face “What the hell is going on with you?” George asked in a mix of anger and confusion. Kit looked up a him, his face taking on color as he began to sob, “I just keep thinking about Annabelle. Some of the Lemont boys caught her in their orchard playing. They didn’t like that, so they grabbed her and they took her away. Say they’re gonna sell her off if her mother can’t come up with the money,” The big man’s hands balled into fists as tears and mucus streamed down his face, “That’s why she needed this rock! And we took it so she can’t sell it and she can’t get the money any other way because we killed her too!” George was too confused to say anything. He had never seen Kit so worked up about a kill, setting aside that all the details were nonsense. Then again, he had never seen Kit trek through miles of hilly dunes ether. *It’s the heat*, George realized, *The poor man’s dehydrated and tired and it’s affecting his mind. The sun had better set before his madness gets any*— “I’m not mad!” Kit snapped. The anger on his face was plain, but looked absurd amidst the tears and snot. Even so, George was stunned at his words. Kit didn’t tend to be terribly perceptive. Had his thoughts been so clear upon his face? “I didn’t say… easy, partner. No one said you were mad.” Kit’s brow furrowed in uncertainty. He stared at George a moment longer, then looked at the the ground and began to pant again. The stone hung heavy in his hands. They kept walking. The sun finally began to set, painting the sky a brilliant orange. The heat had yet to recede, but the knowledge that it soon would seemed to lift a weight from George’s shoulders all the same. What he saw as they crested a high dune was an even greater relief: On the horizon, outlined against the setting sun, stood some kind of pillar. George couldn’t say what it was. A ruin, most likely. Not something built by settlers but by some forgotten people. But people, new or old, tend to build by water. Water would buy them a few more days to find the road. A few more days to live. “Looky there Kit!” George hooted, pointing to the sunset. Upon hearing no response, he turned to his companion. Kit looked strained. He seemed to be staring blankly where George had shown, his eyes squinting from the sunset. When they seemed to discern the pillar, they went wide. “I think we’re heading the wrong way.” “This is the only thing we’ve seen besides sand since the storm. Might be there’s water there, maybe more. Just a little further and we can rest.” “But it’s wrong. We done so much wrong,” Kit seemed like he was about to sob again, “Annabelle’s probably been sold off by now…” That did it. “Shut the hell up about Annabelle! We don’t know who she was, and it don’t matter because the only one who did is dead! She’s dead because you killed her! *You*, not me! So stop making shit up about her!” Rather than match George’s anger, Kit burst into tears. “It ain’t made up,” he wailed, “She was playing in the Lemont’s orchard! She pretends the cactuses are trees, and her doll is a cowboy. I don’t think the Lemont boys will let her keep her doll when they sell her off, George! They’ll make her a serving girl or a whore or worse…” As Kit paused, his eyes widened more than George thought was possible, his pupils threatening to consume them completely, yawning pits of fear. When he spoke again, it was if he was somewhere else, overcome with an eerie calm. “It isn’t just Annabelle’s mom I heard, George. I hear other folk. There’s *thousands* of them. Many are afraid or in pain, like she was when I bashed her. But others seem like they could bash me. There’s the brindled man and the eyeless woman. The red-crowned king and the scholar of Ulkazak. They’re whispering even now. And I hear the *worms*, George. They’re miles below, but I hear them. They’re headed towards the surface.” George was truly nonplused, his frustration having given way to bewilderment. The big man was truly gone now, those few wits he had sapped away by heat, dehydration, and exhaustion. “Look, let’s just keep moving. We haven’t got far to go.” Kit exhaled as if a weight was lifted from him. His pupils shrunk, and he began to blink in confusion as if waking from a daze. Eventually he nodded, and the two resumed their trek towards the pillar. The trek continued longer than George would have anticipated. The dunes in the way were monstrous things, each taller than the last. His heels burned from the climbs, and his boots were filled with sand. They had to stop frequently so Kit could catch his breath. At least the heat had left. It had receded with the sun. The night sky was a brilliant blue-black littered with stars. Soon the air would be harshly cold, but for now it was pleasantly cool. When at last George reached the top of the tallest dune yet, he was stunned. The pillar was still on the horizon. Had they not made any progress? That seemed impossible. Perhaps it was simply much, much further away than it had looked. *It must be huge*, he realized. He remembered how Kit’s eye’s had widened looking at the thing, and he began to feel a hint of dread. At this rate, they would never make it. They had further to go than George had imagined, and Kit was slowing his pace. The solution was obvious. Abandoning Kit felt easier than it should have. The two had worked together many times, and George considered the big man to be a friend of sorts. But he was also a half-wit, and now he had lost the half. All George needed was the stone. He made up his mind. He would secure the stone, and then land a quick slash, not lethal, just enough to keep the big man from pursuing him. George wasn’t truly killing a friend. The desert would do that. He waited until the big man caught up to him atop the dune. When Kit inevitably stopped to pant, George causally noted, “Still a long way to go, partner.” Kit nodded, staring at the ground. George eyed the stone in his hands. The woman’s blood still covered it, but it had dried, making the object appear red. George gestured at it, “Why don’t I take a turn holding that thing?” It was far from subtle, but it would work on Kit. Kit looked up at him, eyes suddenly wide, though wether with madness or suspicion George couldn’t say. *He cannot know what I intend to do*, he told himself. Kit was too dense to suspect betrayal even at his best. *I only need the stone*. The big man’s eyes were narrow now, and suddenly he had his dagger in his right hand. The stone was still in his left. George was too shocked to arm himself. *How could he know? I only need the stone. Just give me—* “Take it!” Kit snarled, swinging his left hand savagely at George’s face. *—the stone*, George realized. And then it crashed into his temple. The impact knocked him backward. He tumbled down the far side of the dune, blood gushing forth from his shattered forehead, filling his eyes. All he could see was red, but only for a moment. Then he could see Annabelle, playing in the Lemont’s orchard. He did not know how he knew it was her. He saw a man whose face was black and white and brown, smiling cruelly. He saw a woman pointing at the stars, steam rising from her empty eyes. A man reclined in a great chair, cackling as his crown dug into his skull. A shrouded man consulted Ulkazak, who stirred. Somewhere, a great worm broke the surface of the earth. Lastly he saw Kit, crying as he watched George rolling down the dune. He wondered when he would realize he was dead. | 13,259 | 1 |
“Leaving Comrie” Sleep. It is the life force of the lowly grunt like myself. You get it when and where you can; even standing up. The only problem with sleep is, it's memory is longer then you have left to live. Of all the worlds and all the universe lately, I find my dreams at one place; at the frontier between this life and the last. Some once believed that we lived when we slept and died when awake. I would say they were half right. Often, I wake up the day of my twentieth birthday; 2July2501. It is chilly and the morning light greets me, painted across the emerald slopes of home. My father is awake before me, anxious as he had lived the road I now was about to travel. He says nothing as he eats little of breakfast and drinks coffee the shade of his sullen mood. My mum is hung from the walls of our ancient house, the last memento of her entrapped in an image of my youth. She too would have shared my father’s perspective, as in the same dark world they had met a generation ago. Her hair is aflame on that scrub covered outcrop over the Highlands, my father in her arms and me, as tall as your waist, grinning against the wind which had swept my hair into my face. Soon we find ourselves on a narrowed canyon of glass and stone erected six hundred years before when our island home was the center of the world. The vehicle is silent as they always are, hovered above the ancient pavement laid down by distant ancestors in an age of steel and petrol might. No, nothing ever really changes here, as much as the world around it always does. We are flying down a narrow byway, brambles of green flashing past my left shoulder, when he finally clears his throat to speak from the driver’s seat beside me. “Where they sending you this time Diane?” his gruff accent a thick reminder of what I had been compelled to leave behind. “The middle of nowhere,” I reply with absolutely no enthusiasm. “Hayup, where’s that?” he continues to pry. “This place called Threshold Settlements. I’ve never heard of it before. It sounds awful,” I reply. “Aye, Good Ol’ Thresh…,” he says in remembrance. “You’ve been there?” I ask in surprise. “Lets just say, if it wasn’t for the serenity of a Threshian twilight, you wouldn’t be here,” he said with a smile and way too much information. “Father, gross!” I say with a laugh as a bit of my origins is revealed in a way I had no desire to discover. He roars with laughter for a moment, distracted for a time from the fact I was leaving again. “You never told me you were in the service,” I ask with a new curiosity of my parents early love affair. “I did it just to piss off your grandmother. Besides, nobody would believe a Joe with a Combat Action Badge anyway” he explains. “How were you an Alpha-Eleven?” I respond in shock. “I wasn’t, but on Thresh, that didn’t much matter...” I sit in wonderment as he volunteers more information about he my mother’s formative years then I had ever imagined possible. It was a tapestry of adventure and youthful exuberance that intertwined my father and her in a cosmic love affair. “You were actually born there, shortly before we rotated back to the world and got out,” he concludes with a reminiscent half smile as we pull into the ancient car park at Perth Station. I retrieve my sea-bag from the boot and sling it over my back as my father waits patiently in front of his car. We then walk together in silence to the train platform which had serviced the city of Perth for over half a millennia. Once inside, my father scans the time table for my train which is of course running late. “Six hundred years and they still can’t figure this out,” he huffs with irony as he finds the 1310 to Edinburgh is delayed for unknown reasons. We sit for a while at a bench facing the empty tracks beneath the platform. An array of electromagnetic guides and spires is the only thing that has truly changed about the place. There isn’t much that can be said that hasn’t already, so we are mostly silent until the clatter of rail cars finally coasts to a stop, arriving fifteen minutes later then scheduled from Dundee. In a hurried rush other commuters spring to life from where they had been resting and my father is left with mere seconds with his daughter, before she is gone forever. We embrace one last time and I suspect if he could, he would have never left me go, but that is not the way of things. As we separate he places his rough paws on each of my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes with his own pale hazel orbs. There is a suppressed fear there, one that only a parent can experience in such moments and he struggles to extract his last thoughts before I must board my train. “Diane, I’m gonna tell you one thing. My mother told me this from her time in, when we stood on this very spot. Honey I need you to promise me this,” he says with a pause. “What’s that dah,” I say as I wipe a tear from the corner of my left eye. “Whatever you do out there I need you to take care of yourself. Remember who you are and to not get lost to these people. And most of all…” he says with painful remembrance, “Never; volunteer for anything. Ever!” “I love you dad,” I say as we embrace. “I love you more,” he quietly responds as he squeezes his chin into my shoulder and the base of my neck. Eventually he is able to let me go and we linger for a moment with nothing left to say. Then he remembers one remaining detail of his ill planned farewell. “Here, take this. A little reminder of home,” he says as he passes the shiny steel object into my hands. “And if it canna do that, it’ll help you forget,” he says with a ominous undertone. I examine the object with a screwed on topper perched on an elliptical cylinder. The surface is marked by the etchings of a dozen far flung places, half I have never heard of and the others the things of legend. “It’s a family heirloom, said to bring whomever carries it luck in some not so lucky situations,” he says with a nervously straight face. I flip it over as a liquid sloshes and tumbles inside and read the oldest etched inscription out loud, “Leroy was here?” with the letters U.S.M.C. weathered almost into obscurity by more then four hundred years of ritual use. “Who’s Leroy, Dah?,” I ask. “She was a distant relative of yours, or so your mother says,” he admits with a wavered pause. “Now get going or you’re going to miss your connection at Waverly,” he says as we hug one last time. His final warnings ring in my ears hours later amid the bowels of the subterranean station buried by the modern spires of the exempted commercial zone of Edinburgh. Once the hub of an ancient jewel, the underground transfer point was left mainly as it was, but cut off from the light of day. Forest-green hot riveted steel is ornate in a nostalgic prose from a time when the nation’s of Earth struggled for supremacy as we do now amongst the stars. A bustle of summer tourist up from the low country on holiday and business sharks who pay little attention to the timelessness of the cavernous expanse filter around me as I stand in silence looking up at a grey wall of ancient stone. On the face of the quarried cliff side were monuments to the generations of Edinburgh sent to fight in terrestrial struggles; one generation etched in eternity beside another; son, and their fathers lost from the previous war. Scarlet laced in remembrance of those lost lay in a fresh wreath at the base of these reminders of who we truly are as a species. I reach out and interface with the display of the memoriam related to the Last Great War. I type in the name Leroy and five thousand are returned on my query. I enter my FAS identification number to cross reference relative status with the same name again and add female to narrow the search. The number is now at three hundred. I add the letters USMC to the search algorithm and one name is returned among those lost from the conflagration. Kenzie Leigh Roy - United States Marine Corps – Killed From Action – Medal of Honor, Battle of Form States osa 2034 Born 10 September 2007 - San Diego, California (San-Angeles Metropolitan, formerly United). Died 2 July 2046 - Comrie, Scotland (Britannia Metropolitan North, formerly United Kingdom) from service related illness, toxin exposure. Survived by next of kin Rachel Freeman and Ysabel Roy of Comrie, Scotland (Britannia Metropolitan North, formerly United Kingdom). The digital image of her is a mirror looking back at me and a premonition of things to come. I guess it is true what they say of the dead and war. When my time for departure draws near I move to the eastern side of the terminal and search for the 1730 for Kings Cross on the timetable monitors. As I scan the translucent display unit, sorrowful music from an acoustic piano drifts through the air as another traveler passes the time with their musical talents shared for the rest of us to enjoy. It is a sad song from before the turn of the millennium, cut by a group from the banks of The River Cam. The lyrical version would have spoken of a man who was without his love and how distance and time made him yearn for her presence again; the words only audible in my head as I follow along. I sit down on the ground of the platform for a while, propped up against a wall listening as the musician soldiered on through our emotional journey together. My eyes close and in this moment I wished to stay forever in its grace. I think of my dad who by then is probably returned to our ancient village, alone in my childhood home with nothing but silence and a picture of my mother to talk to. At 1801 local time, Diane Leigh Campbell leaves home without the knowledge it was for the last time. And even if I ever were to see the emerald slopes of Comrie again, it wouldn’t be as her. Like I said, sleep is the life force of the humble grunt; but it can also be her undoing. | 10,077 | 1 |
Subsets and Splits