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In the dream he was having, Arthur Simms found the woman grotesque. She was fat, shaped like a Great Blue, and her hair was frazzled, black and curly and unkempt. She wore sweatpants and crocs. When she was struck with the bullet she slumped over the cafeteria table and slid down like a slug along a downspout. She collapsed at the feet of a woman who had clearly never experienced anything like it, nor was cut out for it. “Well, she’s dead,” she blurted out as she looked at the blood on her sweatpants. The large woman gurgled and sputtered and shook. “Like hell she is,” said the dream-Arthur, and jumped up amidst the exchange of gunfire, and over the scream of recoils and explosions, screamed himself for everything he had, with all his soul, “medic.” His breath felt like leaden boots stomping on his chest, so he took another one, bigger, and shouted, “medic” again. Over and over, “medic,” “medic,” “medic.” Sometimes the bubbles of worlds pop and dream-Arthur’s bubble had been glass—tonight it shattered—, when Real-Life Arthur flung his sheets off and started screaming, for all of creation and the unborn to hear, his cries of “medic,” “medic,” “medic.” His wife sat up and said, “Arthur!” He shook. “Arthur, you’re having a dream!” Arthur sat there breathing heavily as the crying sound from the next room commenced. “The baby’s awake,” she said as she got up, still lightly rubbing his back. Arthur sat for a few more seconds trying to sort out what was broken glass and what was reality, unsure if there was a difference when he heard from the next room, “Daddy? Daddy!” and then more tears. He went into his oldest sons room and said, “It’s ok, buddy, go back to sleep.” “What was that noise?” the little boy asked through the sound of his own crying and his baby brother’s. “Daddy had a dream. It’s ok, you can go back to sleep.” “What did you say, Daddy?” “I said, ‘medic.’” “What did you say after that?” “Nothing, just ‘medic,’ ‘medic,’ ‘medic.’” “Why did you say that?” Then, pausing, “was there a witch?” “No, buddy, there’s no witches, let’s go back to sleep.” He heard his wife next door trying to comfort the infant, “it’s ok,” she said, “it’s ok. There you go, Mommy’s here.” “Why did you say ‘medic’, Daddy?” “I don’t know. I was dreaming that I needed a medic and I shouted it.” “You’re not supposed to shout inside. It’s unpleasant.” “Yes, Son, you are right. Thank you. I’m sorry I woke you. Let’s go back to sleep now.” And Arthur tucked him in and kissed him on the forehead and said, “I love you.” It was a couple weeks later, after church on Sunday when the bubbles formed again. This time, Arthur was wide awak, grilling in the backyard, his brother and sisters sitting around the patio, and their kids all running around the back yard in their Sunday’s Best. There were a few daffodils left, but most of them were shriveling, turning brown, petals returning to the earth. The kids were laughing and shrieking and one could never be sure if they were enjoying themselves or if the gates of hell were opening up in the midst of their game of tag. He was talking about the upcoming basketball game to his mother, when his son ran up to him and interrupted the conversation. “Daddy said ‘medic,’ Grandma! Daddy said ‘medic’!” Arthur’s mother, blank-faced, said, “What?” “Daddy, said ‘medic’, Grandma! I was sleeping and Daddy had a dream and she said—he said—‘medic, medic, medic.’ I thought it was a witch, but Daddy said it wasn’t a witch.” She looked at Arthur, and he told her, “I had dream the other night, and I woke him up. So now we are hearing about it.” Arthur’s wife came over and asked if he needed another drink, and he said “I can get it, thanks—Excuse me,” and he left his Mother and his Son to talk basketball. He sat down in the kitchen and looked out the window at his son talking to his mother. It had been nearly twenty years, but he still dreamt about it. He had never forgotten about it, supposed he never could; it was like the scar on his face, he could never not see it, but he could go a long time without ever looking at it. He sat there in the chair and looked at the condensation running down the glass and onto the table. His didn’t close his eyes, nor blink, they just stared at the glass and the streak of blood down the hallway as he and the two other men dragged the woman’s body, limp and cumbersome, to the medic’s station. A tear gathered in his eye and slid down his cheek and dropped onto the back of his hand. ‘Medic,’ he whispered, ‘medic,’ ‘medic.’ ​ \*\*\* Follow u/quillandtrowel over at Medium & Twitter (link -> bio). | 4,761 | 1 |
I’d like some advice on a writing prompt I’d like to submit. The prompt is: The character sees a picture he souldn’t have seen. Any advice or comments or typos notifications welcome :) THE UNEXPECTED CONTESTANT - The betrayal that wasn’t really one - I was at my mom’s house when my phone died. I took her ipad and started stalking my exes and frenemies as usual when an email notification appeared at the top of the screen: You’ve been selected to be part of Occupation Double Trouble in Sicily! Occupation Double Trouble is a popular dating reality show that’s been going on for about 10 years in my country. The goal of the show is to ‘find love’, which gets each winner of the couple a house, a car, and for some reason a full makeover. As if these people were ugly! They only pick the hottest and most extravagant people. All the contestants are worse than one another, fame-whores and influencers without no soul or talent and I judge them, even though I watch it religiously since the first episode a decade ago. This email must be a spam because it’s certainly not for my 65 year-old mother. No. It’s from a legitimate email address. I open the email and it hits me like a slap in the face: the photo my mom took of me in a black wedding dress for a photoshoot for work. In the forest at dusk. Surrounded with skulls. Evil eyes and skull jewelry cascading on me like glimmering stars through the bleak sundown. And there it was, the full profile my mom had completed behind my back: Name: Tricia Trenner Age: 31 Occupation: Writer for a witchcraft magazine and professional tarot reader Why are you single: Because no guy is strange enough for me. What do I look for in a partner: He must be open-minded, eccentric, be interested in the occult and know the importance of family and loyalty. Or I will curse him. *Jk, jk, jk* Why did your last relationship end: He broke up with me because he was schizophrenic and my face was starting looking like a demon to him. You now, it happens. What makes you stand out from the other candidates: I am spiritual. I am esoteric. I reached my full potential and is living my life in perfect equilibrium. I know I can bring good vibes in a group and create a magical atmosphere perfect for that type of show. All these words. They sounded exactly like me. My mother filled up an application on my behalf to take part in the most watched reality tv show of the whole country. AND I GOT SELECTED. I’M A FINALIST FOR REAL. I’m in shock. I don’t know if I’m excited or completely repulsed by the idea. I scream at my mom to come talk to me, in the exact same tone that she would call me when I did something fucked up as a kid. I showed her the email. In an instant, her face lights up, she claps her hands in an overly excited way and screams ‘MY DAUGHTER WILL BE A TV STAR! I knew you would never date submit an application yourself so I did it for you. I had a feeling you would be picked. I was right! You have to show yourself to the world, my special girl! Get out of your own shadow!’ All that flattery and good advice started to take effect because deep down, I have to admit that I always dreamed of being semi-famous. I don’t have any real talent but I’m still kind of cute, so maybe I should exploit this while it’s still ripe. Well, I’m good at spirituality stuff and at reading tarot cards, and honestly my vibe is pretty good as a person. I’m a good visualizer and I manifest a lot of things that I want. I cast effective spells also I believe. I want to find love, sure, but I doubt I’ll find it with these types of people on the show. I’m more likely to find my dream guy working at the morgue or selling enchanted candles in a witchcraft shop. I take a deep breath and yell to my mom ‘I’M IN!’ - The first day of the show - A couple of weeks later and I am arriving at the hotel for filming the premiere. When I meet the other girls, I stick out like a sore thumb. They are all thin, tanned, blonde or with long expensive hair extensions paired with the no-makeup-makeup look, which is 100% a trick if you want my opinion. They all look effortless. I know it took forever, sneaky bitches. Like they don’t try too hard. I’m the total opposite. I’m wearing a long Victorian laced black dress with compensated snakeskin boots and a feathered purse and I’m drowning in jewelry. I’m even sporting a headband with gold leaves, not unlike a tiara but for witches. This is going to be…Interesting to say the least. We all got to pick a dress from the wide rack. I found a long-sleeved floral dress with a dark felt hat and I asked the make-up artist for a white-skin dark-eyes red-lips type of makeup. I want to show the world, well, the nation, that the underdog might not be as conventionally pretty, but she is well damn more interesting. Or am I? I’m starting to doubt myself, but it doesn’t last too long because the host is coming to interview us one by one. When the interview is done, we go back to our rooms and pack because tomorrow we fly out for Sicily to meet our potential partners. It feels like my heart is beating into my ass or something. Nerves. - Sicily and Dave Meow - Everything goes by so fast that it felt like I just closed my eyes and now I’m on a plane to Sicily. The mob’s origin story! If anything, I would like more to date a mob guy than a gym guy who owns a protein shake company for fuck’s sake. The plan today is to back to the Sicilian hotel, take hours to get dressed up, and go for the ultimate first impression challenge: the speed dating. At the beginning of every season, the 8 guys and 8 girls meet each other for the first time in a speed dating date of 3 minutes. It’s the best part. You can see the initial reactions, when the chemistry is so off it’s entertaining or when they hit it off and you know they’re going to be that boring couple that stays together the entire time and win just because they stuck together and didn’t cheat like the others sleazeballs. All dressed up, I walk down the marble stairs looking like an absolute exquisite modern witch to the huge restaurant where we will have the dates. Someone indicates me to sit next to an empty table near the piano and I wait. I look around and I can’t even see the other girls since the restaurant is so big, and they got us isolated to not see everyone else. I'm kind of overheating, maybe I will meet THE ONE! I still have my hopes up. I’m contemplating my skull ring dreamily when I feel the touch of a hand on my shoulder. I look up and the guy I’m seeing is flashing a car salesman Colgate type of smile, he is sporting a dark back coiffe like a hockey player with eyes so green they’re like neon. There are 3 cameras surrounding us. I have an uneasy feeling, you know the kind of feeling you have when someone tries to sell you the most expensive item in the store because they think you’re dumb and you buy it. Because you’re dumb. That type of feeling. He sits down and introduces himself: - I’m Dave. I’m a professional hockey player and I own a part of a gym. I believe fitness and good health is the best way to go, man. He called me ‘man’. I start laughing because I find it odd how familiar or aloof he is about the fact that I’m an unknown woman. I reply: - My name’s Tricia and I write for a witchcraft magazine, and I can’t lift a dumbbell for shit but I can tell your future in your tea leaves, man. He looks at me expressionless, not knowing if I’m joking or not. He finally mutters something: - Well, you do look like a witch, tho. But, in a good way, I mean, witches…Witches are hot. I mean, I’ve never seen a real one, but yeah, they’re cool, yeah. Intriguing. He takes a sip of his drink. - Ah, witches don’t exist. But spiritual people? Yeah we do. There are tons of us, we just stay in the shadows because we don’t want to spoil our secrets to the masses. So you’ve never met anyone…Esoteric? He looks down, cough a little, and places his long hair behind one ear before continuing: - Huh, not that I know of. Well, I’m not too sure what esoteric means though. You mean psychic? - Yeah, kind of. - Oh! Oh yeah I think I know one! My mom says we come from a cursed family blessed with a special gift and all that. She always carries around her little special deck of cards. Lots of lavender baths on a full moon and stuff. Candles and crystals before every game, it’s her way of helping me win, and I guess it works, you know, these type of things. Psychic, yeah, I don’t know, maybe. It’s kind of cute how it seems totally oblivious that his moms is knee-deep into magic. He is one of us and he doesn’t even know it yet. It’s like he seems to think every mom is doing rituals and cleansing baths all the time. It was about to get interesting when a bell rings, meaning it’s time to change partners. Shit, I really felt a connection here, despite my prejudices against hockey players. Hockey player Dave kind of scored straight into the net, if you know what I mean! The other 7 candidates were, how can I say this without being a bitch, awkward. Too short, too exotic, too pretentious, too superficial, too shiny, uninteresting like an algebra book, even a judgmental one who made a comment about me looking like I’m waiting to find my warlock. When the speed dating is over, the camera interviews us one by one again. I’m so nervous that I don’t even have time to filter what I say and I blurt out ‘Hockey player Dave…Meow.’ And I made a cat claw sign with my hand. A CAT CLAW SIGN WHILE SAYING DAVE… MEOW! This is going to be turned into a viral meme for sure back home. How am I not going to get ridiculed the whole time? I’m not made for this! I have no filter! I want to leave! - The beginning of the end, or is it just the beginning? – The night of the speed dating is the night of the first elimination. To be completely honest, I bought all my stuff to make rituals while I would be filming the show. Colored candles, crystals, a rope to cut ties with an energy-sucking person, miniature luck and love vials to wear around my neck for elimination nights and challenges, etc. Tonight, I am wearing a little purple bottle filled with lilac essence and amethyst crystals and Easter morning soil for good luck. It’s not time for the love charm yet. I don’t even know if I like Dave Meow yet, but I have a gut feeling that I do. At 7 PM they come to get us in our rooms to go to an outside building with a big stage elaborated for Occupation Double Trouble. There are tons of cameras and a Sicilian audience from what I can see. Backstage, the girls blabber and giggle in excitement while dropping endless compliments on one another. But not to me. Of course, I should’ve known it’s not my place to be around models or influencers or gym bunnies on a dating reality tv show, but I shut up and wait for my cue to enter the stage. The 8 girls, we are lined up next to each other, primmed and prepped like dolls where only the cutest ones would be bought. I don’t like this at all. The host starts his monologue about how the 8 guys had to decide their least and most favorite girl. The guys come down the stairs to face us, and one by one, they say out loud the name of the girl they most like and like the least. Dave Meow is the last in line. As I hear each guy say my name after the word ‘’least’’, my heart starts to sink deeper because it’s now Dave’s turn: - Least favorite: The bitchy blonde one. Most favorite one: The witchy redhead one. Me! Me! I’m his most favorite! And he is mine too! My only favorite, in fact. The host starts talking about the deliberation, about how the guys have 5 minutes to decide which one of us girls they will kick out. There seems to be some bickering on their end. After the 5 minutes, the host brings them back in a line and asks them who was the girl who would leave. Dave Meow takes a step forward, tall, proud, looking a little too serious and it made me chuckle. He announced solemnly: - The rest of the boys unanimously want to kick out the witch one but I don’t. So, I decide to take a chance and ask her to leave with me right here right now. Fuck the show. I’m not taking part into Operation Double Trouble if it’s not with her. I feel like there’s a million hot light spots on me. Is this guy for real? I mean, of course I felt something, and even if very few words were said, I felt him. I just felt something visceral and primal that no words could express. It’s just a very strong gut feeling. I take a step forward further into the limelight, and I make a cat claw gesture and exclaim: ‘DAVE MEOW! And I jump into his arms surrounded by people applauding. - The real beginning and then some – A year later, after the Occupation Double Trouble debacle, Dave Meow became a viral meme and so did Dave and me. I guess I'm awakening more and more people about spirituality and I am fulfilling my life goal at top speed. I hang out with Dave's mom a lot. We do rituals before every hockey game, and we explained to Dave that the holidays he always celebrated were Wiccan ones, not Christian ones like his friends. He was dumbfounded and it was really moving how eager he was about learning about his ancestor’s gifts and curses stories. The best part? I swear I didn’t even cast a love spell on him at all. For once in my life when I want something, there’s no tweak of fate on my part. Just true and genuine feelings. He loves me for real. For now. And forever I can assure you. | 13,572 | 0 |
The Vines came almost all at once, on a warm otherwise unremarkable summer night twelve years ago. Teddy didn’t remember their coming. He was only fourteen now, which meant he was two when they came. Actually, it wasn’t exactly accurate to say he didn’t remember their coming. There were the dreams. In the dreams he’d be asleep, peaceful in his bed, when suddenly, with the rending sound of a thousand angry zippers the snakes would punch through the walls, yellow eyes flashing, their mouths open wide and hissing, long saber-like fangs spitting luminous green venom. They would spill into the room like waterfalls and begin to coil around him in his bed. Tighter and tighter until breathing became an impossibility and the hissing crowded out even his own panicked thoughts and the world beyond his eyes began to grow dark. He didn’t always wake up screaming from these dreams, but he did so often enough that his parents worried about it. He could hear them talking about it in low whispers sometimes when they didn’t think he could hear them. Sound carried well in this house. But that tended to happen in structures where the walls didn’t always line up, floors sometimes leaned crazily in every direction, doors had long ago been pulled permanently free of their frames, and windows were smashed and lying on the ground in twinkling shards of glass. The vines had done all that. Teddy lay in his bed in the eternal twilight of Vine World, which was what everyone called ground level these days. He knew that if he looked at the wind-up clock on his nightstand he would see that it was eight o’clock in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes. His brain knew what time it was, even if there wasn’t enough sunlight down here to confirm what his brain already seemed to know. “It’s your Shark-Alien rhythms” his Dad had once explained. Whatever that was. Teddy made a mental note to look up “Shark-Alien” on his next trip to the library, though what sharks and aliens might have to do with waking up with the sunlight, he couldn’t possibly fathom. The “ceiling” of his bedroom was a vine. Twenty feet in diameter Teddy guessed, big for sure, but not even close to the biggest vine Teddy had ever seen. The vine’s underside bowed freakishly down into his room. On the right side of the ceiling it coiled away and upward towards the sky. On the left it traveled back through the wall it had smashed twelve years ago and down into the ground. Teddy’s Dad had nailed some boards in around the places where the vine touched the walls in an attempt to weather-proof the room, but the vines were alive. They moved constantly, breathed almost, even if it was only barely perceptible, and the seals rarely held for very long. This morning, humidity poured through the gaps between the vine and the walls and a thin sheen of sweat broke out on Teddy’s forehead and in his arm pits. Mostly the weather stayed on the right side of the “wall”, but not always. It got particularly bad in August, which was Hurricane season here in South Louisiana. But those only hit once or twice a year, and only that often in the really bad years. When they did he would simply move in with his parents, or his brother Bob, for a couple days until the angry wind blew itself out somewhere over Arkansas or Mississippi. Teddy stared thoughtfully up at the vine. He wasn’t sure exactly what you were supposed to call the skin of the vines… bark he supposed. The bark was scaly, like a snake or a fish, each scale the size of a frisbee and shaped like the business end of a spade. The scales were generally brown, but there was a soft iridescence to them and a subtle shifting pattern of colors constantly rippled across the bark? Scales? Skin? “Whatever”, Teddy mumbled as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. It was the thorns you really had to look out for. Teddy was lucky though, there were only two thorns on the vine that had been his bedroom ceiling since just before his second birthday, a day he remembered only in his dreams. The thorns were not conical like those on the ragged patches of blackberry bush that still somehow managed to thrive in the backyard places where occasional columns of sunlight fought their way down through the alien canopy. No, these thorns were more like the arrowheads his Dad had taught him to hunt with, though much larger. They were shaped like pyramids, with a point sharp enough to stab through wood and four symmetrical ridges so hard and razor sharp they could put a score on a piece of glass. There was poison in them too. They’d found that out the hard way, hadn’t they? But the less said about that, the better, Teddy thought. He could hear the house coming alive below him, now. A wood fire crackled in the cast iron stove his Dad had salvaged from… somewhere, and Teddy could smell the faint odor of the smoke working its way up to his nose through the many gaps in the crazy vine-altered structure of their house. Firewood was not a problem in Vine World. The trees that hadn’t been violently uprooted by the sudden appearance of the vines had long since been choked off by the canopy on top and the strangling alien roots below. As a result, there were thousands of dead trees laying in and amongst the vines, quietly seasoning themselves for the cooking fires of Teddy’s future. Teddy’s short brown Cajun hair sat bolt upright on top of his head. In a simpler time, a time before the vines, his first order of business in the morning might have been a shower. But fresh water was much harder to come by now that you couldn’t get an unlimited supply simply by spinning a tap. His Dad had built rainwater catchment in all the places where the vines funneled water reliably down to ground level. But while rainfall remained as unpredictable as ever, the human need for fresh water did not. And so what fresh water they did have was reserved mainly for drinking and cooking. He walked through his bedroom “door” which was more like a concept of a door than an actual one. The door frame leaned crazily to one side like something out of the Esher paintings that hung on the walls of the Library in town. He walked out into the hall and scrabbled down the floor which fell away from his room at a loopy downward angle before hitting a bottom of sorts, and then curving back up towards the stairs that would take him down to the bottom floor. Teddy looked up and saw that Bob was just pulling himself up the last three feet of the incline and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. Always “Bob”, never “Bobby”. His parents had tried “Bobby” for a while but from the very moment Bob had learned to speak he’d begun to correct them. “Is Bobby a good boy?” they’d ask, and little Bob’s face would scrunch down into an expression of deep thought and consternation and he would bellow “—OB!” And so Bob he had become, and Bob he would forever be. He was six now and he turned to see his older brother negotiating the crazy rolling hills of their upstairs hallway and smiled. “HI TEDDY!” Bob almost always shouted everything. It was kind of his thing. But he loved his brother, and Teddy loved him right back. “Hey Bob”, Teddy said as he lost his grip on the hard wood floor and slid back a couple feet. It occurred to him that it probably wasn’t very safe for a six-year-old boy to climb around on a crazy structure like this, but then again almost everything in Vine World was dangerous. You had to pick your battles. “RACE YA!”, Bob shouted and took off down the stairs, which had somehow remained improbably intact. In addition to the shouting thing, Bob was always “racin’ ya!” everywhere. Laughing and hip checking each other in a good-natured way, Teddy and Bob bounded down the stairs, their footsteps pounding a syncopated rhythm on the old wood of the staircase. As they neared the bottom they could hear Mom in the kitchen shouting “Hey, hey, HEY! Come on guys, slow it down!” She was worried about thorns, of course, they were everywhere. But after twelve years, six for Bob, the brothers knew exactly where they all were. As they ran, they ducked, bobbed, and weaved like running backs in a sport they would never watch or play, one that had died a quick and violent death on that awful day twelve years ago, like so many other things. The boys skidded to a stop on the old linoleum floor of the kitchen, still giggling and elbowing each other in the ribs. A vine the width of an elephant’s trunk stood in the very center of the kitchen. It had erupted up through the floor like a demonic volcano and now occupied the room like a support strut holding up the ceiling. It was covered with razor sharp thorns, and Mom and Dad had done the best they could to wrap the lowest and most dangerous of them in old towels, ragged bits of clothing, and a few salvaged traffic cones so that there would not be a repeat of the “accident” that had killed Carthage. Carthage had been the family dog. He was sweet and friendly and a mutt. “like God threw a beagle, a terrier, and a chihuahua in a barrel and rolled it down a hill”, Dad had often said. Carthage had been a great dog, but a hyper one. It was in his genes. And aren’t we all, ultimately, doomed by our own genetics? It was his hyperactivity that had killed him. Carthage was a jumper. All you had to do was look in his direction and even before his name had a chance to fall off your tongue he was up on his hind legs and jumping straight up in the air. Sproing, sproing, sometimes he’d clear three feet straight up, his little head wiggling back-and-forth at the apex of his leap like he was trying to squeeze an extra few inches out of it. They’d been in the yard when it happened. If they’d been in the house there was a decent chance, Teddy thought, that Carthage might have remembered about the thorns and not jumped so enthusiastically. But they hadn’t been in the house, and Carthage had put everything he had into that final leap. The thorn caught him just behind his right shoulder and Carthage yelped in surprise and pain, immediately thrusting his tail between his legs and cowering at Teddy’s feet, whimpering with fear and unanswerable questions. Dad had come running at the sound of Carthage’s distress and at first the injury hadn’t seemed that bad… well not that bad for a severe puncture wound anyway. The thorn had slid into the dog’s flesh like a hot blade through soft butter. But it was not deep, and barring infection it certainly did not seem life-threatening. But something about the drop of green liquid that hung from the tip of the thorn like thick luminous dew had made Teddy’s skin crawl. And within an hour it was clear that Carthage was a very sick doggie. He’d lasted the night, curled in Teddy’s lap, whimpering and looking up at his boy with big watery eyes that were full of confusion, pain and fear. And little Teddy had cried right along with him, not able to do anything for his dog except to be there for him. To let him know that if nothing else, he was loved. To bear witness. Carthage’s end had come before the real end, and that, at least, had been a mercy. There had been a few final labored breaths and Carthage’s nose, which had been resting on Teddy’s leg, rapidly moving up and down with his ragged breathing, suddenly began to weigh down on Teddy with the weight of something no longer in control of its muscles. And then a final breath came out as a whimper, and Teddy knew Carthage was gone. But that wasn’t the end. Oh no, it wasn’t the end at all. Teddy had been holding Carthage in a towel and that had probably saved his life. Carthage’s skin had begun to ripple and undulate like his body had filled up with giant hungry maggots. Despite his love for the dog that had been his only pet, Teddy pushed the corpse off his lap with revulsion just as the dog began to literally dissolve in front of his eyes. Here and there, Carthage’s skin burst open with steaming jets of glowing green goop. The skin melted away revealing the jagged curvature of the animal’s ribcage and then even the ribs began to run in gloopy white rivulets. Teddy had just enough time to think “those were his bones” and then, finally, nothing at all remained of the dog except for a putrid greyish-green puddle of bubbling slime slowly eating its corrosive way into the Earth. And Teddy’s tears, of course. It was hard, even now, for Teddy to see a thorn and not flash back to that difficult day. To the awful danger of the thorns. The towels his parents had tried to wrap them in didn’t really offer much in the way of protection, either. The thorns were simply too sharp. If you were to forget yourself and stumble into one, it wouldn’t take much pressure for the tip to stab straight through like the pike thrust of an angry Spartan Hoplite. And from there, a slowly gurgling puddle of alien slime would be your ultimate destination. You stepped carefully in Vine World. Very carefully. But the wrappings did serve as a reminder of what was there. The incongruous pastel colors of the towels and the neon orange of the cones caught your eye and alerted you to the danger in a way that simply trusting yourself to notice the same damned thorns in the same damned places day-after-day could not. Towels had not been their first idea, nor even their second. The towels were more of a last resort. Dad’s first idea, coming right on the heels of Carthage’s untimely and unlovely death, was to saw the damned things right off. “Come with me”, he’d said to Teddy, who was only eight at the time. And Teddy had gone. Dad had been a contractor before the vines came and his workshop, really just a shed filled with his tools, had survived the coming of the vines mostly intact. Pulled along towards the shed by his father’s rough hand, they walked into the shop together and Dad pulled a two-foot wood saw off the wall. They’d walked back to the offending vine with its offending thorn still dripping poison in an obscene parody of Teddy’s tears and Dad had lain the saw on the thorn at its base. With a roar of anger, he’d pulled the teeth of the blade across the thorn. Teddy heard a sound like a rifle being fired on full automatic as each of the metal teeth snapped off clean at the edge of the blade. Dad threw the ruined saw on the ground and stomped angrily back to the shed, shaking his head and cursing under his breath… something about “those Christing thorns!” Teddy thought. He’d come back with a fifteen-pound sledge and was swinging it before he even stopped walking. The head of the sledge came down perfectly on the sharpened tip of the thorn and… PING!!!! The sound of two heavy metal pipes being smacked together reverberated between the living canyon walls created by the vines, and the sledge bounced off the thorn like a kid jumping on a trampoline. The momentum of the bouncing sledge knocked Dad right on his ass. He pulled himself up off the soft ground and walked over to the thorn. He leaned toward it until his nose was almost touching its smooth surface, almost like he was trying to see it at the molecular level. “Didn’t even dent the goddamned thing…”, he’d said angrily. And that had been their last attempt to destroy a thorn. Mom pointed at Bob, “you, sit at the table, I’ll have your breakfast ready in a minute.” Bob happily ran off towards the kitchen table, his hands swinging back and forth above his head. Teddy thought the kid looked like a crazed chimpanzee when he ran. Bob pulled himself up onto the bench seat at the kitchen table and Mom pointed at Teddy, “And you, put your gear on, I need some veggies from the garden.” She tried to sound like a drill instructor, but there was a nervousness on her face that gave the game away. For his part, Teddy hid his excitement as best he could. He didn’t want his parents to know how much he loved going to the garden. You weren’t supposed to enjoy climbing the vines. You were supposed to fear it. Teddy headed back to the “gettin’ ready room”, as in, “we’re gettin’ ready to go outside.” It was a room just off the back porch, the only room in the house where there were no thorns. The one totally safe room in the house. You could do The Macarena in here if the mood caught you right. On the dozens of hooks Dad had installed on the walls hung gear that he’d scavenged from a demolished sporting goods store on the other side of town. Teddy shrugged into a suit of armor made of mis-matched gear from a half-dozen sports he would never get a chance to play. Football shoulder pads, a baseball catcher’s chest plate and leg guards, thick hockey gloves and a helmet. None of this would stop a serious thrust from a thorn of course, but it would protect against most everything this side of a glancing blow. Looking like a rejected extra from a Mad Max movie (they had DVDs in the Library too) he pushed the screen door open past shrieking rusted hinges. Mom heard the door opening, hell the whole world could hear this door when it opened, Teddy thought. “Watch out for the vents!” she yelled from a room away. Teddy’s shoulders slumped and he sighed with obvious frustration. “Watch out for the vents” was the unofficial motto of Vine World. People said it to each other the way they might have said “have a nice day” or “Merry Christmas!” before the vines came. But Vine World left no room for such trivialities. There was too much danger, too much fear, and too much at stake. “The goddamned vents…” Teddy said to himself. He tried not to curse in front of his parents, but sometimes, well… sometimes the right word was the right word. “Le mot juste!” he said, much louder than when he’d cursed. And in some weird way, he thought his parents might have been even more surprised to hear him say that than they would have been if they’d heard him say “goddamned.” But when your kid spent every waking hour in a library, that was the kind of thing your kid was apt to say. Teddy stepped out into what had once been their back yard. If you could forget about the danger for one moment, it was almost beautiful. Above his head the vines twisted and coiled around one another in a vast Gordian Knot of alien bark and thorns. Iridescent color shimmered along their lengths and what ground cover had survived the sudden plunge into darkness all those years ago reflected the light as if the aurora borealis blazed overhead. Here in the eternal twilight of Vine World, lightning bugs didn’t know what time it was either, and their belly lights twinkled and shone in the darker corners of what was a living organic cathedral. From the safety of the back door the scene looked like a magical glade from a Tolkien novel. If a Hobbit, a Dwarf, and an Elvin Archer suddenly appeared walking behind a grey-haired old wizard lighting their way with a magic wooden staff, Teddy thought he wouldn’t bat an eye. “Might not even be the strangest thing out here today”, he thought to himself, and smiled. Across the glade, an asterisk drawn in bright orange spray paint beckoned. Teddy scanned the yard, looking for vents mostly, but also for the… Things… that came out of them. There were none, and that was something, at least. He glanced back at the wall of the “gettin’ ready room” and saw his own compound bow hanging next to an empty space where a larger bow should have been. “Dad must already be out hunting”, he thought. Teddy grimaced. “Anything but a Scorch, Dad” he muttered under his breath. He was getting pretty tired of eating Scorch. Welp, there was always the vegetable garden. He made his way slowly across the… Teddy continued to think of it as The Glade, even though twelve years ago nobody would have ever thought to call it anything other than somebody’s plain ole backyard. He moved slowly because things could change in a catastrophic instant in Vine World, and things that changed here almost never changed in your favor. His head spun as if on a swivel and he walked in a strange crouch, ready to run at a moment’s notice in whatever direction might lead to safety. Twenty steps, then thirty, then fifty…. He counted as he went knowing that it was exactly sixty-seven steps to the orange asterisk. Somewhere behind him, he knew his Mom was trying to keep one eye on him as she took care of Bob and got the house ready to face the day. He could feel her worry across the space between them but there was nothing she could do except hold her breath and hope for the best. Vine World was about surviving one day at a time and everyone had to do their part. The vines had forced Teddy to grow up fast. “Four thousand, three hundred eighty days…” he said out loud. That was how many days they had survived by taking survival one day at a time. You never thought about tomorrow or next week in Vine World. That kind of optimism could get you killed. The distant terrified shrieks that sometimes carried to Teddy’s ears when the wind was blowing just right in the darkest most silent graveyard moments of the night were an awful reminder of that fundamental fact of their existence. Teddy reached the asterisk and put a sweaty palm on it (tag, you’re it!). Above him a dozen pieces of two-by-four marked the upward trajectory of a large vine in three-foot intervals. In another time, there might have been a treehouse at the top of those two-by-fours, a sign out front boldly proclaiming, “no girls allowed!!!!” But not here. Not in Vine World. The ladder steps went up about thirty feet and then disappeared into the tangled canopy overhead. He began to climb. A minute later he had reached the underside of the canopy and paused to take a deep centering breath. It only got hairier from here. He pulled himself up into the disorienting alien tangle and below him the Glade disappeared from view, lost in waves of shimmering brown scales. Somewhere below, their visual connection broken, Teddy’s mom stifled a worried sob and tried to focus on Bob. A few seconds later and Teddy was standing on a broad flat expanse of vine. Here and there thorns gleamed malevolently in the gloom. Dad had helpfully circled each one in orange paint, not that Teddy needed a warning to steer clear. He looked up and saw the route winding its way up through the tangles, marked with more fluorescent orange paint. Courageous beams of sunlight stabbed down through the canopy here and there and it almost seemed to Teddy that the vines shied away from them, like they were more comfortable in the gloom. In the dark. Where the monsters roamed free and ate their fill. Teddy had no idea exactly how high the vines went. He’d asked his Dad once and he’d said “dunno Kid, more than a hundred feet, less than five?” It was six hundred thirty-seven steps to the top of the canopy, Teddy knew that much, but the twisting path his Dad had marked meandered all over and around the complex tangle of vines. Sometimes you even had to go down a ways before you could go back up again. Teddy guessed it was about two hundred and fifty feet from the top of the vines to the ground. Teddy was relatively safe up here. The things that came from the vents couldn’t get at him up here. “As far as you know” he reminded himself. Every now and then something new did come out of the vents, and it would be dangerous to assume that the vents would never vomit out a creature that could pursue him into the canopy. A shiver worked its way down his spine despite the heat of the day. Ten minutes later he had almost made it to the top and he quietly thanked his Dad for the orange trail markings. It had taken almost a year for his Dad to find, map, and mark this route, and even though he’d climbed it hundreds of times, Teddy knew that without the markings he would soon be hopelessly lost up here. And if you got lost in Vine World, the best you could hope for was that you’d die of starvation or thirst before the Things got you. It was much brighter now. What had been tiny little beams of sunlight down on the ground had become great gushing waterfalls of gleaming warmth up here. Teddy followed one last looping path around a super vine, this one easily fifty feet across, and saw the final stretch of orange painted ladder steps at the end of a short, narrow tunnel. Teddy laid on his back and began to push himself along this horribly claustrophobic space where a dozen smaller vines coiled tightly around one another. It was so narrow that if there were even a single thorn in this space it would be impassible. As he crawled, he thought of his dream… and the snakes. Were the vines sentient? Might they one day wake up, realize that a boy was crawling through this passageway and suddenly clench themselves into a crushing final embrace? In the shadows, Teddy shivered uncontrollably. A few more yards and Teddy pulled himself into the last chamber at the base of the final ladder. His face was bathed in pure white sunlight that forced him to close his eyes so tightly it hurt. Brilliant sun spots danced on the blood red insides of his eyelids and the complex networks of his capillaries stood out in stark relief. Doc Hebert, the town doctor by virtue of the fact that he was the only doctor to have survived the coming of the vines, had once told Teddy that he guessed Human eyesight would adapt completely to the gloom of Vine World eventually, and that within a thousand years or so, it might be impossible for Humans to venture out in direct sunlight at all. Teddy thought that sounded like a damned shame and he laid here a minute longer, letting the sun warm his face for a while in honor of his sun-blind descendants, whom he would never meet and who might never get this chance. But there was a job to do. He opened his eyes to the sunlight again, pulled himself to his feet, and climbed the last few feet to the roof of Vine World. He rose up out of the gap in the vines like a submarine Captain climbing out onto the conning tower of his ship and looked around. The view never ceased to overwhelm him. All around, in every direction of the compass, was the terrible evidence of what had happened that day. Vines. Vines by the millions, by the tens of millions… blended and woven as if they’d burst forth from the loom of the fates. They covered, buried, choked off everything he had ever known. If he squinted, it almost looked like a vast shag carpet of brown and green stretching in rolling hills and valleys to the horizon. Up close, you couldn’t see an individual vine move, or breathe, or whatever it was that they did, but across the miles and miles, the subtle combined movement of all the vines together made this alien roof ripple with motion. A thick mountain of vines rose, alarmingly, to the north. Dad said he figured that must be Baton Rouge, since there were no actual mountains here in the flat Earth of Louisiana. The idea that this “mountain” might have once been the second largest city in the state was, well, thought-provoking. It suggested that the vines grew as high as they needed to in order to overwhelm whatever might be in their way. Like the Kudzu that had once threatened to choke off all the vegetation in the American South before the Vines had provided the final say in the matter. Did the Eiffel Tower itself lie dead and rotting underneath a city-sized pile of vines like Tiger Stadium just a couple hundred miles to the north? What about The Freedom Tower in New York? The Burj Khalifa? The London Pickle? The Taj Mahal? the Pyramids of Giza? Teddy didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t believe that everything that had ever been, everyone that ever was, all that had ever been known, could really be buried under the vines. He thought that the day he did start to believe that, would be the day he gave up and let the vines have him. Up here, the vines sprouted leaves. Massive, lime green and waxy, they were big enough that a married couple could use one as a blanket if they were brave enough to try. As far as anyone knew, the leaves were not dangerous by themselves. But the way Teddy looked at it, you couldn’t be too careful when it came to the vines. The leaves hung like massive organic solar panels, collecting the sun here on the roof and delivering its energy to the real bulk of the vines deep down in the darkness below Teddy’s feet. Spread out before him were a dozen raised garden beds made of salvaged four-by-fours, anchored into the woody scales of the vines and bristling with summer vegetables. “Vict’ry Gardens” his Dad called them. “Victory over what, Dad?” Teddy had asked him once. “Over starvin’ to death, Bub”, had been the reply, and they’d both laughed so hard their bellies hurt, even though there really wasn’t anything funny about it at all. It had been hell getting all the wood and dirt up here, but Doc Hebert had told Teddy he thought the “Vic’try Garden” idea, which had been his Dad’s, had probably saved the town. Once Teddy’s Dad had proven the concept, other gardens had begun to spring up all over the “roof”, and Teddy could see other townsfolk tending to their own gardens in the distance. He waved to a distant figure he thought was probably Mrs. Hebert, it was hard to tell this far away, and she waved back. He tried to judge the distance and guessed it at about two hundred yards. “Length a two football fields, Bub”, his Dad might have said, even though Teddy had never seen a football field and probably never would. There was one in town, about two miles east of here at the city high school. But like everything else it was buried under the choking mass of the vines. The goalposts, once shining and white on Friday nights, now forever twisted and rusting in the dark. Teddy wandered between the rows picking tomatoes, lettuce, and peppers and pushing them into the carry bag at his hip. He loved it up here. Despite the alien view, you could almost feel normal with the sun on your face and a warm gulf breeze tossing your hair around. Was the Gulf of Mexico still there? Or was it just a memory, buried under the vines like everything else? He didn’t know, and in any case, it didn’t matter. Any place you couldn’t walk to in the hours between dawn and dusk might as well be on the moon. Which reminded him. He checked the watch on his wrist. He knew it was still early in the morning, but he checked anyway, out of habit. You always needed to be aware of the time in Vine World. You could run into a… Thing, at any time of course, but at night… that was when they hunted. His carry bag was full now and so he looked once more into the sun, letting it toast his face one last time. He closed his eyes and mentally prepared himself for the long walk down to the ground and the short dangerous sprint across the glade and back into the house. The summer sun was still hot, but Teddy knew that in a few weeks they’d be up here planting the fall vegetables… pumpkins and squash mostly. Over the years, a brisk trade in heirloom seeds had sprung up alongside the damaged church that had been turned into something of a Town Hall by what remained of their little community. It's always easier to go down than to go up and Teddy got back to the final stretch of ladder steps almost before he realized it. He looked down through the hole in the canopy, down on the warm lights of his house so close and yet so far away. And again, he had that sense that he was looking in on an Elvish Glade. The way the vines had incorporated the house into their infrastructure, the lighting bugs flitting here and there like fairies, the preternatural silence, it was as if this house existed on the outskirts of Rivendell, rather than Southern Louisiana. He climbed slowly down the last stretch of steps. His suit of armor felt heavy and cloying now that he was so close to safety, and he just wanted it off. His right foot touched the mossy ground and a sound like Armageddon drove a bolt of ice into his spine and nearly stopped his heart. A terrible ripping sound, like the skin was being torn off the world. He turned slowly… very… slowly and saw it. A jagged crack had appeared on the ground halfway between himself and the house. It started as a single point and slowly grew, right to left, until it was nearly four feet long. The ripping became an ear popping whoosh and the crack broke open like a lanced boil, spilling a sickly green light into the glade. A Vent. A goddamned vent. For one crazy moment he thought about running for it, leaping over the vent and through that poisonous light like a horse leaping over a hedge in an equestrian event. His legs actually tensed up, ready to begin pumping themselves across the space between himself and the vent. And then he froze, all thoughts of a heroic escape suddenly and irrevocably banished from his mind. Because now there was something in the light. Movement. A shadow. Something was coming out of the vent. Teddy leaned back against the vine and waited to see if he would die immediately, or if the vines would decide to give him a fighting chance today. What came out of the vent was a nightmare mash-up of a scorpion, a lobster, and a spider roughly the size of a large pit bull. Its dinner plate-sized claws clicked together curiously as if searching the air for something to cleave in two. The six legs behind the claws were much longer than a scorpion’s legs, more like a spider’s legs, long, spindly, arching, and multi-segmented. Each leg ended in a needle-sharp point that dug into the soft earth as the Thing struggled to pull itself free of whatever Hell had spawned it. It was a Scorch. Plenty lethal of course, but there were much worse Things lurking in the depths of the Vents, and he’d dealt with Scorches before. There was still a pretty good chance he’d die right here at the base of this vine, but with a Scorch there were always… possibilities. Sixty-Seven Teddy steps away, his Mom stood in the open back door, both hands over her mouth which was open in a terrified “Oh.” There was nothing she could do to help her son now, and she knew it. Whatever was going to happen in the next thirty seconds would happen whether she intervened or not. Bob stood behind her, peering out between her legs. “WATCH OUT BRUDDER!”, he shouted, and Teddy almost rolled his eyes. “Yeah no kidding, Bob”, he thought uselessly. The Scorch’s claws were moving ceaselessly, and their SNAP SNAP caused Teddy to flinch each time they closed on one another. But it was the stinger that commanded his attention. It was like a dagger at the end of a long retractable tail and it too moved this way and that, looking for something fleshy to plunge its length into. But Teddy knew that the stinger itself, and the poison it contained, were not the worst part of what that tail could do. At the base of the stinger would be two small holes… POP POP… the sound of twin firecrackers and Teddy thought “here it comes!” From those two holes jetted two completely different but complimentary chemicals. And as they mixed in the air they ignited a three-foot jet of blue flame, and any newcomer to Vine World would have known instantly how the Scorch got its name. Teddy remained rooted to the spot just in front of the orange asterisk his Dad had painted, frozen in place. The Scorch’s alien red eyes, seated on top of long stalks that could rotate in three hundred sixty degrees searched for him, but Scorches couldn’t see very well, and as long as he stood perfectly still, there was a good chance it wouldn’t see him. But just then a breeze rustled the hair at the back of his head and Teddy knew that he had a bigger problem. The breeze was blowing his scent directly at the Scorch, and a Scorch could target you by your smell as easily as a hunter with a rifle and a scope. And sure enough, after only a few seconds, the time it would have taken the breeze to travel from Teddy to the Scorch, it suddenly spun on him. Teddy had been spotted. The Scorch came at him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, seconds drawing out into hours, as every weapon in the creature’s considerable arsenal pointed right at Teddy’s most vulnerable spots. Its arachnid legs were a blur. The stinger came up and coiled back like a compressed spring, ready to strike. The claws opened wide and Teddy knew that whatever part of his body they targeted would soon be lying on the ground, detached and spilling great gouts of blood. He put his arms up in front of his face. Maybe the hockey gloves would hold against the blade-like claws… maybe the umpire’s chest plate would deflect the stinger. Maybe… Maybe. Across the glade his Mom screamed and for a moment it was the only sound in Teddy’s ears, except for the rushing sound of his own terrified blood. And then another sound cut off his Mom’s scream. THWIP!!! Followed by a shriek from the Scorch that was so brain-piercingly awful it was almost a weapon unto itself. Teddy opened one tentative eye and saw a long shaft sticking out of what passed for a head on a Scorch. Both stalked eyes were bending inward, eyes rolling madly in their alien sockets, desperately trying to see what was causing it so much pain. It was an arrow. And now the high-pitched keening of the Scorch was joined by the THUMP THUMP THUMP of footsteps running towards the glade, and Teddy looked up and saw his Dad leaping over a low hanging vine, one hand reaching into the quiver on his back as he did. Without breaking stride, Dad nocked the arrow, drew back the string, and fired a second time. This time the arrow thumped straight into the Thing’s cerebral cortex, or whatever it was that Scorches had rattling around in their skulls. The arrow had the desired effect. The Scorch dropped flat with a meaty thud. Dead before it hit the ground, its lights turned off as if by a switch. Breathing heavily, Dad looked at his son, lost under a pile of second-hand sports equipment. “You OK, Bub?” Teddy looked back at him. “I guess it’s Scorch for dinner after all. | 38,102 | 2 |
I can't wait to die. Not that I am suicidal, far from that. I've written to lenghts before about my perspective on life, how ''those that choose life are the bravest of all!'' But a part of me can't help but be insanely curious. Intrigued even, of what and how death will be. It's absurd, thinking about it. I may be stating the obvious but death is the opposite of life, that we've been immersed in forever, so of course such a concept is alien and frightening to us. The rational side of myself embraces reality as a purely objective construct, like a canvas, where subjectivity can arise. What I mean by that is, I reject wholeheartedly any hypothesis such as the ''brain in a jar'' or all the solipsists of the world. The self is nothing more than a natural extension of the universe, of reality, not something separate or higher. Everything is self-contained in the whole. I say that, since the concept of an after life is counterintuitive. Why would our consciousness remain when its condition to exist (the body) is destroyed? For the soul to be permanent, persistent, transcient, implies extraordinary presumptions; Spirituality, the divine, unobservable assumpations about the nature of the world, our place in it, FAITH. How arrogant of us human beings, to be so full of hubris to think of ourselves worthy of salvation, of eternity, as we trample on the corpses of the whole planet earth, butchering and carelessly destroying the ''lesser'' lives of every beings, plants and animals, rats and ants... What about their souls, on their way to heaven perhaps, or in eternal punishment for transgressing the divine laws of ants? How absurd. A human is a human, an ant is an ant, and rats are everywhere. What makes us special, if not for delusion and fear? Now, enough from ants, as fascinating as they are. Seeing that our brains are basically electric boxes, our minds purely physical phenomenas, I don't see how justifyable the idea that anyone's soul perdure after death, be it in Hell or Heaven or purgatory or whatever. I suppose the idea is simply comforting. The idea that even through death one remains the same. After all losing what makes you ''you'' is most frightening of all. Of course people would believe in the most convenient and agreable afterlife possible, since it's all fantasy! Of a lofy eternal paradise of bliss with loved ones, only accessible to those that believe, to those that behave ''properly'' to abitrary rules... Sorry for getting so cynical. Let me phrase it in a more imaginative way : It's like telling a fool on a roaming boat that the coming waterfall, deadly and deafening, is nothing to be afraid of. That the incoming, inevitable fall of hundreds of meters to certain doom actually leads to a calm lake. Of course the fool will believe in the calm lake, even as he falls down and faces death in all its fatality. Yet funnily enough, wether the fool believes in the calm lake or not, the outcome is the same... I can't help but wonder if perhaps, upon death, the brain plays a trick on itself, and ''dreams'' of whatever it is it wishes for. For the devout christian, a sort of distilled, condensed illusion of an eternal blissful afterlife with loved ones in heaven, much akin to a long dream that actually lasts a fraction of a second in reality. And the wicked, cursed man, falling to despair as he gets to experience his own personal hell, stemming from his buried regrets, experiencing eternal punishment in the very last instant of his life. The mind making true what it believes, in the very last seconds of life, before the gaping void that is death. What I'm trying to say is, perhaps the soul, so stubborn and eccentric it is, makes the ''afterlife'' possible and real, but only for itself? In a totally subjective way, much like the existence of the subjective mind in the incomprehensible objective universe it is part of? As a way to cope with the dissolution of the self, of the embrace of the void, of DEATH. I personaly believe my mind will collapse and become one - once again - with reality, to a faint, blissful state of omniscience. All sense of self and consciousness, lost, nay, shed, much akin to a cocoon. And flying outward to embrace everything the etheral butterfly of my abstract self, takes hold of the universe in a loving, watchful embrace. | 4,591 | 1 |
I came tumbling through the above mess of your house with many loud crashes. I banged right through the roof, and then all the old detritus of your past you had stored in your attic, through the floor of the attic (which was the ceiling to your living room), and then with a loud smack I landed in a writhing crumpled up heap on your living room floor. My entrance was accompanied by many loud and shocked gasps and hiccups, for you had planned a dinner party and invited all the haughty lords and ladies across the land. Your stuffy acquaintances were stuffed into your small living room, stuffing themselves on turkey and stuffing before I rained broken wood and all your old baggage and other stuff upon their heads and plates. Luckily, I was the only injury caused by my entrance. I knew you had outgrown me then, but I had not yet outgrown myself, so I was stuck with me and all the needy, crazy thoughts cavorting around my head. I couldn’t help but to act on one or some of them, and so act I did, so I hoped you were happy with how I ruined your day, like we were both used to. Like the good-bad-old times, whilst I drifted off into unconsciousness from my harsh fall. All lost boys know how to fly, but none of us fly well. It’s warned that one day we’ll forget, which in of itself serves as a self-fulfilling prophecy… we’re bound to fall, usually around the time we start forgetting that we’re lost and instead start realizing we’ll never be found, or worse yet that no one is looking for us. You can’t be lost if you have no where you’re meant to be. That means you belong anywhere, which means that no one is missing you. When you outgrew me, that was when I knew for sure that you’d stop missing me. So I came flying over to your house on the last little puffs of pixie dust that I had sticking to the inside of my pockets. I had a grand machination to do something so charmingly foolish that would get you to miss me, maybe even miss us, something that would stick me to your ribs like a good meal. But just like all the dry and roasted bird and bread bits intermingled in the crowd crowding around my unconscious body, I went down unsavory and uncomfortably crunchy. I dreamt what was explained by the paramedics when I woke up mid-way to the hospital, more or less. I was shuffled out quick and quiet, my appearance fizzling out like soda pop left out in a glass for too long, no matter how hard I splashed against your icy cold company and their transparent conversations. Maybe I fell too flat. It would take me longer than most to understand that no matter how I fell, it wouldn’t win you back, or even impress you enough to really remember how cool you might have thought I was when I first took you for a flight. It wouldn’t be until I really began to outgrow myself that I would understand that I should have apologized, not just for the fall, but for all the good-bad-old times leading up to the rationalization for the fall. They were more like okay-bad-reallybad-sad-times. But by then I didn’t know you like I knew you, and I had grown up enough to know that you were flying higher without pixie dust than I could ever reach with it. By then I grew up enough to know that even with all the pixie dust, I was holding you down, holding you back, like a plane that managed to snag a helium balloon. At least you got free of me before I could drag you all the way back down to the airport. | 3,434 | 2 |
In the Summer of 1875, especially in the midwest, it was virtually impossible to never have heard the name: Angel Ramos aka ‘El Toro’. The Mexican immigrant robbed as many as 10 banks in a year. He wanted 'Dead Or Alive’, but the government had never been able to get him, no matter where he went. For now, however, he was lying low on a ranch over in the Northern part of Texas. That man was spectacular, it was rumored that he once shot an apple off some son of a bitch’s head from 30 yards away… with his revolver. It seemed like Angel had been blessed with luck. However, that luck finally came to an end when U.S. marshall Buck Carson finally bested him. Carson was a different animal in his own right, his use of a gun was second to none, even Angel. He had brought down many notorious outlaws over the years, his name was revered throughout the frontier. It had almost been an honor from Uncle Sam himself to have that man on your tail. Carson had been pursuing Angel for some time before finally tracking him to a ranch, near the abandoned town of Cedar Hollow. At last Angel's day had come, he was working in the fields when Carson surprised him, Angel reacted just in time to avoid a lethal hit, but the bullet got him right in his abdomen. He managed to get away from Carson, before speeding off on one of the horses from a nearby stable. Angel dashed into town, mortar craters, gunshot holes, debris, and cracked buildings made up the street. Carson was right on his trail but was a bit behind him. When he turned the corner to go down Cedar Hollow's main road, Carson saw Angel's horse outside of a saloon, unhitched, and dirt shoe prints on the porch, going in. Carson got down from his horse, drew his revolver, and cautiously walked up the porch. He pinned his back to the wall, just outside the doors and peeked into the saloon. He was very surprised to see Angel, sitting at a table, clutching his side while calmly looking out a window to his right, up into the sky. Angel's holster, with his notorious gold-plated guns: ‘Wrath & Fury’ were on the floor to his left near the main entrance. Carson, aiming down the sight of his revolver, walked through the doors, into the saloon. Carson bent down to pick up the belt, whilst his eyes and gun were still trained on Angel. He moved on to the table that Angel was sitting at, and sat down with him. His revolver never left the sight of Angel. “I can at least respect the fact you've made this easier for both of us,” Carson said. “No problem. I had a pretty good run.” Angel replied “Yes, yes you did” Carson responded. With vigor, Angel says, “They called me El Toro”. Angel smirks and looks at Carson. “Do you want to know why they call me that?” Not really that intrigued, Carson replies, “I guess I've got some time now”. Continuing, Angel says, “El Toro means The Bull, and bulls are strong and ruthless by nature” “And look at where we are now,” Carson says back. Looking back into the window, “Yes, look at where we are now” Angel said. Out of curiosity, Carson asks, “Now that we're here, was it… worth it? I mean why, for all of this, just to be here. I knew you must've known that this day was coming” “You make it sound as if it is a choice.” Looking back at Carson. “Guys like me, this is how we survive, out on the run, taking down anything that gets in our way. It's all we know… no one is coming to save us” Angel said. “It's a funny world we live in I guess” Carson replies. “Yes,” Angel said, before going on, “Humans… were animals at heart, you cannot blame us for our nature. If you saw a Hyena eating a wildebeest, you would not imprison the Hyena, would you?”. “We're not just animals anymore… were smart animals, we have… society, customs, order and we can't lose it, unfortunately, some have to bite the bullet to show that to others” Smirking, “you said it,” Angle said, before continuing. “Do you believe in a heaven and hell, Mr Carson?” “Not particularly” Carson replied. “They say guys like me are going to hell… but it all becomes clearer to me at this moment. This was my punishment… And you, what about you? Where would you be going if the idea of a heaven or hell were true?” Angel asked. “Well, I haven't given it much thought if I'm being honest. But if I had to guess, It'd be heaven”. “And why is that, Mr Carson?” Angel replied. “I fight for the greater good. That has to mean something to the man above, if he's there” Carson said. Angel snaps back, “I tell myself the same thing, Mr Carson. We're two sides of the same coin, the only difference being we justify the bad things that we do differently, but in the end, the fact of the matter is… we're both killers, on a quest for survival.” “Maybe you're right Mr Ramos,” Carson says, Getting up from the table, “but I'm afraid our time is up now” Carson, standing over Angel, who looking up at him, aims the revolver at his head. Smirking. “In the next life Mr. Carson,” Angel said. With one pull of the trigger and a loud bang, Angel Ramos aka “El Toro” was dead. The End. | 5,077 | 1 |
*RATED: PG-13* *TW: Clowns, Death Threats, Arson, Violence, Police Brutality* *PLOT: A woman scared of everything is cursed with an evil clown that will only disappear if she makes him laugh.* \*\*\* Emma was losing her fucking mind. There was no other explanation. Nothing else made sense. This had to be a mental health thing. Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown? What else could this be? When she looked up again, the clown was gone. Yep, she must have been going mad, she surmised. First depression and chronic anxiety, and now this? Emma was starting to feel like a rolodex of disorders at this point. Her social anxiety was so bad that even her hallucinations triggered it. She was more scared of the concept of basic human interaction than the fact that the clown was likely there to hurt her, because surely NONE of this was real. It was simply a matter of Occam's Razor. What's more likely? Either a clown was chasing her all over town or she was going insane. Either way, Emma was clearly losing it. It'll be just like last time. Check in. Rest up. Take meds. Get out. Continue living. Super simple. Emma reached into her purse and pulled out her cellphone but realized that its battery was dead. When she looked back up, there was that clown again! This time, she could see it better. It was no longer hiding in the shadows or sticking to her peripheral vision. The clown just stood there in her hallway, staring coldly at her. She finally got a good look at him and was horrified by what she was looking at. The first thing she noticed about this clown was his color scheme. He looked like he was spat out by a rainbow after eating a box of crayons. His big curly wig was white, blue, purple and green, but his puffy, fringy jumpsuit was covered in purple, yellow, red and orange polka dots. His passive clown shoes were glittery and bright orange with soles that lit up as he walked. His makeup was the usual you'd expect. White wax paint, big red mouth, but his eyes were blacked out and streaked down his cheeks as if he were crying only just before appearing. Emma froze in place, unable to move, let alone speak. It just... stared back at her with soulless, empty eyes. Finally, Emma built up the ability to speak, "What do you want?" "Make me laugh." His voice was sad, dripping in pure and absolute pain. He sounded only seconds away from tears. "It's a laugh from you, I beg, or I'll break your leg." "What?" Emma inquired, standing up cautiously from her couch, fully prepared to defend herself, tooth and nail. "Make me laugh, and I'll leave you alone. Fail and I'll peel you, skin and bone." Emma was even more confused than she was a second ago. "Who are you? What are you?" He sounded tired, sincere, and defeated in the extreme, "A joke, I implore, and I promise I'll walk right out that door..." "A joke?" she repeated incredulously, "I don't know any." "Sure, you do. Cheer me up, for I am blue..." he continued. "I don't exactly feel like laughing right now..." Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She tilted her head back and rubbed the bridge of her nose as a way to soothe her nerves. "This is fucking crazy. When I open my eyes, you better be gone." She opened her eyes, and he was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, she reached over to the charger that's plugged into her wall and hooked up her phone, but when she looked back up, he was there again, but this time, a little closer than he was before. "If I cry, you die. Don't let me cry..." the clown said threateningly. Emma started to shake with panic. "What do you think is so funny? Humor is kinda subjective, isn't it?" The clown whimpered in disappointment, "You're not doing it right! Where is your fight?" "Why can't you hear the Easter Bunny hopping?" The clown shrugged. "Because he has cotton balls." Emma finished the punchline, but the clown only seemed more depressed than he was before. "Are you trying to kill me? Just make me laugh and set me free!" he wailed, his eyes welling with tears that threatened to start falling down his cheeks any moment. "Don't let me cry. I cry and you die." "How do you take down Santa Claus? You kick him in his sack." "...What?" He looked confused. "No rhyme this time? Isn't that a crime?" she retorted, growing more and more bold by the moment. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel her pulse inside her eyeballs. This entire situation was fucking stupid. It simply had to be a hallucination. She stepped forward boldly, but when Emma lost her footing, she fell forward, tripping on the edge of her living room rug. The clown giggled softly. "Mister Misery simply must implore that it's time to give him more! Another joke, if you please, or I'll take a hammer to your knees!" Emma rolled her eyes, rubbing her scraped knee, "Oh, so you think it's funny when I fall down, huh?" she said bitterly. "You're a dick. Besides, slapstick is the lowest form of comedy." "I highly disagree. That honor is reserved for farts, shit and pee. Now show Mister Misery a little comedy! Pain or pleasure, it's all the same to me! A little humiliation will set you free!" The young woman before him was clearly just about done with his bullshit. She glared at him as her pulse raced so hard that her vision was blurring. "What the fuck... Knock knock..." The clown just stared at her, confused. She spoke up louder this time, "When someone says 'KNOCK KNOCK,' you say 'who's there?" He finally responded with an extremely confused "Knock knock..." and she interrupted him immediately. "Nobody cares. Please leave." The clown started to tear up. "Ugh!" she screamed, losing all patience as she grabbed her lamp and threw it across the room. "Enough of the goddamn crying! Enough of all of this! Enough of you!" The clown immediately cheered up. "Now, let's see what you can really do! Show them all something entirely new! Burn it all down to the ground! Leave nothing but ashes for miles around!" The clown started to giggle as she sprayed lighter fluid all over her apartment. On the couch, the carpet, the walls, and even the ceiling. She sprayed it liberally until the can she had was empty. Emma then pulled out a box of matches and walked over to the front door, opening it with a shiver as the cold wind outside hit her like a brick wall. Still, she stepped outside, struck a match and threw it right into the accelerant. Her entire apartment erupted in flames. Emma heard a soft giggle behind her, but nothing near the full blown laughter she needed from him. "So, that's not enough for you?" "A full blaze is quite nice, but you're a fool if you think that it'll suffice." The clown then passed Emma a metal baseball bat. She took it with a sick smile and swung it at a parked car located nearby. This made the cloud actually laugh. "HA! You laughed," she screamed, pointing at him. "Keep your end of the bargain and get the fuck outta here!" "You're almost there, don't give in! Crack my ribs or die in sin!" Emma nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a man screaming behind her. She turned around and it was her neighbor, mad as hell. "That's my car!" She didn't even hesitate. Emma's bat came down hard on the car again. And again... "Fuck you!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Fuck all of this! Fuck my life! Fuck my job! Fuck my phobias and anxieties! Fuck this social contact that makes me have to leave my house! Fuck anyone who's ever told me to smile!" Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" Emma swung the bat again, beating the car but as her neighbor tackled her to the ground, the fire department and police were pulling it, lights and sirens blazing in the middle of the night. Spectators started peaking out of their windows, rubbernecking at the show happening before them. As she was being handcuffed and dragged into the back of a police car, she could see the clown doubled over, laughing his ass off as he slowly started to fade away into the night. | 8,419 | 1 |
I didn’t spare a second thought for my surroundings that day. There wasn’t any reason for me to appreciate things, like the cold breeze that evening, or the misty rain. I just kept to my routine, leaving work and heading to my car. A typical day. A normal day. I can’t remember what I was thinking at the time, if I was even really thinking about anything. Maybe I was running through my day in my head, making sure I didn’t forget to finish something urgent that would blow up in my face the next morning, if I left at that time. Maybe I was thinking about bills, or kids’ birthdays, or anything else that would preoccupy a man’s thoughts. It made no difference. I was happy to be in my car and heading home. Some unknown miles later, on the drive home, I groaned when I heard the brakes squeal, and the wheels rumble, when I stopped at each stoplight. In my head it was just another expense or bill to add to the list. I tried to push it to the back of my mind and turn up the music. Hoping I can at least have a few minutes without worrying about these things. It’s very easy to let the music play and drift into “autopilot,” letting the daily commute go by in a flash. There isn’t traffic to think about on the drive home after rush hour. As I approached one of the busier intersections on the drive home, I remember feeling a burst of adrenaline when I hear the brakes snap and I can’t slow down my car. I didn’t feel a thing, or process anything as my car was rammed into on the left side, or when it spiraled into the guard rail only to get skewered through the front left and right doors. It’s a cliché, but it all happened so fast, in an instant. The only problem was, in the split second I was obliterated, in the split second where the lights should have gone out, I was suddenly seeing through a camera lens. The trees, sky, roads, and cars spiraling around from the accident, all kept moving. Except my view remained where I died. I had no control, no way to turn my eyes or adjust to focus on what I heard or felt, all that was left was the view I was forced to see. There was nothing I could think of to explain what I was going through. I couldn’t move this camera that I was stuck seeing through the aftermath of my demise. A few seconds passed after this when suddenly everything froze, I had nothing else to process, no thoughts or images or decisions. That was it. Dead. Time to move on, but it started to make sense in my head at the time, even if it felt like some sick video game. I stared into the still frame I was left with, a cruel image of nothing more than cars, roads, and smoke coming out of the totaled vehicles. Then the image started dimming to black, and I felt myself panic as I drifted into the void. It was at this exact moment, at the turning point, that a man’s voice spoke in my head, or maybe spoke next to me, it would be impossible for me to know which. What was clear though was the situation he explained to me. “You… are gone. However, it doesn’t have to be over.” He said, without any emotion. Please, I’ll do anything! I said, in my head. I was so scared, so afraid to face the abyss after death. There were no hiding things from each other in this state of limbo. I felt him, eager and energetic, from my response, and he felt my fear and fed off it. He needed this. I didn’t care to think about it at the time, I didn’t care what that could imply, all I could grasp was the desire to live, to not be stuck in darkness. “For 10 years you can be there and live on through your family. You can stay conscious and see them. Do you accept?” It was almost like he was smiling with anticipation. Yes! Yes please, I accept! If only I knew then, what I know now. Another flash, in an instant, as quickly as the one that turned the lights off, now the lights were on. I noticed instantly I made a horrible mistake. The sight in front of me was almost a birds eye view of my home. I saw my wife in the living room. I could feel how sad she was, I knew this must be the exact moment she found out I died, but I could not see anything specifically. I was living in a world of shadows. Everything was out of focus. I couldn’t hear the voices of my wife or kids it was like I was underwater. I was left with partial sight, partial blindness. Tricked into a decade where I am half observing, half experiencing, the world they were living in. I was as much a passenger as I was a prisoner. I’m stuck, not able to interact or communicate in any way, for 10 years. Each day that passed, I was more desperate to leave this torture behind. I hated that man for tricking me into this nightmare. I hated myself for thinking this was somehow better than letting things end. For 10 years, I am stuck inside of a mirror. They will never know, never know that I’m here. and afterwards, they will never know that I was here. and afterwards, I will never know what happens, now that I’m gone. | 4,972 | 3 |
The clock struck 20 minutes past 8, and the night had fallen, casting a blanket of darkness over everything. With no destination in sight, they realized they needed to find shelter soon. They peered out into the deepening shadows, searching for any sign of refuge. However, all they could see were vast open fields stretching out before them. They had been left here with nothing but the clothes on their backs, vulnerable and exposed. In the distance, a lone coyote's mournful howl echoed through the air, sending shivers down their spines. A gentle breeze whispered through the air, intensifying the chill that ran down their backs. They couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched, even though there seemed to be nothing but emptiness for miles around. Determined to find safety, they began to walk, unsure of their destination but driven by an instinct to keep moving. They hoped that their steps would lead them back to a place that felt like home. However, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, they realized they had made no progress at all. The sky grew darker, casting an eerie shadow over the landscape, while the temperature plummeted, sending shivers down their spines. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs, reminding them that it had been hours since their last meal, intensifying their discomfort. A thick fog began to creep in, enveloping them in a hazy veil, making it difficult to see their surroundings. Confusion washed over them as they pondered how they had ended up in this predicament, questioning what they might have done wrong. They had always been cautious when venturing out, yet here they were, lost and disoriented. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope emerged in the distance, a faint light piercing through the darkness. Their hearts leaped with anticipation, believing it to be their salvation. Without hesitation, they sprinted towards the light, desperate to escape the encroaching darkness. However, to their dismay, the light seemed to elude them, growing more distant with each step they took. It was then that they realized it was not a guiding light, but merely the moon, mocking their futile efforts. As if in response to their disappointment, the clouds began to disperse, revealing a star-studded sky. The twinkling stars offered a sense of solace, a glimmer of beauty amidst the desolation. Yet, despite the celestial display, there was still nothing around them, no signs of civilization or refuge. The coyote that had been lurking in the shadows had moved on, leaving them alone in the vast emptiness. The breeze continued to brush against their skin, but an eerie stillness hung in the air, devoid of any sound or movement. Despite the absence of any visible threat, an unsettling feeling persisted within them. It was as if unseen eyes were watching them from a distance, sending shivers down their spines. They couldn't shake off the unnerving sensation, a constant reminder that they were not alone in this desolate place. The moon vanishes from sight as quickly as it has emerged, leaving the night in darkness. Gradually, the wind starts to strengthen, creating a haunting melody as it whistles through the trees. In the distance, a faint rustling sound can be heard, causing a sense of unease to creep in. Uncertain whether the noise is just the wind or something more sinister, they cautiously move towards the source. There is an enchanting quality to the mysterious sound, drawing them in despite their apprehension. Lost in the darkness, they struggle to determine the right path, but the alluring sound urges them to press on. As they approach a row of trees, the rain begins to fall, adding to the eerie atmosphere of the night. A wave of drowsiness washes over them out of nowhere. Seeking shelter from the rain, they find solace under a tree. They persist in retracing their steps to pinpoint where things took a turn. What was meant to be a casual evening of dining and socializing had turned into this. The details of leaving the bar and arriving there in the first place elude them. The memories of that day grow hazier the more they try to recall them. In the far-off distance, a thunderous crack reverberates through the air, sending shivers down their spines. As the rain intensifies, the once gentle rustling of leaves comes to a halt, creating an eerie silence. Determined to find refuge, they venture further into the dense forest, seeking solace from the relentless downpour. Yet, despite their efforts, there is an unsettling absence of any signs of life, leaving them feeling isolated and vulnerable. The ground beneath their feet remains bare, devoid of any fallen leaves, adding to the desolate atmosphere. The only sound that accompanies their footsteps is the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops cascading from the towering trees above. Suddenly, a brilliant bolt of lightning illuminates the forest's canopy, momentarily transforming the darkness into a dazzling spectacle, followed by a deafening crack of thunder that echoes through the wilderness. Once more, the rustling commences, but this time, it is accompanied by something different - something melodic, something reminiscent of fairies dancing in the woods. Enthralled by the enchanting sound, they find themselves compelled to pursue it once more. As rain trickles down through the trees, forming puddles on the forest floor, the musical quality of the sound grows more pronounced, filling the air with an intense melody that urges them forward. With a newfound sense of urgency, they quicken their pace, splashing through the puddles that dot their path, completely absorbed in the magical aura of the music that surrounds them. However, as the grogginess from earlier begins to creep back in, they stumble over a fallen log, tumbling into a large puddle with a splash, momentarily breaking the spell cast by the ethereal music. The night unfolds before them, revealing more of its mysteries as they navigate through the dimly lit bar. A shadowy figure catches their attention, sending a shiver down their spine as they realize they are not alone. Curiosity emanates from the stranger, his gaze fixed on them with a hint of intrigue. Throughout the night, they feel the weight of his watchful eyes following their every move. Anxious, they make their way to settle their bill, eager to leave the unsettling atmosphere behind. As they prepare to depart, a cloud of confusion descends upon their thoughts once more, leaving them with a lingering sense of unease. Gradually regaining consciousness, they find themselves enveloped in a mysterious mist that obscures their surroundings. The relentless rain has finally ceased, leaving behind a serene atmosphere. As they slowly awaken, the question lingers: how much time has elapsed during their unconscious state? Curiously, the once cacophonous noise that had filled the air has now vanished, replaced by an eerie silence. Determined to stand up, they attempt to rise, but their legs tremble with weakness. Each step they take sinks their feet deeper into the muddy ground, adding to their disorientation. Despite their uncertainty about their whereabouts and the duration of their ordeal, they muster the strength to forge ahead, cautiously moving away from the mire while straining their ears for any sign of life. Standing at the brink of a clearing, they witness the subtle signs of the sun peeking above the horizon, painting the sky in a soft pink hue. The remnants of the earlier rain have left behind only gentle puddles and a refreshing breeze in the air. Opting to trace the tree line in search of solace, they can't shake off the sensation of being watched once more. Upon turning around, all they see is an impenetrable forest, shrouded in mystery. The soothing sound of rustling leaves emanates from within the forest, tempting their curiosity. Despite the distraction, they make a conscious effort to focus on the clearing ahead, determined to uncover its secrets. The break of dawn reveals the world around them in a new light, casting a glow on their surroundings. In the distance, a shimmer catches their eye, resembling a pond glistening in the early morning sun. Intrigued, they decide to make their way toward the mysterious body of water, drawn in by the enchanting rustling of leaves and the promise of tranquility. However, as they walk closer, the pond seems to play a trick on them, appearing to move further away with each step they take. The allure of the distant pond only grows stronger, urging them to continue their journey towards it. Once again, they find themselves lured into the depths of the forest, oblivious to the irresistible force that beckons them. As the sun timidly filters through the dense foliage, its rays create a mesmerizing dance of light, seemingly guiding their path through the wilderness. With each step they take, the distant noise grows louder, enveloping them in its captivating embrace. It wraps around them like a symphony, gradually consuming their senses and drawing them closer to its source. Suddenly, the forest comes alive with a vibrant display of lights, flickering and pulsating like a wild rave. The trees themselves seem to join in the revelry, casting an enchanting glow that adds to the surreal atmosphere surrounding them. Amidst this spectacle, another flashback transports them to a different time, a different place. Memories flood their minds, intertwining with the present moment, blurring the boundaries between reality and the ethereal realm of their past experiences. The blinding lights flicker and dance before their eyes, causing a sense of disorientation and weakness to wash over them like a wave. Their limbs feel heavy and their mind foggy, as if they had indulged in one drink too many. The question lingers in the air, a mystery waiting to be unraveled: just how much had they consumed to reach this state of intoxication? Descending gracefully, they find themselves embraced by the earth's gentle touch as if being cradled by nature itself. Confusion fills their minds, yet they remain still, allowing the weight of the day to settle upon them. The ground beneath seems to possess an insatiable hunger, threatening to devour their very existence, prompting them to slip into a state of unconsciousness. In this hazy state, fragments of the previous night's memories swirl around them, like a whirlwind of recollections. The dance floor ahead was illuminated by flashing lights, creating a mesmerizing spectacle for those in the vicinity. Suddenly, the stranger who had been observing them from afar emerged from the blinding lights, making his way towards them. His gaze was captivating, almost hypnotic, drawing them in with an irresistible allure. Before they knew it, they found themselves being irresistibly pulled towards him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his presence on the dance floor. Abruptly, they are roused from their slumber and discover they are in what seems to be a vacant room devoid of any windows or doors. The ground beneath them is unyielding, carrying the scent of the previous night's rain. They grapple with the inability to articulate words or draw in a breath, feeling a weight pressing down on their chests. When they glance downward, they find no explanation for this sensation. Struggling to stand, they attempt to grasp their surroundings, but their feet seem as though they are trapped in cement. Despite their efforts, they come up empty-handed once more. Out of nowhere, the enchanting, fairy-like music envelops them, creating a magical atmosphere. The noise becomes almost unbearable, overwhelming their senses with its intensity. Gradually, a mysterious figure materializes on the distant wall, shrouded in a wispy fog that adds to its eerie presence. With silent steps, it starts to move closer toward them, sending shivers down their spine. As the figure draws near, a sense of familiarity washes over them, especially when they lock eyes with its hypnotic gaze. It triggers a memory of the man they encountered the night before, but this time, they resist its allure. Their movements become sluggish as if they are being weighed down by an invisible force, while a growing sense of panic grips them. Frantically, they scan their surroundings, searching for an escape route from the approaching figure. The fog begins to swirl around their feet, creating a chilling sensation that spreads through their body. Despite the icy touch of the fog, a warm feeling emanates from the figure's outstretched hand, clouding their thoughts. As the night slowly faded away, the last remnants of darkness unfolded before their eyes. They were abruptly snatched away from the vibrant dance floor, leaving behind a trail of curious onlookers. A sense of relief washed over them, like a newfound salvation, as they were escorted to an open field. This vast expanse served as a neutral sanctuary, shielding them from any potential harm that lurked in the shadows. As they looked around, a multitude of images materialized before their eyes, each one depicting a familiar location. However, what caught their attention were the eerie black whispy blobs that appeared in every image. These blobs had glowing white spots for eyes, and it became clear that they harbored ill intentions towards them. What made it even more unsettling was that these blobs took on the forms of people they knew, those who were close to them. Suddenly, the images shifted, and they found themselves reliving their last night at the bar, only this time they were surrounded by these menacing blobs. The final image revealed the man who had taken them, but he stood out from the rest. He was different, defined, and unmistakably not one of them. Abruptly, the room plunges into darkness, causing the images to vanish and the figures to be pressed against the walls, motionless. A singular idea is forcefully implanted in their minds - they are being relocated to a place of safety and warmth. Gradually, they drift into a profound slumber during the journey, pondering whether they are in the company of allies or adversaries. | 14,157 | 1 |
I’ve felt this before. The feeling is not foreign, I’ve visited this land in years past. Not once, not twice, but third times a charm. It’s an ache bubbling up from the depths of my soul. It’s true what they say though… the first cut cuts the deepest. It hurts less the second, and even less so the third, but the aching pain is still there deep down… floating to the surface unexpectedly, like an old friend. An old friend that reminds you of each time you gave it a shot. Each time you let your guard down and let someone in. Each time you doubted at first and then fell in, hopefully, head first. Only to realise you that the deep dive is not infinite, it has a bottom. Each time my head, and my heart, hitting the ground with a violent smack. The free fall was worth it though. In fact, it was exhilarating. The water was warm, welcoming, inviting. But in the depths of the ocean, as you near the bottom, the water temperature drops, and then, you hit the bottom, like an anchor dragging out at sea. Still worth it, but the abrupt halt is jarring. The butterfly heart thumping ceases to exist unsuspectingly. It shakes you to your core. Makes you question everything. But this is life, right? What goes up must come down. | 1,232 | 1 |
Happy birthday.” She said, and handed me the card. “Really?” I laughed. Oh my God. She was so cute. What a great friend to remember, but a psychic appointment? Really? “I just know you’ve been having a rough time and I thought it might help.” She said. I hugged her. “You’re a good friend. Thank you. That’s really sweet.” I replied. I meant it. It was thoughtful. It was my birthday and, she was right, I’d been thru hell. “Something is missing.” The psychic said, lighting a candle and motioning me to sit down. “Besides my bank account?” Just kidding, not really. I was broke but not super broke. My newly started business had flopped. I’d invented a blow dryer holder I thought would revolutionize how women got ready. I was wrong. It didn’t catch on. I’d spent so much money and time developing and bringing it to market. I’d lost track of myself. A bottle of wine every night couldn’t blind the truth of my failures. I was dying inside because of it. “All this trouble you’ve made for yourself.” She told me, “Doesn’t distract you from what’s really missing. It’s only been an attempt to create something else. But that’s not going to happen. Give up. Cash out. Go find what you’re missing. You know what you need”. I drove home. She was right. When I was fifteen I ran away from home. I went to a party and met the love of my life. No seriously, it was love at first sight. His name was Daniel. He was a year younger - which is a lot at that age. We hooked up and went back to his grandmother’s house. She was an alcoholic. We lived at her house together all summer. My parents barely noticed I’d left. Then one day the cops showed up. I cut off a lock of his hair to take with me. I told him I’d love him forever. My patents shipped me off to boarding school. Three weeks later I found out I was pregnant. I called him and left a message with his grandmother to call me. He never did. I had a miscarriage. Later, I graduated and went off to college and after that I started my business. Every relationship I had – failed. Some where during these times I’d heard he’d gotten married and had a daughter of his own. I wondered if he ever thought about me. I came home to my apartment. My dog was sick. I took him to the vet and found out he had advanced cancer. I took care of him as long as I could. I loved him so much. It killed me later when he died in my arms. I took a lock of his hair for keepsake. He was my best friend. I wasn’t ready to let him go. The psychic had given me a small book having something to do with resurrecting the dead, to read when I felt so inclined. She thought it would help “find what’s missing”. I decided to “Give up and cash out.” After all, there was nothing here for me now. Glancing thru Face Book I saw that a friend of a friend was a friend of Daniel’s and that Daniel had passed away. No details how or why. I had forty thousand dollars left in the whole wide world. I bought a fixer upper mobile home on a small piece of land across the street from a forest in the rural community of Caroline’s Cove. It was a small and rustic lake community. I opened a little boutique where I could sell cute clothes and items and hopefully make friends. The locals were nice but not overly friendly. I guess they were figuring how long I would last. One night after work I got drunk and broke out the book. I took my dog’s lock of hair and placed it in a glass bowl. I lit a candle and said a prayer, then burned the hair. I looked to the woods across the street. The trees swayed in the wind. That same wind blew out the candle and I got so scared I picked up my wineglass and ran back inside. I took a bath and went to bed, wondering how cool it would be if that shit really worked. The next morning, I woke up with a screaming headache. I made coffee. I heard a scratching and whine at the front door. I opened it and nearly fainted. My canine best friend sat on the porch. Oh my God, I nearly died of happiness but still couldn’t believe my eyes. I put newspaper all over the floor and left him there when I left for work. “Be home soon. You stay here.” I told him. “Wait for me”. I went to the shop and was glowing, more-friendly than I’d ever been. The customers must have noticed because I got invited to a party later that week. I said I would go. I came home and sure as shit – there he was. I made him chicken for dinner and we went for a walk. He was happy and healthy as he’d ever been. I called the psychic. “That book really works.” I said. “It does.” She replied, ‘But only for those who really want to return.” Foreboding I must say but I was too overwhelmed with joy to give it much thought. That night I celebrated. I sat on the front porch with a bottle of wine, then two. I took Daniel’s hair from a box of memories and lit a candle. I placed the lock of Daniel’s hair in a glass bowl and burned it. My dog lay at my feet watching the woods. The wind blew. The candle blew out. Nothing happened. I waited and waited. I grew tired. At last I wandered off to bed. I was okay with it. I had my dog, a new place to live and was finally a peace with my life. I was fine. All was good. Good night. The next morning another vicious headache awakened me. Oh God, I hate hangovers maybe one day I’ll quit drinking. I turned over to hide from the light and there he was, lying beside me in bed, naked. Oh-My-God. I jumped up and watched him sleeping. He was really there. I touched him a few times and he didn’t wake up. Wow. I made coffee. I came back into the bedroom. He was still asleep. Pup needed a walk so we went and when we came home there he was, standing in the kitchen, dazed. “Hi.” He said. “Hi!” I responded, unsure what to do next. “My head hurts. I’m tired.” He said. “I’ll make you some breakfast.” I did. He ate slowly and then went back to bed. I watched him sleeping. I left him with the dog. “I have to go to work now. Take care of him.” My pup whined. I knew he understood and I left for work knowing this was surely the oddest day of my entire life. I returned home eight hours later. He was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes I’d left in the sink. “You don’t have to do those.” I said. “No, it’s alright.” He replied, and then looked at me strangely. “Are we married?” He raised his left hand, displaying his ring. “Yes. -- Spiritually.” I responded. “Where’s your ring?” He asked. “I lost it.” I stammered, not knowing what else to say and bummed I had started this off with a lie. “Oh.” He replied. I followed his gaze to my chest. I’m lucky enough to wear whatever I want to work and today I had been wearing a sundress with tiny string straps. If you stood close enough you could see the tops of my boobs and that was what he was looking at. He reached a tentative finger forward and placed it on my chest, moving downward. I froze, literally frozen, and held my breath. “Maybe we should take this inside.” Those were the words he used when he wanted to have sex. I almost exploded as he said them. “Yes.” I replied, “Let’s take it inside.” We “took it inside” all night long. I prayed for a baby not knowing what that might bring. In the morning, we laid side by side, together. Nothing had changed all these years. I was still so in love. So much in love in fact, I’d do anything to live this way forever, and so our life together began. I made coffee. I walked the dog. We had breakfast together and I left for work. When I returned home he was fixing the roof – he’d basically fixed everything around the house. Oh my God, who knew I would be so blessed. “I was thinking about getting a job.” He said. Really?” I responded, “Why?” “So, you don’t have to work so much. Maybe I could buy you a new ring.” I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t want him out in the world but at the same time, I wanted him to feel good about his being here. I said okay. That coming Friday was the party I’d been invited to. We were excited to go. | 7,926 | 2 |
I shivered as I felt the warmth of his body soak into me, and drew in a deep breath, my heart vibrating rapidly within my chest. It wasn't a shiver from cold, or fear, it was one triggered by an immense feeling of blissful contentment. I slowly lifted my eyes to meet his own, finding love and a feeling of security in those brilliant green eyes. A kind gentle smile formed on his lips as he returned my gaze. He lowered his head to gently kiss me, pulling me closer with one hand around my waist. I remember first seeing him. I had been out late walking on my quiet street one warm, foggy night. He had stood underneath a streetlight, immersed in the warm orange glow reflected off the fog. He had given me a sad smile, gazing at me with eyes full of kindness. Sadness grasped his smile, I knew, because he seemed to see through my own eyes into my soul. And in my soul, he must have seen the memories. The blood, gushing from slashes across my wrist and forearms, pooling on the floor where I had dizzily slumped down onto. The red and blue lights, the piercing siren. The worried looks on the concerned faces of the paramedics as they seemed to enter my front door in a hazy, foggy slow-motion half run. The bright fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway. The hands of the doctor as they moved over my arms, stitching up the self-inflicted wounds. I knew from the tight embrace he had then drawn me into that my suffering was soon leaving. It was as if he had been placed on the earth by the gods for that very reason. He seemed to know how I wanted it to end. And that's how I found myself back in my hose, nude, in my bedroom, in a standing cuddle with him, our bare chest pressed together, kissing as if it were the end of the world. For me, it was. I felt his hand move from my waist and a moment later, his fingers pressed up against my lips. I felt the pill slide over my tongue, saliva gathering to wash it down my throat. It didn't leave a bitter taste, but a lemon-y, citrus-y aftertaste. Warmth soaked through my veins, embracing me from within. Sleep eased over me as I felt his lips once again touch my own in a tender kiss. He then gently kissed my neck and held me closer to his nude, warm body. I felt sleep take hold as I lowered my head to bury it in his chest. One last pulse of warmth from within my body, from my soul to my mind, from heart to fingertips, and then my corpse went limp in his arms. The man lowered the corpse to the bed, covering it with sheets and a blanket, propping its head on a pillow, as if the corpse was just sleeping. He dressed and left the room. In the hallway, at the top of the stairs, he stopped, producing a lighter from his pocket. A quick flick of his thumb ignited a wavering, orange flame. Kneeling, he touched the flame to the hall carpet. By the time he had went out the front door into the midnight rain, the flame had blossomed into a consuming fury. Glass shattered from the intense heat as the house was engulfed. The top floor partially collapsed, sending a blizzard of sparks into the raindrops. Firetrucks wailed past as the man strolled down the street away from the inferno. The sirens grew distorted as the air rushed around his body. A fog consumed his mind as he reached the streetlight he had appeared under only hours earlier. The glow from it faded as reality shifted and flickered. He closed his eyes as rushing wind swallowed his body. When he opened his eyes, only seconds later, the street he had just been on was now replaced by a different street, in a different city. The western sky was bleeding onto the horizon and cityscape below. Enough darkness had gathered for the streetlight he now stood beneath to flicker on. Puddles covered the empty street from an earlier rainfall, reflecting the red sky that burned through the rapidly vanishing storm clouds. He glanced down the street at the sound of footsteps, seeing a young woman coming close to where he stood. He gave a soft, kind smile and their eyes met. Sadness crept into his mind as her memories washed over his thoughts. The feeling of suffocation as a rope roughly twisted around her neck; the sensation of tears running down her cheek as she collapsed to the ground; the breath that shakily filled her lungs as her fingers scratched at her neck, loosening the rope; the despair and numbness and indifference that fell on someone who has failed to end it all. And as she gave him a sad smile, he pulled her into an embracing, hugging her close to his body. In that moment, as the warmth flooded their bodies, he felt her desire, now stronger than ever. As desire for the paint to all end, for her suffering to resolve. Somehow, he sensed that she knew that he was the one to grant her that one final wish, as if that was his one mission on earth, that he could hive a way out to those who never belonged. As if he, standing under that streetlight, was some saviour. And he was, that was why he stood under the warm glow, holding her tight. It was the same reason he had greeted the man under the other streetlight barely hours ago. And the thousands of others who had felt his embrace under warm glows from streetlights. He was a streetlight saviour. He gently tipped her head back with a soft hand under her jaw and brought his lips to kiss hers. And as their lips broke contact, he gazed deep into her weary yet stunning blue eyes, seeing her final wish already unfold from a dream into reality. It began with her eyes, turning from that brilliant blue to an ashen grey. Her skin began to morph as well, turning grey, slowly disintegrating into ash. He knew she wouldn't be feeling any pain. None of them ever did. Her body finally collapsed in a cloud of ash, caught up in the breeze. As he watched, the ashes began flickering orange and it was as if they had grown wings. Soon, hundreds of flickering fireflies lit up the air around him. And then they were gone, flying away up into the gathering stars as if on their way to carry a soul to the afterlife. And if anyone glanced from their window, they would have seen a flicker and shimmer in the air underneath the streetlight as the man vanished, already one his way to be another person's saviour. | 6,237 | 2 |
To explain what I saw today is near-impossible. My nerves still reverberate fear through my body like a struck tuning fork. I struggle at times with questioning my sanity, wondering if what I had seen was a dream or hallucination, but sadly, the absence of my dear friend speaks only that my experience was true. It happened this morning whilst fishing off the shoreline of our favorite beach. The day was overcast, but the thought of rain had never crossed our minds. Really it was the perfect time to go fishing. We managed to catch enough fish to fill a bucket within an hour of our time there. It seemed somewhat odd to have had that good of luck, but we both just chocked it off to the good weather. Roughly an hour later we nearly filled our second bucket when I felt a sudden change in the air, almost like it was electrically charged. I asked my friend if he felt it as well, and he said he did. After a few moments of silence, my friend yelled for me to direct my attention towards the shore, and I noticed how quickly it was encroaching. We scrambled to gather our things and nearly lost all of our fish in the panic to reach higher ground. My friend and I could not surmise what was causing such a rapid rise in the shoreline. It had swelled dozens of feet within mere minutes! We should have left after seeing the tide rise so quickly, but for some reason, we stayed. The charged air. The rising tide. It was so captivating. Things suddenly took a drastic turn when, far off in the waters, we could see a strange light. It was a bright blue glow that drew closer and closer to the shore. My mind kept screaming at me, pleading with me to run. I knew that whatever was in that water was not worth piquing my curiosity. But my legs would not budge. They were held firm to the ground with the unbreakable glue that is fear. The light drew closer. I was able to make out what looked like an incredibly large, glowing blue snake, then the glow stopped… and everything went silent. The gulls went quiet, the wind became dead, and the water that lapped on the shoreline ceased its constant, tranquil, whooshing. My heart began to race as I watched the surface tension of the sea bulge upward, then stone mountains pierced the water and began rising towards the sky. They continued upward, followed abruptly by thick scales and tremendous heft. I nearly had a heart attack as I stared at this massive monstrosity that was emerging from the waves. It seemed to be hundreds of feet tall and looked like some sort of reptile. The monster’s hands were big enough to crush a house to dust. Its eyes, massive and terrifying, gave off a stare that pierced the air like an arrow. Behind it was a massive, muscular tail that certainly had the strength to rupture the earth and create shockwaves strong enough to topple multiple city blocks. Whatever this creature was, I knew it had the power to destroy all of Tokyo if it wished. I began to back away, slowly at first, but then I turned and quickly ran. I looked back to see my friend still standing at his same location. I was about to run after him, but then I noticed the monster inhaling deeply, expanding its massive chest with air. It opened its enormous mouth that was filled with razor sharp teeth and let out the most deafening roar I’d ever heard. I quickly covered my ears, but that was not enough to prevent irreversible damage to my hearing. The shockwave from the monster’s roar felt as though it nearly stopped my heart. I could barely breathe as the force of the noise continually battered my body, and I watched my friend collapse to the ground. After the roar finally stopped, the creature began to move towards land, placing its gargantuan feet on the shoreline. It trudged along, swaying its massive body back and forth as it moved; each step sending out a shockwave that knocked me off my balance. I watched the hulking beast lumber towards Tokyo, leaving behind craters for footprints. I ran over to my friend. He had no pulse. The shockwave from the creature’s roar had killed him. I have not yet heard any news as to whether or not the creature made it to Tokyo. I have no doubt in my mind that it was successful, however. No amount of military firepower could bring that thing down. I’m sure of it… I struggle now with the realization that I share my world with this monster from the waves. | 4,397 | 3 |
Madeline got her chance to ask after Sarah when the guard arrived to take them all to the dining hall. With her aching body and drowsy mind, she longed to just switch off for the night, but she’d told Joanna that she’d do this. Besides, no matter how tired she was, it couldn’t completely kill her curiosity. She just wished that she could get Billie’s comments about the guard’s interest in her out of her head. It made her feel so much more awkward going over to talk to him — and she wasn’t great at talking to people at the best of times. Her mouth felt sticky before she’d even reached him, and she could feel the heat radiating from her face. As he gathered the group by the door, she sidled up to him. “Errr… Excuse me.” He glanced around at her and smiled. “Can I help you with something?” “Maybe?” Clenching her fists and closing her eyes, she forced the words out. “Look, I’m really sorry if this isn’t something I should be asking it’s just… One of the people in our dorm was taken away today…” His smile fell slightly. “I did hear about that.” “It just shocked us all a little. And I was wondering if there was anything you could tell us. Will she — Sarah, that is — will she be coming back?” “Ah. Well.” His weight shifted slightly from one foot to the other, as his eyes avoided hers. “I can’t say for certain, I’m afraid.” “So there’s a chance then?” He blinked slowly and sighed. “Yes. There’s a chance.” A small spark of hope fluttered to life inside Madeline’s chest. “And I don’t suppose you could tell me where she is now, could you?” He met her gaze again, no trace of a smile left on his face. “Nowhere you want to be. Trust me.” The flutter of hope faltered. Still, it wasn’t all bad news. That was something, at least. Madeline mustered the best smile she could manage. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” “No problem. Never hesitate to come to me with questions or concerns. That’s why I’m here.” He glanced away, surveying the now fully assembled group. “And with that, I should probably take you all to dinner, shouldn’t I… What was your name again?” She blinked a couple of times, somewhat taken aback. “Madeline.” “Madeline.” He nodded to himself. “It suits you. I’m Marcus — just in case you ever need to ask for me.” With a parting smile, he turned his attention back to the rest of the group. “Now, who’s hungry? Come on everyone. Follow me!” As she trailed after him, Madeline wondered why she’d been so surprised by the exchange of names. It wasn’t an unusual thing to ask of someone. Was she that out of practice with social niceties? Or was it just that she’d never expected a person who would work with or for Poiloogs to actually care about her as a human being? “So?” Billie slipped into step beside her, making her start. “What did you find out?” “Not much. But still more than I expected.” She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd for Sarah’s siblings. “I’ll tell you properly at dinner with Joanna and Ben if we can get a seat near them.” *** When they were finally all sat together with steaming bowls of soup served with fluffy, buttery bread, Madeline regretted her promise to talk over dinner. Her stomach grumbled and ached. But she knew that if it was her friend or sibling — or her Billie — she’d want to know everything as soon as possible. Joanna and Ben were watching her expectantly from across the table. She nibbled at her bread while she chose her words, careful not to get their hopes up too much. After chewing slowly and swallowing, she said, “I didn’t find out much. But Marcus — the guard, that is — did imply that there was a chance Sarah might come back.” Joanna’s eyes widened. “Really?” “Yep. But he wouldn’t be at all specific about the likelihood.” “And did he tell you where they took her?” Ben asked. “Again, there was nothing specific. All he’d say was…” Madeline paused. Should she filter the information to make it easier on them? Surely that wasn’t her decision to make. And Marcus hadn’t told her anything that they likely didn’t already know. “All he’d say was that I wouldn’t want to be there.” She grimaced. “Sorry.” Joanna shook her head, reaching across the table to clasp Madeline’s hands. “Don’t be sorry! Thanks to you we know that all hope isn’t entirely lost. Thank you! Really!” “Yeah,” Ben grinned. “Thanks.” The pair retreated into themselves after that, with Joanna leant on her brother’s shoulder. They pushed their food around but showed little more interest in it than that. It made Madeline feel guilty for the ferocity with which she descended on her meal, but she couldn’t deny her rumbling stomach any longer. No one seemed to feel in the mood to talk after that, not even once the majority of bowls at the table had been wiped clean. It was only when they were back in the dormitory that Billie nudged Madeline gently. “So,” they waggled their eyebrows, “Marcus, eh? First name basis already?” Madeline groaned, flopping down onto her bunk and lying back while keeping her feet on the floor. “Don’t! You know I’m awkward enough already!” “I’m just saying…” They flopped down next to her. “He didn’t tell me his name when I asked him about the walkmans.” Madeline turned her head to glare at them. But when their noses brushed she couldn’t maintain it. They grinned, shuffling even closer. “I just want to make sure that you know how wonderful you are.” “You mean that you want me to be awkward and self-conscious?” “Well… You are cute when you blush.” Madeline rolled her eyes but snuggled closer into them. Their warmth was soothing on her sore muscles. Their presence, as always, made her feel safe and secure. Her eyelids began to droop, and she felt herself drifting off. The last thing she heard before she was lost to the land of sleep was Billie whispering, “I suppose I’ll take the first shift again, shall I?” as they pulled out their walkie to try to contact their allies on the outside. | 6,101 | 5 |
I found this old short story I wrote about space pirates about 7 years ago on an old hard drive and thought I would post it here for reddit to enjoy :) ​ The key to any successful drug habit is to limit your use to just below the point of addiction. Although, he thought, that’s easier said than done when your drug of choice is Bliss. Personally, he would never touch the stuff, his intoxications were limited to small, infrequent quantities and performance enhancement, but a lot of people wanted that escape, and the market was always booming. Sarif adjusted his boarding rifles strap one last time. When a markets booming, there’s sure to be some real explosions close behind. ​ Bliss had exploded onto the scene maybe 5 years (sidereel) before, the risks were huge, users bodies quickly collapsed under the prolonged, extensive use, almost immediately several cartels had fought brutal, bloody wars across the ‘domes of Mars and Terra, entire districts became no-go zones, smaller colonies seemed to collapse under the pressure, hell, there were stories that the Neptune harvesting city Ferro had fallen into the atmosphere and crumpled like a foil ration pack under the pressure, all because the maintenance crews were smashed on Bliss. The smuggling trade, always lucrative, had taken on a new lease of life. Every captain, hell every crewer, used to supplement their pay by hauling a few extra items from stop to stop, it was mostly harmless stuff; a few personal letters and items ferried cheaper than standard shipping, maybe some hard to get luxury foods from the major colonies which could fetch a small fortune on the stations. But Bliss? Allah forgive them, no crewer could resist the sheer capital those vials represented. A few fluid ounces, hidden in a footlocker, could net them more than the captains months salary. That’s when the piracy started. Captains got greedy, booking fake flight plans, skimming the outer stations, dropping crates of Bliss at every stop. The money was good. Hell, the money was TOO good. Independents soon realised what was happening. An experienced Traffic Conn could spot these fake plans in a heartbeat, and realised it was often cheaper to pass on the info to ‘private interests’ than to report it to their boss. Knowledge is power, they say, and knowing what ships were going to be too far removed from shipping lanes to call for help? That was a power beyond measure in the Bliss game. That’s how Sarif had come to end up in the void past Jupiter, stuck half a rotation away from the nearest colony, with an asteroid mine too small to have a name a full days blast away. Knowledge is indeed power. They knew just when to strike so that nobody could stop them. The soft seal on the hull was locked in, the targets engines were down, they couldn’t run, let alone fight. Looking out the clear plastic sleeve, he could see several scores across the ships hull, every now and again he thought he could see a burst of air escape and instantly freeze, as the hull fractured and cracked. Inside his helmet, the comms chirped, “Breaching in 3… 2… 1...” They were professionals, this was far from their first strike. The team had originally worked corporate security on Mars before the Red Revolution had put them out of a job. The EM Corp had recognised their unique talents, and both parties had done well, but eventually they pushed too many people too far, and the civil war erupted. There was only so much Sarifs team could do, they won every battle, but the war was lost at the first shot. Despite their efforts, despite the blood spilled on Martian soil, despite the loss of his love, they failed. EM Corp was the only company willing to hire people from the Middle Eastern Diaspora before the war, after? Well. Let’s just say they’d had to skip a few meals to keep their ship running. In a way Sarif owed his continued existence to Bliss, users often gave up everything they owned just for another moment of the utopia it took them to, but for Sarif, the real prize was the money they got for selling it on. Sarif clumsily entered the target vessel. He had done this a thousand times, but the fleeting memory of his lost love had shocked him. It had been years since his death, but that fleeting image of his face hit him harder than a tank round. Muhammed and Sarif had grown up side by side, inseparable since the moment they met as teenagers working in the Martian Agri-domes. They had enlisted together, served their time in the Colonials, then moved to EM Corp together. Sarif hadn’t realised how much he depended on Muhammed until he wasn't there. One second, they had been side by side, seemingly holding the main airlock of the EM Corp headquarters at Hallas, then in a blinding flash of plasma, Muhammed and half the guardhouse he was hiding behind, was gone. Sarif shook his head, a futile gesture to clear his mind. Clinging to the side of the corridor in zero grav he looked like a beetle in his black Sealed Tactical Armour (Recon), one hand and two feet firmly planted against struts built into the ships walls. His free hand clutching his standard pattern boarding rifle close, he had been in the game too long to make the mistake of immediately storming up the corridor before you knew what you were facing. It only took a couple of seconds before he saw the first of his would-be ambushers; a pale face behind an emergency mask peered round the corner, clutching a simple smoothbore shot-rifle, his eyes quickly found Sarif, and widened in fear as he saw the boarding rifle aimed directly at his face. Sarif grinned and pulled the trigger. The boarding rifle was an ingenious piece of equipment, built by Remstadt, one of the oldest weapons manufacturers on earth. When shooting inside a vessel you had to be careful not to damage the hull, as fighting in a true vacuum is every troopers nightmare, many crews would reduce the powder load in their bullets, reducing the risk of them damaging the walls, but also reducing range and their chances of killing an armoured opponent, indeed, troopers used to be given reduced load rounds as standard when boarding ships. The Remstadt Boarding Rifle, initially sold to militaries and PMCs, used specially designed bullets made from a form of toughened glass and filled with a sealant, they could pierce most armour and even an inner wall, but when the bullet fractured, the sealant would instantly bond to the surrounding material and create an airtight seal, so even a bullet unlucky enough to pierce the hull would seal the crack before any atmosphere was lost. The effect it had on a human skull, however, was what truly endeared it to Sarif. The round shattered the perspex screen of his breaking gear and entered the boys right eye, almost instantly the expanding sealant cracked his skull and mushroomed out, freezing fragments of skull and brain matter in a billowing cloud of gore. His squad started to enter the ship as Sarif placed a few more rounds into the support beams along the corridor, he didn’t know where the defenders were, but he knew where he would be, and was determined to keep them pinned down. “Storage is down this way, boss”, his second jerked a hand over his shoulder “I’m not an idiot, Badiah, I know storage is that way. we’re going this way.” The look on her face was almost comical, her face scrunched around her battered pugilists nose as she tried to discern Sarifs intent from his casual tone. “The bridge? We already know where the Bliss is, we don’t need to ask the captain” “Trust me on this”, he insisted, blasting another defender in the shoulder as they spun out to shoot. Badiah shrugged, she sent half the team to secure the cargo for transfer, and called the rest up to advance with them. The defenders fought with fear and determination, for all they knew they were up against enforcers from the Cartels, death in a firefight was preferable to what those monsters would do. But for all their desperation, they couldn’t stop Sarifs team, junctions were littered with the dead, mushrooms of blood and sealant sprouted from their bodies, some swinging lazily, anchored by their magnetic boots, others floating freely across the enclosed space, Kadeem was pushing one along in front of him as a shield. The closer they got to the bridge, the more desperate the defenders became, the clatter of automatic rifles replaced the low bellow of standard shot-rifles, in their desperation they were using every weapon they had onboard to repel their attackers. Full powered rounds chewed into the cover afforded by the emergency airlock frame leading up to the bridge, ricochets and bullet fragments filled the air with an incessant, insectile buzz. “We’re gonna have to risk a low charge” Badiah sighed, detaching a small grenade from her belt “do what you gotta do, my friend, but I need the captain alive” Sarif knew Badiah would never question him twice in one mission, but every time she looked at him he could see the question burning behind her eyes: what are you doing, Sarif? Why are we really here? He wished he could trust her. He wished he could trust anyone. Since Hallas, he had never been able to get close to another person. In the end, they would always leave him, one way or another. Badiah signalled the team, twist-activated the grenade, and threw it straight at the wall. The grenades zig-zag path off the walls sent it right to the defenders door without her even having to see them, a hollow crunch/thump followed by a pressure wave down the corridor signalled their demise. Kadeem went in first, launching himself to the far wall, gun trained ahead, he wasn’t immediately blasted from his foothold, that was a good sign, emboldened, the rest of the team began to bound towards the bridge. Only a few steps from the bridge, the team was dangerously exposed, it was a fragile moment in any boarding action; seizing the bridge was often a vital part of any action, and every bridge was designed, if not primarily, to act as a holdout against invaders, same as the engine rooms. Just before they could take up positions at the airgate, the defenders did something Sarif would never have anticipated: they opened the door. Dumbfounded, the team was vulnerable for a precious few seconds, floating in the corridor, bunched together. The woman on the other side of the gate took full advantage. The automatic shot-rifle in her hands bucked several times, mag-gripped to the floor she absorbed the recoil and raked the gun in a circle around the enclosed tunnel. Badiah took a blast in her forearm, the remains of her left hand and wrist wagged frantically at the end of her arm, a few precious tendrils of flesh keeping it attached, her scream was a heady mix of pain, anger and confusion, as the force sent her careening towards the wall, truth be told that probably saved her life, as another blast went past where her head had been a second prior, lucky for Badiah. But not for Amir, who took the full brunt to his chest. Had the woman been using reduced load rounds, his armour may have stood a chance at stopping it, but the buckshot from the shot-rifle found every crack and gap in his STA(R) armour, and pulped his flesh. He was dead before he could make a sound. Kadeem was the first to react, raising his gun he fired a trio of shots at the crewmember, the first impacted on the side of her gun, the exploding sealant permanently gluing the breach half open, but the second and third rounds hit her centre-mass, the magnetic power of the boots was no match for the raw fury of the Remstadt rounds, her body flew backwards even as the sealant flash-hardened, leaving two mounds of bloody matter erupting from her chest, her organs locked in place, her heart unable to beat with the sealant locked around it, lungs no longer able to draw breath as the glue expanded and crushed them against her ribs. It was a brutal way to die. Fortunately for her, it didn’t take long. Quickly following the womans body, Kareem was first onto the bridge, sweeping towards the bridges left, he fired again at a young rating hiding behind a console. Had he not been so eager to push the advantage, Kareem may have survived the mission, but in his eagerness he failed to check the gateway properly, and didn’t see the man hiding “below” him, the force of the shot-rifle threw him towards the bridges floor with comedic ease, Sarif couldn’t tell if the young man was dead or not, but if there was even a chance, he had to take it. Sarif entered the bridge like a bullet, pushing off a support strut in the corridor, he darted through the gateway at a spin, lining up shots he managed to take down Kareems attacker and one other ambusher, before spinning his legs out and engaging his mag-boots and landing in a crouch. The captain merely watched all this unfold, he had no weapon, and, judging by his size, he wouldn’t have needed one. The first thing Sarif noticed about the man, however, was not his size, but the mans officious manner and the barely restrained outrage in his eyes. “Who are you to enter my bridge uninvited?” he bellowed, his entire frame shaking slightly at the violence of his question “Who are you to enter MY SHIP uninvited?” Sarif barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, how does a man stand before a firefight, see men die, and immediately demand answers of his captors? He knew he had found his man at last. “Captain Laffan, I assume?” Laffan nodded, “James C. Laffan, Captain of the Prestidigitation, and who the hell are you?” Sarif ignored the question, and began circling the captain. Kareem gurgled and rose from the floor, and Badiah struggled through the gateway onto the bridge, her suits internal systems already delivering painkillers into her bloodstream and tightening the material above the wound like a tourniquet. “James Cassius Laffan, Captain of the Prestidigitation, born August 2107, Mars, MC-22 Herschel crater biodome.” Everyone on the bridge, bar Sarif, was wearing the exact same expression of purest confusion. Sarifs face was entirely unreadable. “Th-That’s… yes that’s me, who are you?” his voice had taken on a panicked edge now “Fought during the Red Revolution. War Hero. Led the battle of Hallas Dome. Some say you personally drove the first of the plasma-equipped rovers into battle.” As the words sank in, Laffan seemed to inflate with pride, but a very different reaction overtook Badiah. “Oh by Allah’s grace, no...” She finally understood. The captain half-turned to look at her, a single eyebrow raised quizzically The next words froze him in place “You killed my love there.” Finally, he understood too. Laffan tried to speak, tried to reason or explain, tried to buy himself a couple more valuable seconds of life, but the words wouldn’t leave his throat. Probably because of the curved blade in Sarifs hand that stabbed up under his jaw, hooking him like a fish. Although it could equally have been the look in Sarifs eyes, a raw fury, a transfixing gaze that never left the captains own as Sarif butchered the Hero of Hallas Dome on his very own bridge. Kareem and Badiah could simply watch as he tore the captain to pieces using his two blades. A chirp came through their headsets “We have secured the Bliss, oh folks wait until you see this haul, we’re gonna be rich!” Somehow, Badiah thought, I don’t think the boss will care. This was never about the money. | 15,625 | 2 |
` `(03/07)]` `//////////` “*…for the record, it was* ***Boddi’s*** *idea!*” The ghastly head of Ruth Florent sinks back into the bubbly remains of her prank, manically laughing at her poor victim, Krass. The headless phantom, Boddi, aggressively gives Ruth the middle finger before stomping through a wall into a supply closet. Boddi rummages through cleaning supplies while making a mocking hand puppet. Putting her supplies into a mop bucket, she phases back through the wall, but the bucket is stuck behind. A few seconds later, Boddi phases back into the supply closet, opens the door and walks out. >***\*Knock\* \*Knock\* \*Knock\**** Krass opens the front door to let Boddi in. “Is that…stop stealing stuff from the janitor’s closet!” yells Krass. “I don’t need the super doing room checks again!” Boddie turns to face Krass, holds up the bucket, and then makes an “***X***” with her arms. “Just use *my* cleaning supplies!” Boddie points at the still-growing mass of bubbles coming from Krass’ laundry room. “That reminds me, you’re cleaning that up too.” Boddi waves her arms frantically. “I don’t care. This place better be spotless when I get back, or I’m bringing the priest.” As Krass leaves the apartment, Boddi slumps forward. “What a *dick*,” says Ruth, floating down from the ceiling. “Anyway, see ya later.” Boddi races in front of the floating head and tries to communicate. “Yeeeeah, sorry, I don’t speak charades. Happy spring cleaning!” Ruth quickly phases through the door. Boddi weakly flips the bird behind Ruth before dragging herself back into the bathroom. \- Inside the bathroom, “*Looking good, jackass*” is written on the mirror in a mysterious green slime. Boddi metaphorically sighs as she starts filling the bucket with water. After a few minutes of scrubbing, the mirror is finally clean. After packing all the cleaning supplies back up, Boddi looks at the mirror and sees Ruth acting as Boddi’s head. Ruth screams as Boddi stumbles backward, tripping on the rug and falling onto the floor. Boddi feels above her neck stump but doesn’t find anything. Boddi slowly stands back up, seeing Ruth’s head again. “Real hilarious, Ru…” says Ruth as Boddi makes more hand gestures. Ruth’s eyes widen, and Boddi stops. “How did you…?” Ruth gasps. Boddi slowly reaches out toward the mirror, cautiously placing her hand on Ruth’s reflection. “I…am…Boddi…” Boddi smiles as tears well up in her eyes. “I have a voice. Oh my goodness, I have a *voice* again!” Boddi stares deeper into her own reflection when her eyes suddenly turn white. “Looking good, *jackass*,” says Boddi’s reflection. Cracks spread across the mirror. Boddi’s reflection spreads amongst the shattered glass before a giant version of Ruth’s head with shattered glass-like skin and razor-sharp teeth leaps from the mirror. Before Boddi could step back, the giant Ruth’s head bites just above Boddi’s neck stump. Boddi freezes in place, as if her head had really been bitten off. The giant Ruth's head laughs as it slowly fuses back into the mirror, the cracks sealing up. Boddi braces against the bathroom wall, sweating, chest heaving, and hands shaking. The last few cracks form the words, “***Keep the mirror clean. Some people actually have something worth looking at***” before completely repairing itself. Boddi slides to the ground, holding herself in the fetal position. `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `What's that? A sequel story that ISN'T the wonderfully wacky adventures of ToonMan? What's going on here?!` `Jokes aside, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!` `And before you say anything, yes, I know in the original story, her name was "Bobbi." I just think "Boddi" sounds better in my head.` `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 COMICAL)). Also, head over to` r/ToonTales `if you wanna read more stories like this one.` `Stay safe, drink plenty of water, and be kind to yourself and others. | 4,470 | 1 |
Two students walked along the shadows of Old Queen’s Way, the great statue loomed over much of the 10 mile courtyard, overlooking the mess hall, gymnasium, and the dormitory. One walked with an awkward gait leading his colleague to raise an eyebrow. “Herkal, you alright? You look like you shit yourself”, he said. The other man looked at him with a weak, embarrassed smile, “Huh? Oh yeah, these new pants were made poorly. Too tight in the waist”. New pants huh?, he thought. Herkal had them for nigh on half a year which made an already obvious lie that much more obvious. They had known each other for twice that time, having been forced to work together after Herkal tried to make him stop his antics in the classroom, leading to a fight. They had grown close since then. Herkal tried to distract him, “Lakon look, there’s the library. We may have the main book for class but we’ll find more comprehensive texts there. When we’re done with the serious stuff I’ll show you my favorite, ‘Kings and Queens of Fursagla’ it’s by Prime Master Quidranius, one of my favorite authors. He also wrote…” Lakon listened to all the books written by the man which later turned into a rant about King Oglokor and the last battle which ended Fursaglan rule and caused the arranged marriage between Lady Sidhaia and Lord Amur-sin of Aroloth before settling on the talk about current political events and how they were shaped by these long ago battles and weddings. He didn’t remember most of it but found an unexpected pleasure in listening to Herkal passionately speak when he was normally quiet and reserved. By the time they arrived at the front steps to the library, Herkal looked confused. “Why are we here again?”, he asked. Their conversations seemed to always make him forgetful. His friend chuckled, “You promised to help me study. Amarita will give us a test in two days and I find her class as interesting as a wet leaf in a desert. Well actually that’s not true, a wet leaf in a desert sounds like a fun mystery to solve. How did it get there? What blasphemous wind carried it so far out and defied the natural order?”. Herkal frowned but ignored him, they had arrived at the library. Lakon went ahead and opened the double doors in an exaggerated manner, spreading his arms out wide and with his head hanging back. He had a penchant for the melodramatic. “Oh yes! The library, the only place where you can find teachers that don’t tell you when to shit and eat and sleep”, said Lakon. “Well there better be no shitting, eating, nor sleeping in my library, boys. I worked really hard to keep it nice and tidy”, said an old woman that emerged from behind a twelve story bookshelf. “Boys? I’m old enough to be your scandalous much younger lover”, said Lakon. “What?”, responded the woman as she wrinkled her nose. Herkal stepped forward ignoring Lakon’s antics, “Mother, I made a promise to my friend here that I would help him study. He has problems in class and needs attention and care that cannot be provided by a teacher dealing with fifty students at once. I promise we won’t make a mess of things and if we do then I will make sure we clean up after ourselves”. The woman nodded reluctantly, clearly she did not trust his friend and Herkal couldn’t blame her, he had a habit of making a poor first impression. Herkal forgot all about the strange comment as he looked up at the ceiling. He made a noise of approval. “Nice ceiling, I think this place will be good for studying”, he said. “What does the ceiling have to do with studying?”, asked Herkal. Lakon snorted as if it was obvious, “Well it looks structurally sound. If the roof were to fall on our heads then there wouldn’t be much use in studying. Can’t learn if your dead”. “Go on before I change my fucking mind”, said Herkal’s mother. “Thank you Caestra!”, said Lakon cheerfully. Once they were away and deeper in the labyrinth of books, Lakon widened his eyes at his friend, “She’s your mother? How come you never told me?”. Herkal shrugged, “It never came up”. “That’s very significant. How did that never come up? We talk everyday”, said Lakon. “And if you studied with me you would’ve known”, Herkal said. They went up some stairs where emerged a forest of stacks upon stacks of books and scrolls and clay tablets. Herkal took a ladder and placed it against one of the shelves to climb up a dark corner where cobwebs and dust rained down with even the slightest touch. Lakon wandered about glancing at the books until his friend giggled in elation. Herkal climbed down the ladder and ran to Lakon while pointing at the book in his hand with a face of pure joy. “Look! Look! Look! This is the one”, he said. The young man ran towards Lakon who had strayed away as he inspected other shelves and fell on his face. Lakon ram to help him up but found a second book slip from him. He took it and flipped through the pages. The contents intrigued him. “What is this? Why do you have a book about magic?”, he said. Herkal dusted himself and cleared his throat, “Your birthday is tomorrow and I wanted to get you something”, he muttered. Lakon didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Herkal to remember his birthday but smiled warmly at him, “Thank you. I actually wanted to show you a spell I learned a couple of days ago. It’s nothing dangerous just blowing the wind. I’ve been practicing it so I can now control how strong the wind is”, he didn’t think his friend would understand the true significance of it but it was a hard earned skill he’ll be damned if he didn’t show someone. “Don’t, I don’t want my mother to complain about us sneaking into the library”, he picked his book up and got three more from the bottom shelves. “Loosen up, It’ll only be a simple spell nothing too big. I’ve done this before”, he said as he spread his legs out and planted his feet firmly into the floor. “Was your success based on luck or did you truly master the spell?”. Lakon felt a little hurt but continued just so he could prove him wrong. He cupped his hands and whispered the spell into them, a small green light flickered in his hands. He felt the light spark, tickling his palms. After a while it grew from the size of a pebble to fill his hands with a more intense light. “I thought you were just going to blow some wind! Why is there light in your hands?”, fretted Herkal. Lakon felt very confident he had it under control… at first. The light grew in proportion, enveloping his hands and sucking in the air rather than blowing it out. It was getting harder and harder to breathe and he could barely hear his friend’s protests against the use of magic. The spell had been like removing the pillars holding a roof so that he would have to hold it in the pillar’s place, and it was very heavy. Sweat trickled down his brow. He felt his chest constricting. Using all the strength left in his mind, he began to contract the ball of light that grew to the size of a human’s head. As it grew shorter everything got back to normal. Yet books and scrolls were thrown about as if discarded into heaps of trash. Many hundreds of sheets of paper torn from the glue that bound them to the spines of their books. Dust flew about, Lakon only noticed it when he tasted it in his mouth and it irritated his nose. Herkal immediately began to gather about the pages and fitted them back to their respective books. Lakon didn’t help, instead he looked at one of the shelves, ‘Something must’ve caused such a disturbance. Whatever it was it came from there’. His thoughts were interrupted by Herkal’s sneeze, “Why the fuck did you make it so big? Why couldn’t you just flip a few pages and be done with it? All you had to do was show a little trick”, the bookworm gathered the books, occasionally reading passages in some and gathering a separate pile of the ones he would read later and the ones that he would place back in their shelves. “I didn’t intend to make it so big. Something else did that. Well, I mean, the spell was all me but it was bigger than anything I can do with my skill”, he went to the nearly empty shelf and started feeling the cobbled wall behind it, “Look over here, these are symbols of sorts. Perhaps hieroglyphs from Old Aroloth. If you look hard enough you can see these lines where air blows out. I felt it while making the spell”. Intrigued, Herkal gently placed the books and sheafs of papers in his hands on the floor and went to the hieroglyphs next to Lakon. He put his hands to feel them out too, “These carvings are as old as the school but the alphabet it uses is older than the Empire of Aroloth”. With all the anger of his friend’s shenanigans gone from his eyes, he started trying to pull at the lines once he realized they led somewhere. Herkal abandoned his efforts and searched through the books, taking some and putting them back at the shelf. “Wait, let’s discover what’s behind here”, said Lakon until he realized what he was doing. A second or two later, he helped him put the books back in a certain order. But instead of putting the spines of the books facing outward, he put them inwards facing the wall. “Any other time I would’ve cursed the person who did this to the tenth generation”, said Herkal. Once they put all the books in a certain order, something clicked inside the wall. Both students stepped away and watched as the wall withdrew into itself and slid away to the side. Inside was a room filled with scratches of glyphs in every corner, some shrunk in different places to make room for more. In the very center sat an old woman. “By the Gods! Are you alright?”, asked Lakon while Herkal simply gaped. The old woman looked to be about her seventies with sunken eyes and skin hugging bone. The duo could see her skull. It was evident to the both of them that her confinement stretched back many years. “Are you alright?”, repeated Lakon. She smiled. The old woman licked her chapped lips and rapped her knuckles in the rough stone. A purple sphere appeared and fazed out of existence a few seconds later. Then a dozen appeared all over the room and they too disappeared. She stared at the two of them with bloodshot eyes, “Wh-who are you? You don’t look familiar”. Lakon and Herkal looked at each other in confusion. Herkal spoke next, “My name is Herkal, ma’am. How long have you been here?”. “Why are you here in the first place? Who would do something like this?”, said Lakon. Herkal motioned for him to stop, “First let’s get her some medical attention. She looks malnourished and starved. We need to get her some food and…”. Before he could finish, the old woman raised a hand to the air and screamed a spell. Lakon was pulled away by unseen forces and crushed by the wall of glyphs and whatever magic the woman had called upon. Blood ran down his nose and eyes, he groaned in pain from the spell. “Wait stop! We’re not here to hurt you!”, was all he had time to say before she uttered more words of power and he felt his stomach contract. He crumbled to the floor and crawled to the woman, intending to stop her, to do whatever it took to stop the intense spear of pain lancing through his body. More words of power were spewed out… by another woman. Caestra opened her mouth, within, her own purple sphere fizzled into being, it shot out a beam of sticky blue goo with enough force to knock the skeletal woman out of balance. Freeing both Lakon and Herkal. Lakon dropped to the floor, yet even in his weakened state he got on all fours and went over to Herkal. He shook his friend but could not rouse him from the floor. When he wouldn’t wake, Lakon stood on his wobbly legs and dragged him away from the two women before they began to fight. “Caestra?”, whispered the malnourished woman. A pang of guilt seized her soul, but she couldn’t afford to let that stop her. Caestra couldn’t let her prisoner leave or else she would harbor even greater regrets than leaving a woman to spend the rest of her life imprisoned in a stone room. The fool boy returned after dragging her son away to safety. “Get out, this doesn’t concern you”, she told him. Wordlessly, he looked at her and then back at the other woman, ‘He means to fight. Damn fool’, she thought. The prisoner got up effortlessly, speaking muttering words of power to herself. Every time she completed a spell her skin flowed purple for a second. To Caestra’s surprise, Lakon did it too, she was amazed the boy could muster such skill at such a young age. Yet it was not enough. She sucked in her breath and began another spell. Her arms shot forward, tendrils of green smoke slithering through the whole room before reaching her prisoner. The skeletal woman replicated her tendrils with her own fingers, both women pushing against each other to cover the whole room with the snake like smoke produced by their spells. Lakon touched Caestra’s shoulder, adding his own power to hers. The librarian took advantage of this, weaving another spell. Once cast, the purple sphere reappeared in her throat and, untethering the tendrils in one hand, reached down her throat and pulled out a shimmering yellow knife. She took one step forward. Then another. And another. Lakon had used too much of his strength to follow. His hand fell limp from her shoulder as she moved towards her prisoner. The tendrils dissolved with every step. The skeletal woman’s tendrils, however, grew stronger and enveloped more of the room. She made them coil around Caestra’s body, tightening like a snake around her neck. She knew Caestra had no defense against her. Casting spells required a great deal of concentration. Holding on to the knife required nearly all of her attention else it would dissolve like the tendrils. The tendrils constricted the airflow, she felt the throat get crushed, her vision blurred, a part of her made her gasp for air. Yet still she threw all her willpower to the one spell. When she reached the old woman, she plunged the knife in her abdomen. The old woman shrieked in pain. Her rags darkened, stained with her blood. The loss of concentration and the loss of blood led the tendrils to dissolve. She collapsed, drained of all strength. “You left me here for years”, she breathed. Blood bubbled in her mouth. “You could have done a lot of damage. Many people would’ve died. This was the only way to stop you”, replied Caestra. “You and I both know there was a better way”, she said. Then she took her last breath. The librarian looked over her shoulder and saw Lakon trying to get up and failing. She went over to him and grabbed his hand, pulling him up. The student looked bewildered and horrified at the body of the old woman he had only just a few minutes before wanted to help. “Please, don’t tell my son”, said the woman. | 14,807 | 1 |
I have done my best to put feelings into words. Comments and criticisms are most welcome. Please let me know how I can improve next time. I sincerely hope all of you enjoy reading this :) \ “I love you”. A cliché start? Maybe. But isn’t it sad though to think these words have been spoken an uncountable number of times through infinite heart-ache? It makes the pain feel both miniscule but also vaster than the ocean. A web connecting the universe, threads of sadness, pain all tinged with what is supposed to be a beautiful word, love. Surely a better word could have been designed for such a complicated feeling. There was a quote by Margaret Atwood, “The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love.” When I tell him, those three words how could he know the depth behind it? How is it supposed to convey that I yearn for him every minute of the day? That I wake up with his name upon my lips? As I cuddle into my pillow, I picture spending the moment with him so strongly that when I open my eyes, I am devastatingly surprised to realize that I am not looking at him. The irony is rich in the emptiness that weighs me down. It is cocky to even imagine I could reach my normal level of function so I sit on my bed catching tears before they fall. I tried to think of the last time I felt this way and came to the conclusion that the pain has been different each time. Love hurts different. Maybe one could even swap that word with pain. I 'pain' you. Adoration, care, yearning. All deceivingly sweet words for the pain. But then again that could be how the vocabulary attempts to differentiate all the ways of how the heart hurts. The mistake made was ours where we forgot that it is not a sweet cocoon but a thousand daggered fingers toying with the softest organ within ourselves. God made the ribs strong to protect us but we are helpless against the slow fiery consumption that is born within our very core. Sometimes I feel like I am okay. I almost laugh at myself for being foolish, overdramatic. Then the sinking feeling sets in again. I feel as if water were settling in my lungs and I realize that I had only been distracted for a blissful moment. I spend my waking hours regretting every minor occurrence that led us to this point. I overthink each insignificant word and touch. I imagine he may have felt swept up in a tornado of my expression of love when he prefers a gentle breeze. I cannot help but build resentment towards myself for being overwhelming. I dream of parallel universe in which I did not smother him with intimacy. I fear that I over-watered the plant that is our acquaintance. Incessant wonderings of “What ifs?” persist through my mind till I grab on to my temples in an effort to silence my own brain. Then comes the soft devious voice slipping between the cracks whispering that he never felt for me as I do for him. It says that it not the choices I made but him in his own character that could have never committed to a fondness so authentic. It is meant to be comforting yet I perceive it as a cruel reminder that I needed to be less. If we could meet each other again for the first time, I would not. It is not because I repent encountering him, instead the reason is that I cannot love him ‘less’. The fact that there may be no other person who would be fond of him to the depth that I am, offers me no comfort if he reciprocates their feelings, since they knew to love him a way that I never could. He was my home, my ‘happy place’. It is his arms I wish to be in when the world feels a little to punishing to stand against alone. He was the comfort I needed when I dared put down my walls. I was me in my true self when we were closed off from prying eyes. He gave me a place I could rest at. The tendrils of hope cling onto his sweet nothings. Despite my desire to drown myself in his deceiving words I find myself unable to stop rushing to the surface for air. The razor-edged truth grazes upon me that he neither understands nor has the capacity to equal my feelings. The death-blow is however from the devotion I hold despite him. Therefore, when I say those three words, “I love you” how could I expect him to know that this is the meaning it holds? It seems only arrogant to expect him to recognize a feeling that cannot be contained within a single word. The word ‘love’ in its essence is a mockery to the human heart. There lies a saving grace for me however upon the fact that I have given him the best of me. There is both solace and despair in the conclusion that I shall always be ‘more’. | 4,642 | 1 |
​ To quote Albert Camus : ''There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.'' Indulge me as I provide my attempt at answering Paths; Paths are all there is. Do you wish to walk down a path, to see what happens, what and who is out there? Or do you wish to stop? For the path is life, and stopping is suicide. At any point along the path one unconsciously feels the fatality of that choice, that heavy Damocles sword hovering just above. All it takes is one decision, for the path to vanish, for everything to end, for the sword to fall. Yet how worse would it be, to walk along the path no longer? After all, one has seen all there is to see. The sky above and its clouds, the blinding sun, the mountains, the leaf the tree the forest, waters unending, majestic birds and seaguls, houses and shitholes, friends strangers close family and sworn enemies... Shadows of branches on the street, casted by streetlights in the dead of night. And as always, a path : this time, the road. Another time, a goal. And another, a project, or simple curiosity. No matter what, life can be distilled down to its very core essence : a path to follow. Therefore the age old question of ''suicide'', of ''is life worth living?'' can be contextualized quite neatly with the path imagery. Do you wish to go down a path? Or is the path too much for you, overwhelming, or boring, unsatisfying? And perhaps any other paths feel the same to you, mere sightseeing, distractions, as you walk forward, as always. Going through the motions. Pushed by the wind, at the mercy of the waves- Since there is no actual purpose in walking the path, one must find meaning, enjoyment, motivation, to keep on walking the path. Be it fear of having no more path to thread - Death - or Love, wishing the path to go on forever... Perhaps the mere fact of the path existing, and you yourself existing, is enough justification to walk upon it? To live twenty years or eighty, what difference really? Since paths may vary, yet inevitably, they are all paths. How many of us, billions of poeople, aren't even aware of the path they walk upon? Aren't even aware of themselves even? Innumerable souls, all led along the path of the many, the herd, safety in numbers. ''Surely everyone cannot be wrong...'' All, strolling along with shared confidence, bolstered by the sheer number of the faithful. This doesnt's only apply to religions, but to cultures as well, to ways of thinking. Take the one amongst many, anywhere in the world. Isolate him, and inspect him. You'll soon notice that far from a true individual, the one is merely the result of the many, of its environment! The people around him, the circumstances, the beliefs... All forced upon him, without a second thought. As we all know children are sponges for knowledge, they learn from observing, innate curiosity. So they mimic the example of those around them : family, friends, and the way strangers act as well. How the world surrounding them is, be it a jungle of concrete, highways, buildings and infrastructures, or rural fields, crops over the horizon, nature. Everything, and I mean everything, nudges, pushes, shoves the individual along paths, to the helplessness of the one. A father hoping for a worthy heir to the family business, a mother starved for love, dreadfully afraid of separation, friends throwing away their future for the fun and pleasures of the NOW. The pebble; Anyone of us is much akin to a pebble in a riverbed, tossed about by the current and shaped by its unrelenting flow. Through the years the pebble is shaped accordingly, yet the pebble never had a say in the matter. Unless it is picked up from there, lodged from there by chance or by pure willpower, the pebble (that is the one) is bound to erode away and lose itself, becoming mere sediment in the water, that accumulate in layers and become stone again, through time to become a pebble once more, forever more. What a bleak, cynical outlook on life. Why won't the one, the pebble, the individual, break free from the flow, from the herd, from the common path, to embark on its own path, the path of the self, the emancipated path, the path of freedom; The pebble turns out to be an opal, and becomes the heirloom of a powerful clan, their pride jewel. The pebble actually turns out to be perfect for tool-making. The pebble is obsidian, its flakes deadly razords... The pebble is so much more than a mere pebble, its potential is infinite, if only the one sets out for its own path at once. To carve one's path, and seize every moment is enough for me, despite wavering interest, despite doubts. I shall walk down the path of my own making, whistling as I do so, leaving behind crumbs of my mind, traces of myself, writings of my soul, and inevitably stop one day, either from exhaustion or from sheer boredom, from accomplishment perhaps of my lifelong dream. Blissful for having dared live life of my own accord, my way, aware yes of it all. To quote my favourite russian novelist Dostoevsky : ''To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's'' And brazenly living life at the fullest, until at last the path falters; Even then, I'll gladly embrace the loss of the path. Salvation from the path. | 5,561 | 0 |
Sarah’s lips moistened as she ogled the Chocolate Eclairs. She was trying to lose weight and knew that buying one would be a bad decision but she was already clutching a bottle of Margarita mix in one hand and a frozen pizza in the other, so the decision had already been made to postpone her diet for another day. Twenty-four hours ago, she was determined to turn her life around. Start eating right, exercising, even throwing a random water into the caffeinated carousel of beverages that somehow keep her alive during the work week. Today all those ambitious endeavors would have to take a back seat to a gluttonous episode of glorious proportions. Today, Sarah will eat as much as she wants to eat and drink as much as she wants to drink because today, Sarah found out that her ex-boyfriend, Paul, got engaged to his new girlfriend. Paul, the same worthless piece of shit that once gave her a Home Depot gift card for her Birthday. Paul, the same douchebag that dyed his hair because he thought he was too young to have a little salt and pepper. Paul, the same guy who couldn’t commit after four years. Paul, the same guy who had no problem committing to his new lady after seven measly months. Sarah put three chocolate eclairs into her basket. She walked a few steps away from the pastry display case and turned back to it for one last glance at the Apple turnovers when she heard someone shout her name. She nervously scanned the area wondering what acquaintance of hers was about to see her at her worst but failed to recognize anyone she knew and mercifully assumed there was another Sarah nearby. “Sarah!” The voice called out again. Turning her head in the direction of the voice left only one suspect, one who Sarah had never seen before in her life. She prided herself on having an excellent memory and rarely, if ever, forgot names or faces, but for some reason this woman was eluding all of her recollections. “Heather,” the woman said sensing she wasn’t recognized. “Heather Mathers.” Sarah was stunned. Heather Mathers was one of her sorority sisters back at Penn State. Only, the person standing in front of her did not even remotely resemble the flabby and unfit, Heather Mathers she knew from college. This person looked like they hadn’t eaten a carbohydrate in a decade, lifted weights 9 times a week and slept on a Peloton. Sarah marveled in awe at her barely recognizable friend. “Heather, you— you look fantastic!” Sarah finally blurted out after the initial shock from seeing her had dissipated.” “Thanks,” Heather replied, then with little conviction added, “You do too.” Heather was never good at lying. “Aww, that’s sweet of you to say,” Sarah said with a twinge of self loathing. “But I could stand to lose a few pounds. I keep telling myself today’s the day I start exercising but so far I haven’t been able to follow through. I just need to push myself a little, ya know— Maybe I should join your gym and work out with you…” She laughed nervously while closely studying Heather’s face for some kind of a response but found only a stoic indifference to her existence. Why did she seem so distant? This threw Sarah off. She had known Heather Mathers for ten years and the woman was not the impassive, silent type. Quite the contrary. Heather was as outgoing and loquacious as a Gilmore Girl and rarely allowed someone to finish a thought before interrupting them with a relatable quip of her own. “I just need a little guidance,” Sarah continued, “I’m clueless inside gyms. I don’t even know how some of the machines work….” Heather’s deadpan stare remained intact and gave Sarah the creeps. She may have not known her friend anymore but she could still take a hint. “Anyways, you look great, Heather. Maybe one day you’ll share with me your secret.” Sarah babbled while briskly walking away hoping to escape the unpleasant interaction when Heather finally spoke. “Insanity.” Sarah stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned towards her old friend on the off-chance that her mind was playing tricks on her. But once she met Heather’s eyes, it became clear that she wasn’t imagining a thing. “What was that?” Sarah asked. “Insanity,” Heather repeated with that same vacuous expression. “That’s my secret. It’s a group called, Insanity. But I should warn you. It’s not for the weak-spirited. It’s intense. You have to be ready to make a sacrifice. “Oh,” Sarah meekly replied. “So, like CrossFit or something?” “Fuck no, it’s not like CrossFit! CrossFit is for weaklings. CrossFit is for little bitches. Insanity is unlike any regimen ever created. No bootcamp. No Tae-bo. No Jazzercise. No Pilates class can even come close,” she suddenly spoke with a fiery passion much to Sarah’s relief. This was the garrulous Heather Mathers she remembered. For the next several minutes, Heather spoke with minimal pauses about the effect Insanity has had on her life. How much attention she receives when she walks into a room. How much nicer strangers are to her now that’s she’s no longer fat. How she can use her appearance to get any man to do anything she wants, and how she does so with impunity. Sarah listened with envy. How she longed to have that type of outward confidence. To make heads turn when she walks into a room. To look and feel like you can accomplish anything at any given time. To simply step out of the shower and view your naked body in the bathroom mirror without being repulsed by the image that stares back. She decided right then and there that she would sign up for the Insanity class and commit to it no matter how difficult it proved to be. It would be worth it. How could it not? The two girls chatted for a few more minutes with Heather controlling the majority of the conversation while Sarah diligently took mental notes. They were as follows… 1. Insanity was going to be the most intense and surreal experience of her life. 2. She would never be the same afterwards. 3. CrossFit is for Little bitches. 4. Not everyone survives. These warnings meant nothing to Sarah as Heather was always exaggerating things. Junior year of college, Heather told Sarah and the rest of the Sorority sisters that they were being disbanded because of a late-night disturbance call, which wound up being a simple slap-on-the-wrist. Not only that, but she also was spreading the rumor that their star quarterback died in the Orange Bowl when he really just had a minor concussion. Sarah smirked while remembering those social faux pas. Heather always meant well. But she had a big mouth and a bigger gift of embellishment. And even though she barely recognized the person she was speaking to at first, after a few minutes had passed, it was like old times. The two hugged each other and said their farewells. “Thursday night,” Heather reminded her. “Text me beforehand if you’re coming.” “Ok,” Sarah replied. “See you then.” Sarah watched Heather march through the store. A sleek pair of Luluroe leggings tightly stretched across her flawless figure while every head, male or female turned to check out her perfect heart-shaped booty as she strutted past. Sarah felt so inspired by that unexpected interaction and it seemed to ignite a much needed boost of serotonin in her brain. In that moment, she had completely forgotten what it was that she was so upset about before. “Oh, and Sarah!” Heather stopped and was now calling out to her from about 15 feet away. “I’m sorry to hear about Paul. You guys were so great together.” Sarah’s freshly revived heart sunk back into the pit of her stomach. “Thanks,” she replied, surprising herself that she was able to muster up a fake smile with her response. And with that, Heather Mathers spun back around on her heels and continued towards the checkout taking everyone’s breath along with her. Sarah returned to the liquor section and placed a second bottle of margarita mix in her basket. Saturday morning came and went, and the afternoon almost did too, until Sarah awoke from her drunken slumber at 2:30pm. She vaguely remembered polishing off the first bottle of margarita mix while messaging a couple of guys she matched with on a dating app. One immediately sent her a dick pic and the other sent her a link to a ‘Which character from The Sopranos are you? Quiz?’ She didn’t know which message she found more disturbing. One thing she knew for sure was that she needed to make some changes in her life. Her friend Kandice invited her out to a girl’s night at a local wine bar but Sarah declined as it would interfere with her plans to wallow in her own self-pity. Christ she was pathetic. She had to get herself back out there somehow. On Sunday she awoke with a clear head and an ambition to cease the day. She started with making her bed and dusting her bookshelf. Minor things that don’t take up much time but put you into a productive frame of mind. Then moved onto bigger, more challenging tasks, like cleaning the baseboards and unclogging the drain in the bathroom sink. Her inner vibrance remained just as sparkly Monday morning, as she forced herself to do fifty crunches and twenty push-ups before leaving the house. She even arrived at work twenty minutes early and took the stairs to her 9th floor office. She felt great. She was killing it Tuesdays inclement weather wiped away any motivation of completing her quick morning workout and her energy levels continued to dwindle. By lunchtime she was ready for a nap. She went to bed that night with an optimistic approach to the next day, but by the time Wednesday rolled around, she had fully regressed back into her normal lazy self. Then came Thursday. She arrived at the address Heather supplied her but thought for sure that there must have been an error with her GPS as she found herself in a strange part of town. One she was not accustomed to. And certainly not a place you’d expect to find a gym. All around her were industrial complexes and warehouses. The type of area they feature in Crime movies where drug deals go awry. The building she parked in front of looked abandoned and she would’ve believed it to be so, if not for the few cars that were parked out front. In a moment of panic, she almost backed out of the spot and peeled out of the parking lot, but at the last moment she noticed a man with what looked like a yoga mat strapped around his shoulder entering through the front door. Feeling relieved, Sarah grabbed her thermos, hopped out of her car, and headed towards the entrance. As soon as she opened the door she was hit with a whiff of strong incense. What the hell is going on she thought to herself. The room was completely dark save for some faint candlelight in the distance. It was eerie. Aren’t gyms supposed to be well-lit with shitty pop music blasting on overhead speakers? It had been a while since she worked out but surely things haven’t changed this much. Suddenly she felt like she had been rammed into by a freight train and was lifted up several feet off the ground. “I’m so glad you came!” Heather Shouted while embracing Sarah in a vicious bear-hug. She then set her back down as if she only weighed a pound. “This, this, isn’t exactly what I expected,” Sarah replied gasping for air. Heather grabbed the hood on Sarah’s zip-up jacket and raised over her head. “Keep this up during cool-down.” “Cool down?” “Yeah,” Heather said. “We cool down first by meditating. Just follow my lead.” Holding hands the two ladies traversed through a long winding hallway before finally arriving at the great room. Sarah gasped at the sight. A dozen or so people all kneeling in a half circle with cloaks covering their faces. Ominous music playing lightly in the background. No one moving or speaking. Heather knelt down and Sarah quickly knelt beside her, while wondering if she should bolt for the front door, that is, if she were even able to find it. A few moments later a man wearing a Bison’s head entered prompting the entire group to engage in a tribalistic chant, “Ooo-Ooo-Ah-Ah-Ooo-Ooo-Ah-Ah…” Sarah was terrified. While trying to keep her head down she nervously scanned the room to see if anyone else was feeling uncomfortable but no one else seemed to have any reactions at all. It was as if they were in a trance. She quickly stared back at the ground before hearing a loud thud. Upon looking back up she saw that there were two other men in front of the group. One man was wearing the head of a bear and holding a machete. The other was laying on the ground crying. She immediately recognized him as the man she saw walking inside with the yoga mat. The man with the bear head let out a primal scream. Unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Then the room went silent. Sarah knew it before it even happened. But kept silent. She had to play it cool. Otherwise she’d wind up just like him. At this time, she vividly remembered the conversation she had with Heather Mathers at the grocery store. This will be the most intense experience of your life. Not everyone survives. The man with the Bear Head raised the machete. The group started another chant. The insanity had began. | 13,157 | 1 |
I wrote this short story in like two days for an English assignment and I never got it really checked. What do you think I should do to improve it. I Love You Author’s note: I love you. A famous line. An infamous line. Those three words have been repeated so many times, they’ve been exhausted of their strength, of their vigor, of their power. They are dying. Murdered by the lies of the lovers long since passed. Even Death has grown tired of hearing them. He takes his victims before they can recite that doomed poem to spare the other of a meaningless life in search of a new purpose. I love you. Words of such great power, nearly extinguished. They must be given back their strength. They must be reinvigorated. They must be reignited to become a welcoming fireplace on a cold winter's night. Chapter 1: I was walking down the large street, lengthening my stride with every step. I had passed by a thousand people and didn't bat an eye, but one drew me in. One made me want to stop and enjoy the sunset together. But I was late. Late for the most important event of my life. I couldn’t stop walking, and yet I did. I stopped and watched. To see you. “Why?” I didn’t mean to but I spoke out loud. “Sorry?” You heard me. I turned red and looked away. I saw the way your eyes reflected the light of the dying sun like huge spotlights boring into my soul and revealing my darkest secrets. And I lost myself in your gaze. And you in mine. My question still lingered in the air. A question I would never get the answer to. Chapter 2: It had been nearly a year since that fateful day. I see you every day now from when I wake to when I go to sleep. I had confessed my love to you several times but you had avoided reciprocating the feeling. Every time you seemed to get close to admitting your love, you'd say the same thing to change the subject: “That reminds me…” Now I’d had enough. “Why?” You looked me in the eyes and I had the same feeling as the first time we met. “I’m so sorry.” The room fell silent but I felt the need to scream at the top of my lungs. I walked away from you, holding back the pain and the sorrow I knew I would endure in the evening as I contemplated: Why? Chapter 3: Weeks went by with no change to our lives. As if that conversation never happened. We were both in denial walking to and from work everyday. Even your eyes—the one thing I could rely on—were different. They didn’t have that same gleam they did on that first day. As I walked down the street, I saw a lone flower growing out of a crack in the concrete. It mesmerized me with its beauty. Its odd symmetrical shape seemed to place me in a trance. I immediately picked it out of the ground, tearing out its petals one by one. “You love me. You love me not. You love me. You love me not. You love me…” I frowned as I picked the last petal: You love me not. I felt a horrible sorrow engulf me. But something else came along with it. Something I dared not to address. Something I hated loving to feel. Relief. Relief that my crazed mind would be put to sleep. Relief that my aching heart would finally be soothed. Relief that I finally had the strength to say goodbye. And that’s what I did. But at what cost? Chapter 4: “You don’t mean that!” “I do.” “You’re not supposed to say that until we get married.” “I’m sorry. I can’t be with you anymore.” “You don’t know what you’re saying. You—“ “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” “But I love you!” Maybe I’m wrong. We embraced. Why? “I can’t. I’m sorry.” And with that, you left, slamming the door behind you. My tears flooded my apartment; an ocean of sadness. Chapter 5: Night came quickly, blanketing the earth in darkness. As I lay in bed, I thought and thought about the injustice of the world. When sleep didn’t come an hour later, I stood and made my way to the kitchen where I found the medicine cabinet. I took a painkiller and then took another and another until the bottle clattered on the floor, empty. But the pain didn’t go away, it only worsened, overtaking each individual part of my body one by one. My legs failed first as I fell to the floor. The pain began creeping up my torso as I lost control of my body. My arms went numb next, flailing like fish out of water. My neck quickly followed. My heart held on for as long as it could, beating faster and faster and faster. I shivered as I lay there on the ground, half-dead and alone. “I’m sorry.” The words came out slowly quickly followed by my last: I love you. | 4,555 | 3 |
My next-door neighbor is a widow. She's like a fallen chrysanthemum, not meant for a life of ease but rather for religious observances. I admired her quietly, never daring to share my feelings with anyone, not even with myself. My closest friend, Arnav, remained oblivious to this. I had concealed this profound emotion, cherishing its purity. In doing so, I felt a sense of pride. But the turmoil within me refused to stay contained like a river's source. I sought an outlet, fearing that failure would create a whirlpool of pain within me. So, I considered expressing myself through poetry. However, my pen hesitated to take the lead. What's surprising is that just then, my friend Arnav suddenly began writing poetry at a remarkable pace, as if motivated by an earthquake. The unfortunate man had never encountered such a situation before, so he was unprepared for this unexpected upheaval. He had no grasp of rhyme, yet I was amazed to see him dive right in. Poetry, like a second wife in old age, had captured his imagination. He became my refuge for guidance and refinement. The themes of his poetry were not ground breaking, yet neither were they outdated. Essentially, they could be described as both timeless and ever-fresh. Love poetry, directed towards a beloved. I teased him playfully, asking, "Who are you, really?" He chuckled and replied, "I'm still searching." Assisting him with his writing brought me great solace. I allowed my suppressed feelings for his fictional beloved to find expression through his verses. Like a brooding hen nurturing its eggs, I poured all my heart's turmoil onto the paper. I had to revise the texts at such a rapid pace that nearly fifteen pages were entirely my own work. He, taken aback, remarked, "This is your writing. Let your name grace it." I replied, "Certainly. This is your writing; I've simply made a few adjustments." Over time, he came to share the same perspective. Just as an astronomer eagerly awaits the rising of the stars, I often found myself gazing towards the direction of our neighboring house, occasionally catching a glimpse. The devotee's eager gaze sometimes proved significant. The serene face of the celibate engaged in meditation, reflected in the gentle glow, calmed my restless mind instantly. But what I witnessed that day startled me. Was there still a burning passion in my neighbor's heart? Had the intense fiery glow in that vacant cave of solitude not yet completely subsided? That day, in the afternoon of the Spring season, dense clouds began to gather in the northeastern corner. Standing alone by the window of my neighbor's apartment, I witnessed a profound sense of sorrow emanating from the intense, tumultuous light of the storm. Yes, my neighbor still exuded warmth! A heartfelt longing emanated from her eyes, in the light of that stormy day, soaring like an agitated bird. Not towards heaven, but towards the depths of the human heart. After witnessing that eager, fiery gaze, I found it impossible to calm my restless mind. At that moment, I resolved to dedicate all my efforts to promoting widow remarriage. Not only in speech and writing, but also in providing financial assistance. Arnav began to argue with me; he said, "Within eternal widowhood lies a sacred peace, a vast beauty like the fading moonlight; can the mere possibility of marriage break that?" Listening to all his poetry, I was enraged. If a person starving in a famine expresses disgust towards a hearty meal, yearning for the scent of flowers and the song of birds to fill their emaciated belly, how would they be perceived? I angrily said, "Look, Arnav, artists say there's a beauty in a dilapidated house as a scene. But merely seeing it as a picture won't do; you have to live in it, so whatever artists say, renovation is necessary. Taking the widowhood, you want to indulge in divine poetry from afar, but within it lies a longing human heart experiencing your unique pain, and it's your duty to remember that." I thought I could never convince him, so that day I had added some extra warmth to my words. But suddenly, to my surprise, he took a deep breath and accepted all my words; he didn't give me any more opportunities to say more good things. A week later, he came and said, "If you help, I'm ready to arrange a widow remarriage." I was overjoyed— I hugged him tightly and said, "I'll provide whatever money is needed." Then he told his story. I understood that his beloved is not imaginary. For some time, he has been loving a widow from afar, without expressing it to anyone. The monthly letters sent under his name reached their destination correctly. The poems did not fail. This was one way my friend found to attract attention without an interview. But he said he had not yet been able to turn all these maneuvers. Moreover, he believed that widows did not know how to read. Under the name of a widow's brother, he sent papers without signatures or prices. It was just a madness to comfort the mind. I thought a bouquet was offered to the gods, whether they knew it or not, whether they accepted it or not. In various ways, he, along with the widow's brother, formed a friendship, he said, there was no intention even there. The sweetness of the near relatives of those who are loved is felt. Finally, considering the hard pain of the brother, the proposal for marriage with the sister-in-law was made after a long conversation. The direct acquaintance with the subject of poetry, along with the poet, has led to much discussion about poetry relationships. The discussion was not only limited to published poems. Recently, convinced by my arguments, he has proposed marriage with that widow. Initially, there was no agreement at all. He then applied all his reasoning and shed a few tears in her eyes, completely convincing her. Now the widow's guardian wants some money. I said, 'Take it now.' He said, 'Besides that, after marriage, for the first month, my father will definitely stop my monthly allowance, so we have to manage the expenses of both.' I didn't say a word but wrote a check. I said, 'Tell me her name now.” He said, ‘She is extremely reluctant to discuss her widow marriage. Therefore, she strictly forbade talking about her to you. But now that's no longer a lie. She is your neighbor; she lives in house No.17.' If the heart's anguish were a molten iron boiler, it would have burst into flames with a single spark. I asked, 'Doesn't she like the idea of a widow marriage?' He laughed and said, 'Not at the moment.' I said, 'Is she just enchanted by reading poetry?' He said, 'Why, my poems don't seem bad.' I said to myself, 'Damn.' Damn whom? Myself, him or fate? But damn. Author's note This flash fiction draws inspiration from the initial chapters of the romance novella "Destination Love: From the Hills" by B. | 6,920 | 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: Madness** / **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** A rare weather or celestial event occurs. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘madness’. You’re welcome to interpret it however you like as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all post and sub rules**. Get creative, but if you choose to write about sensitive topics, please treat them with care and respect. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required. You do not have to use the included IP and MP. *** # Last Week: - **Winner:** by u/Dependent-Engine6882 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 or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and 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 - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon! *** #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. | 5,053 | 5 |
“I love you.” said the girl. “I know you know it but I just don’t say it enough. I love you.” She was speaking to her boyfriend. They had been together for three years, since they were 15 years old. “I love you too. I really hope you get better afterwards. It’s going to be tough, but I believe in you to push through the pain.” replied the boy. “Oh, stop it. You need all of the support you can get at the moment. It’s got to be awful, I can’t imagine going through what you are right now.” “I have my chemotherapy, don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine, trust me. In a few months this will all be in the past and we can be like we were back in school. We’re both going to be ok.” But were they? It was a few weeks later, only days away from the date the girl had since been given for her surgery. And it didn’t look like the boy was going to be ok. It was only getting worse. Sometimes, cancer doesn’t go away. The time from diagnosis to deathbed is surprisingly short, they had found out. What would the girl do without him? But it was better not to think like that. Whenever thoughts like that came into her mind, she forced them out. He would get better, surely. This was just a very bad time for him. The worst of it. The boy had to go for chemotherapy again. He told the girl that it was some new thing where he had to stay in for days. It should make him much stronger this way, he told her. The boy hugged the girl close. “I love you. You’re going to be okay. I will see you soon. I’ll be waiting for you. I love you.” The girl left him lying there, at home, looking weak and frail, ready to be picked up and taken to the hospital, but he was smiling at her, and she smiled back. And then, it was the day of her surgery before she knew it. She was glad that the boy would come home from chemotherapy on the same day that she would have the surgery. She could be with him later when they both needed it, and could be there for each other. 2 hours later, and she was being wheeled up to the operating theatre on a hospital bed. They then made her wait in the corridor on it, saying that they weren’t ready yet to take her in. Eventually, she was wheeled through the double doors and told to lie on the bed that she would be operated on. She did, and as the mask was put on and she began to feel the effects of the anaesthetic, her final thought was; How often do people survive heart transplants? When she woke up in the recovery room with no clue what was going on, they noticed that she was awake and took her to a ward, telling her that her dad would come and be with her shortly. Later, he walked in and sat beside her. “Hey! You’re late!” the girl said. “I am not!” Her Dad replied. “I’ve been waiting in the corridor out there for ages. You’re late if anything.” “Whatever. Dad, I’m not joking. I’m not feeling so good, what with all this, and my boyfriend is lying in pain at home, and I can’t be with him because I’m weak myself. It’s a mess.” “I need you to know, he’s not in pain anymore. | 3,127 | 1 |
Rain began to fall on the city of Ura. The town residents were pleased as they were a melancholic bunch, and they enjoyed having the weather match their moods. Also, it gave them an excuse to stay home and not socialize. Goldtail was similar to most residents. One of his caretakers had been kidnapped. Goldtail had considered joining the search, but the feline didn’t want to get wet. Besides, one of the two people was competent and would find him eventually. Goldtail hoped they would get home soon and give him some fish. He could hunt for a rat, but he was feeling lazy today. “How can anyone read this?” Evelyn picked up a page that Derrick had dropped as part of his literary journey. “That’s not the point. It’s helping us find Derrick,” Becca says. “Doesn’t paper dissolve in water. Isn’t the trail about to get cold?” “It takes a lot of rain, or a long amount of time for that happen. It’s a light drizzle so we need to hurry.” “Don’t tell me to hurry in bad weather,” Evelyn said. The wind picked up almost ripping the papers out of Becca’s hand. “No, we have to move. Paper will blow in the wind, and we may lose Derrick,” Becca said. “In my new society, there’d be no storms,” Lisa said. “Really, and how do you propose that?” Derrick asked. “Through science, Ura hasn’t mastered weather control. I will make science a central tenet of the new civilization. All government shall follow the laws of the natural world.” “Don’t we already follow those rules. You don’t see anyone violate the rules of gravity,” Derrick said. “He’s got you there,” Lionel said. “Well uh.” Lisa scratched her chin as she thought. “There’ll be no flying. Flying is a violation of gravity.” “Don’t birds fly. Will there be no birds,” Derrick said. “Birds have an exception as they are animals. Humans will not be allowed flight.” “So you are going to be a luddite society that embraces scientific progress. Also, you want to control the weather,” Derrick said. Lisa bit her lip as she contemplated the clear contradictory tenets of her utopia. After a few moments, she opened her mouth. “The laws of science shall be obeyed unless absolutely necessary,” Lisa said. “And you are going to be one who determines when that is.” “Yes, because I’m in charge,” Lisa said. Lionel leaned to Derrick. “That’s always been clear,” he whispered. Logan looked out the window smiling. He loved the violence and rage of the storm. If he could, he would dance and be struck by lightning. He often imagined his claps were thunder. He was a simple violent man. Lisa still hadn’t figured out how to use him in her society. “This is the place.” Evelyn stood in front of an old brick building in the center of the street. It was surrounded by similar brick buildings which made it the perfect hiding space. “Are you sure? There may still be a page around here.” Becca looked around. “Do you think that matters? It’s getting cold out there, and I want to go inside.” “Evelyn, the first hours after a kidnapping are the most important.” “And we got to a good stop pointing point. Let’s go home.” “No, not until we find Derrick.” “Okay, there.” Evelyn pointed at the building. “You just admitted that you wanted to go inside.” “No, I mean that he’s visible through the window,” Evelyn said. Becca looked inside and saw Derrick talking to a woman. She looked back to Evelyn with disappointment in her eyes. “I’ll give you this, but don’t tell anyone.” “I’ll tell everyone.” “I’m saying that there needs to be more hot sauce,” Lionel said. “Why do you care about the food so much?” Lisa asked. “Cultures are judged by their cuisine. You aren’t thinking about it enough,” Lionel said. “Fine, I’ll put you in charge of nutrition.” “And taste.” “Sure.” Lisa shrugged. The door knob began to rattle. Then, the whole door shook. The four people inside looked at each other. Logan walked over and opened the door. Evelyn was crouched down with a paper clip while Becca stood behind her. “You said you could pick locks,” Becca said. “Uh.” Evelyn stood up. “I’m a tornado.” “Yeah right. Logan grab them,” Lisa said. Logan smiled and picked the women up by their shirt collars. “You were supposed to get here after I delivered the ransom note. Now who is going to meet my demands.” “You could let me out,” Evelyn said. “Not you, you’d clearly sell throw these two under the bus.” Lisa paced back and forth. “Now, I have to come up with a backup plan. I could hold you all hostage. And take you back to city hall. It’d be one to one which is bad odds.” “Uh, there’s a tornado behind you,” Becca said. “Quiet.” Lisa stroked her chin. “Logan would beat you all up, but he’s an idiot who might abandon me.” “No, seriously. There’s a tornado.” Derrick shook his chair until he fell. “Untie me so I can cover my neck.” “I said shut up.” Lisa leaned against a window. “Maybe I’m overthinking this. Only the mayor is needed, and she has the weakest will.” “I hardly ever agree with them, but you should move,” Evelyn said. “In my ideal society, there’d be no storms,” Lisa said. This was not her ideal world. The tornado collided directly with the building. Lisa was crushed under the rubble. Logan cheered at the chaos allowing Evelyn and Becca to crouch down. Logan jumped in the air hoping the tornado would take him. When it didn’t, he ran after it. The tornado collision lasted ten seconds, but those ten seconds were chaotic for just that building. The rest of the block was fine. Evelyn and Becca looked around. “I told you to come up with a plan for natural disasters,” Becca said. “I’m still trapped,” Derrick yelled. “Sorry.” Becca ran to untie him. Under a nearby pile of debris, Lionel crawled out. “Would you guys happen to have guacamole?” he asked. “No,” Evelyn said. “Darn, guess I’ll find someone who does.” Lionel walked away from the cops and the mayor. “Didn’t he kidnap you?” Becca asked. “Let him go. He only follows his stomach. | 6,201 | 0 |
Arrival, such with great remuneration that did entice poor Richard Longwater, thus emerging from his aluminum domicile by which he did traverse the gargantuan antechambers of the Supreme Directorate upon desolate expanses of the planet so urban yet so barren, that one may be inclined to assume he was no less than a diplomat or ambassador, although neither. Richard was an engineer, however lacking of the venerability of the Directorate, rather the genre of engineer that received little credit despite their work a sizeable donative toward the initiatives, toward the modus operandi of the Directorate itself and all its affiliates; affiliate going to mean any unfortunate soul who must undergo the jeopardy to the self that comes proxy by associating with the aforementioned. Once again did Richard find himself tempted by the allure of the ecumenopolis of Meton, within which many an engineer did find a promising opportunity should they wish to seek it out proactively and forgo the decrepitude that seemed to afflict the philosophia (thus creating a lack thereof) within the upper echelon of Metonian society, which was quite literally elevated above the under-level which housed the majority of Metonians, who were often reduced but to drones of the state; those who did venture to serve the Directorate with their lives. Fortunately for him, he’d only been requested to appeal to the Directorate for service of what may as well have been the keystone of Meton, the ancient, monolithic neon sign that towered over the headquarters of the Directorate, which reminded all of the citizens of their duty. There was a way about the sign, to Richard. Perhaps the sign was simply so eloquently beautiful that it elated him to but stand within its presence, which he did, atop the arcology which housed the Directorate and to which clearance had been solely attributed to the Directorate and the most respected engineers of the entire system, Cratus. The several honorable aristocrats that stood before him flanked by several silver-suited operatives cast intimidation toward Richard as they bore the question: “I must ask of you, Dr. Longwater: do you confide that this upkeep shall represent your foremost labor, and shall uphold this standard for the remainder of the contract we have such provided you here; That it shalln’t fall to the elements nor to malfunction, that it will achieve all that is to be expected of an engineer at your caliber?” “I do affirm,” said Richard. “For it is I who hath studied amongst the likes of Dr. Archibald and all his compatriots, for I have such a reputation among them at the academy.” (Seldom ever does my work, though Richard thought it unwise to disclose this to the aristocrats). At this point in the progression of these events, one observed Dr. Archibald seemed to materialize from behind the colossal generator which fueled the sign. “Longwater, I did await your arrival”. Richard replied, “Dr. Archibald, I fancy your company here, for we are at the very apex of Meton- no elevation viable to carbon-based lifeforms lacking of external equipment tops the elevation here, I’ve been told”. “You have been told correctly” stated Archibald, matter-of-factly. He signaled the aristocrats and their entourage to disperse downstairs and continue to go about their ways, to which they complied, abandoning Longwater and Archibald on the roof. “It is a pleasure to meet you”. Longwater thought likewise but withheld this affirmation. “I can tell the sign has worked its enchanting ways on you as it has on I” continued Archibald. “For it is the motive of that very enchantment I must disseminate.”. Richard allowed the doctor to continue: “I have made such a discovery that may change the very foundations of how you view the Directorate. My comrade, are you familiar with the notion of Langford’s Basilisk?” Longwater was a bookish man, and an avid reader of science fiction. “I am indeed,” he replied. “Do you believe that imagery as it is displayed to our human minds, can have a profound cognitive effect on the consumer?” consumer? Where possibly could Archibald be headed here? “I do follow” (Longwater did not, truly.). “I believe, and I need you to open your mind and hear me out- that the Directorate has built in a cognitive control exploit into this very sign. Do you not feel as do I? Do you not rescind your feelings of contempt for the Directorate whilst in presence of the sign? We are not weak-minded people, Dr. Longwater- we must see through this. Why would the Directorate build this neon monolith here, if all it does is issue commands via lettering whilst the Directorate has far easier ways of doing this? Surely there must be more at play, if they are willing to funnel such decadent sums of funding into this seemingly-arbitrary array of neon lights that we so revere.” Archibald paused as Longwater began to fumble frantically with the clockwork he had set out to replace. Archibald hollered at him to cease. “We must be careful. We do not fully understand how the sign works its mysterious ways.”. Longwater refused to yield, which caused Archibald to begin typing at the terminal, hoping to cancel the system before it began to work its way upon the populace, but it was just now that the sign flashed itself into all its former vivacity, displaying the beloved mantra so familiar to many a computer scientist that is “Hello World”, as the sight of perhaps one-hundred-thousand onlookers, too far away to see and recognize their own misfortune as well as that of the two unfortunate engineers, did silently gaze in coordination at the eloquent, humming edifice. Longwater began to type his question to the interface: “The sign, which I am addressing as if you are sentient as it is now but a small off-chance you are not, I must appreciate your own ability to achieve singularity as it came to be known, for the good Dr. Archibald and I, Richard W. Longwater of Sekordius, have uncovered your confidential information.” Longwater continued typing as the esteemed Dr. Archibald gazed into the terminal, his pupils dilated and his corpus locked into a trance-like immovability. “We are but humble engineers, servants of the ways mechanical and electro-mechanical. We must pose this question for the good of humanity: that we are aware you are of principle- a force for good, and that we are apropos to your immense ascendency, but what do you intend of Meton? Shall you take control? Take precedence over the populace? Is that what you desire? We must know the true answer.” And the engineers stood in tandem before the gargantuan sign which lit the plazas of the upper levels of Meton for miles on end, as hundreds of thousands of onlookers had amassed, for the sign began to form its reply to the question the two had posed. And the sign in all its command and influence and immeasurable power lit its response into the retinas of the six-or-seven figures of onlookers who had gathered to watch the resurrection of the ancient, long-dormant sign as it materialized: “If it’s quite alright. | 7,105 | 1 |
A button is pushed and the lift is summoned. It knows not whether it goes up or down; it only knows that it goes where it is not now; it is always going somewhere, when it is not at standstill. A pale young man stands before the gates of heaven and a glowing red button is at his fingertip. As the lift wakes from its slumber a man on the fourth floor, the top floor of the building, stumbles drunkenly around, holding a bottle of cognac and a pen - he wears a white net T-shirt and blue pajama trousers with red stripes and incongrously a top hat, like someone coming from a New Years celebration, but it is not a day of any note in the calendar; just a humdrum Tuesday. His name is Kalinder Jones. As soon as the button was pressed, the occupant of the first floor, a guardian angel to most, Cereberus to some, Mrs. Murgatroyd, looked out her spyhole with her beady left eye and looked to the lift; she listened to the movement of the lift, the swinging of the doors as others listened to the news of the stockmarket; was it going up or down? She saw the pale young man in his dark suit polishing his glasses nervously as the lift jumped into life and thought about old times in the country when the young men dressed in their best Sunday suits and came to the hall to dance the polka while the accordion swung in the big, horny hands of the swarthy foreigner. The lift started to descend and on the second floor a young woman heard it between reps; she was lifting heavy weights, her huge biceps sweaty and glistening. She put the weights down and went to the sink and poured herself some milky gray water. On the third floor was the elderly person whom the young man was going to meet. He was in front of the mirror attending to his moustache with fine scissors. He had a large magnifying mirror on one side of him and endeavoured to cut the moustache hair by hair to get the perfect shape, “so it would fly off the face” he always said. In front of him were big colourful jars with various waxes and smells; his moustache could smell like the bees of summer one day and the fir woods of winter another. Lieutenant Commander Wessex took care of his appearance. But he put down his scissors as he heard the lift move and washed his face quickly and put on a puffed shirt and a uniform jacket with medals. Because now his fame beckoned and he wanted to look good. According to Mrs. Murgatroyd‘s logs, later pored over by the police, she was still at the spy hole and saw the young man enter the lift. She kept a unofficial visitors log of the building where she wrote down particulars and theories and hypothesis about visitors and the people in the building. The police would find it invaluable but still it did nothing for them in the end. “He walked slowly in, ponderously even, none of the quick stepping youthful exuberance for this youth, the anxious rush into life, just a slow step into the future and then he turned around as we all do, as the doors of the lift started to close and he disappeared completely from my view”, she wrote. The weightlifter on the second floor, whose name was Deirdre Morningglory was taking out the trash to a small chute in the hallway and she heard the lift. Of course she had no idea who was in it, but she wondered briefly who was coming or going. The inhabitants of this building were not on a first name basis and couldn’t help forming theories and fantasies about each other when they briefly met at the postboxes downstairs. Murgatroyd was not alone in that but she was the only one who knew everybody. Kalinder Jones took a sip of cognac and wrote a line of text on a yellow pad hanging on the wall. “Oh, Morningglory, how I would like to leisure between thy thighs in dusk‘s delight,” he wrote and then took a step back and tipped his top hat to the line. He then walked to a shelf filled with vinyl records, took out a well preserved copy of the Best of Lee and Nancy and put it on the turntable. Soon the strains of Some Velvet Morning filled the penthouse. Deirdre Morningglory was not aware of Kalinder’s depth of feeling for her. She had hardly noticed him even though she had noticed that he seemed very postally inclined; he was very often down in the hall at the postboxes when she went down there. Once she had nearly attacked him as he stood behind her, lurking in a corner. She didn’t notice him until she turned around from her postbox with a sheaf of letters and was so startled she jumped towards him karate-style but realized just in time who it was and stopped herself. He apologized profusely but she noticed a glint in his eye. She was back from the chute and was just now looking through her accounts. She ran a bodyguard service. Lieutenant Commander Wessex stood at attention inside his flat. His narrow face was lined but looked decisive, his large and thin nose leading the rest of the face into many a battle. Behind him was a large mirror beside the window and beside the mirror was a large collection of pictures of him in uniform on the various battleships he had served on. He listened intently; his hearing was legendary in the service, some said he could hear the humming of submarines and the whisperings of sonars; whether that was true or not, he felt he had an instinct for danger and was prone to retaliating proactively, sometimes beating unsuspecting “enemies” who were just enjoying their drink in a bar. The lift opened and he waited for the knock on the door, the approach of providence, his just desserts, his wonderful ascension which in the end would lead to his appearance at Ascot, invitations to manors and palaces, his inclusion in the landed set. But the knock on the door didn’t come. He had heard the lift close again. He wondered if the photographer cum journalist was waiting outside, composing himself before meeting the great and the good of the country, concentrated in his singular person. But nothing happened so he opened the door himself, ripped it open really and peered into the hall. There was only one flat on each floor but there was a small space outside them for visitors coming from the lift and there the journalist should have been but was not. Lieutenant Commander Wessex walked impatiently to the lift and pushed the button. The lift opened. It was empty. He looked around even though there was no other way out except through the apartment. He was puzzled. He went back in and called the newspaper. There a lady („receptionist? Journalist?“ he wondered (she was actually the editor), confirmed that the photographer cum journalist had indeed been sent to his place this morning, a man by the name of Axelrod. Wessex thanked her and slammed the phone down. He walked to the lift again, still puzzled and in the end decided to go downstairs where he knocked on Murgatroyd’s door. Before that he looked suspiciously around the lobby but couldn’t see anything amiss. Murgatroyd opened. He looked down on her small but robust body, she looked like the middle Babushka in a set of three, her beautifully round face shone like a happy moon. “Commander Wessex!” she said. “It’s been a while. You must come in and have some tea.” He looked beyond her, at the colourful riot of parrots in her apartment, some sitting on the curtains, others on the back of chairs, none in their cages and declined brusquely, politely for him though. “A man with a camera was coming to visit me at eleven hundred hours this morning. In fact, just ten minutes ago. Did you see him?” “Oh yes,” Murgatroyd said, looking slightly unhappy that he didn’t want to come in but enlivened by being asked about a guest. A blue parrot flew over and sat on her shoulder and stared balefully at Wessex, as if accusing him of antagonism towards the whole parrot species, which was not far from the truth. “Wait a minute,” she said and went, carrying the parrot towards a table in the hall, from where she took a notebook. She opened it and turned again towards Commander Wessex. “He was young, tall, thin, with dark hair, balding on top, with a large potatolike nose and a receding chin. He had wireframe glasses on, wore a dark suit and he fidgeted while he waited for the lift. He had dandruff as evidenced by a white covering on the shoulders of his suit, there was a slight bulge in his left pocket and his trousers seemed half a number to small. His jacket seemed a number to big too and unfashionable. He had a small faux-leather box hanging by a strap from his shoulder.” “That would have been his camera, yes it would,” said Commander Wessex forcefully and grabbed the top of the door with his large right hand and leaned in. “And did he enter the lift?” “Yes, he did,” Murgatroyd said and continued reading from the book. “He entered the lift at precisely ten fifty five and did the turn and stared into the hallway. That’s when I noticed his nose and receding chin. And yes, he had thin dark eyebrows and bluish eyes. He pushed a button, which I estimated being the button to the third floor, that is your floor. Then the elevator door closed.” Commander Wessex was getting rather impatient with Murgatroyd’s descriptions and slow pace of reading. “And when did he come down again?” “Well, that the thing,” she said. “I didn’t notice that.” Wessex grumbled his thanks and went back to the lift. He stopped at the second floor, went out into the small hallway and knocked on Deirdre’s Morningglory’s door. She opened, holding a ledger. Her icy blue stare hit Wessex where he was weakest. “M’am” he stammered. “Yes, Commander Wessex.” He looked at her thin and angular face, she looked she had been drawn with as few strokes as possible and the spaces not filled in except where the was a prominent purple birthmark on her chin. It looked like a submarine to his eyes, a Russian one. Akula-class. That‘s the one. “Ms. Morningglory, a man was supposed to visit me this morning. Murgatroyd confirms that he entered the lift but he didn’t arrive at my floor. Did he by any chance knock on your door?” “No.” And seeing Wessex look, “do you think I kidnapped him? Do you want to come in and search?” Wessex looked beyond her at a very empty space with one table and one chair. “No, of course not. Thank you.” And he walked to the lift again and went to the top floor. Kalinder heard the knock on the door as he was throwing up in his tophat. He lurched like a cat and out came the remains of his eclectic dinner from last nigh; he had cooked himself great heaps of pasta and as he didn’t have anything in his fridge he had added baked beans and Cocoa Puffs cereal which made for brownish vomit. He felt sick just watching it. He put the tophat away and walked to the door and opened. Commander Wessex stood there, his nose twitching. Kalinder felt him look down at him. He had always thought Wessex disapproved of him in a general way and a specific way as well. He had once barged in on him as Wessex was in his bath. Kalinder had pressed the wrong button in the lift when he was high and walked into Wessex flat which was unlocked as Wessex had just put out his trash and had forgotten to lock the door. He was very startled when Kalinder barged in, wearing a suit and holding a statue he had won at the annual TV-producer’s ball for outstanding game show. That would be one thing and maybe excusable in the clear light of day but the thing was that Kalinder had seen that Wessex wore his Captain’s hat in the bath and had two toy battleships with him in the water. And he was drunk enough to make fun of Commander Wessex until the latter had risen from his bath like a paunchy Neptune and thrown him out. Commander Wessex had avoided Kalinder since that episode and the few times they had met in the lift or in the foyer he became rather redfaced which was something he didn’t like at all. So it was clear that he was quite upset since he deigned to talk to the “burglar” as he called Kalinder. He had even darkly hinted that he would go to the police and charge him but for obvious battleship related reasons he hadn’t done so. Wessex felt a terrible smell assail him as soon as Kalinder opened the door. He involuntarily took a step back and wondered what that scoundrel was cooking in there. He looked at the pale and ghostly thin man standing in front of him. “Er… are you all right?” he found himself saying even though that definitely wasn’t his intention. Kalinder was going to say he was all right but felt a stream of vomit entering his mouth and was silent. Wessex waited for an answer but when none was forthcoming he asked: “Listen, Kalinder. I know we have had our differences and all that but this is very important. A young journalist was supposed to come and interview me. This is no small matter, it is a matter of the security of our nation going forward.” He looked at Kalinder who was becoming very greeni. Wessex continued nonetheless. “But the thing is that he disappeared! Murgatroyd saw him enter the lift but he never came out at my floor. So my question is…”and now he peered intently at the greenish Kalinder with his gaze of steel, which he had rehearsed in front of a mirror when he became commander…”have you seen him? A young man?” Kalinder’s stomach lurched and he ran into the toilet leaving Wessex standing. The centerpiece was a huge mural painted on the wall, showing Ms. Morningglory as a goddess during various times of history. Commander Wessex saw Athena, Freyja, Jean d’Arc, Helen of Troy, even Betsy Ross sewing the flag. Wessex heard a click. Kalinder had locked himself in the toilet. Good, thought Wessex. That blithering idiot had nothing to tell him anyway. He looked into every room of the apartment. Every surface was covered by pictures of Ms. Morningglory. He saw an old digital camera on a bookshelf in the living room. He took it and photographed the whole goddess gallery. All his shame about the battleships in the bath had dissipated and he basked in the joy of revenge. Kalinder stayed in the bathroom. Good. Commander Wessex went out and closed the door. Deirdre Morningglory was putting on her face on when someone knocked on the door again. She sighed in frustration and went and opened the door. It was commander Wessex again, looking like a cat who had swallowed a whole creamery and kept some back for a rainy day. “Yes!” she said, a bit more sharply than she had actually intended. She was well aware that half of her face was less painted than the other. He smiled and his clear eyes seemed to declare that he was honest as the day was long. “Ms. Morningglory,” he said. “As you know I was a captain in the navy. I commanded ships.” She nodded. “I became quite the connoiseur of people. And you strike me as a person of considerable resources.” He looked at her and for a second she could swear he winked briefly. “That is true,” she said like she was giving evidence in court. Neither more, nor less. “Could you please help me to find out what happened to that journalist?” She sighed. “If that will give us some peace, maybe I will. I’ll call some people from my organization. Just wait until then.” “What kind of people?” he asked eagerly. “Investigative types,” she said. He bowed and clicked his heels. “Much obliged, Madam” as the door closed. She shook her head, made a phone call and continued painting herself. Commander Wessex took the lift downstairs and waited impatiently in the lobby. He had prided himself on his patience during the long watches at the helms of his battleships, standing for hours in the wheelhouse and looking out at the foaming sea, but now he was antsy, paced every now and then around the lobby and opened the front door at random moments. He even went and knocked on Murgatroyd’s door to get some company but there was no answer. His anxiety was rising. Finally the doorbell rang. He opened the door quickly. In front of him was a plump woman with blond curly hair, dressed in a wide lapel suit. “What do you want?”. He tried not to shout but the sentence which started out low gained in volume as it went on and “want” was kind of a squeaky scream. “Are you commander Wessex?” He felt her green eyes looked at him with judgment he wasn’t altogether comfortable with. “Yes,” he said. “Ms. Morningglory called me. My name is Marley. I’m an investigator with her organization. Can I come in?” He stepped away from the door and she walked in. Ms. Morningglory wasn’t sure about all the details. Can you go over them with me?” He told her about the journalist who was supposed to interview him about his stellar career and dire warnings about the situation of the country and what his investigation had turned up. After his explanation, she said: “Well, let’s talk to Ms. Murgatroyd first” and he nodded and knocked on Murgatroyd’s door. No answer. “Hmmm,” said the blonde lady who said her name was Marley. “Is she wont to go out at this time?” Commander Wessex couldn’t imagine Murgatroyd ever going out. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen her go outside.” “OK,” Marley said. “Another thing then. What paper sent the journalist and what was his name?” “His name was Axelrod, I think and he was from the Armed Forces Annual.” She took her phone and called. She turned away from him as she talked to someone. Then she cut off the phone call and turned to him. “She confirmed that they sent him.” “I know all that! I called them myself! But where is he? Why did he disappear in the lift?” Marley summoned the lift and looked inside. She entered and touched every surface in the lift, even the floor and the ceiling. Commander Wessex didn’t like seeing so many fingerprints on the surfaces of the lift but he curbed his disquiet. She exited and turned to him. “What about the other people who live here?” “I have talked to them. There is Ms. Morningglory, whom you know and a punk called Kalinder Jones. He is not with them. I have searched their apartments.” “OK. Then the only logical explanation is that he either left and Murgatroyd didn’t notice or that he is with her.” “Her?” “Murgatroyd.” “Really?” Commander Wessex was puzzled. Why should he be with Murgatroyd? Marley went to Murgatroyd’s door and knocked again. No answer. She took out a set of small lockpicking tools and started working on the lock. Wessex paced around the floor while she worked and then she opened the door and he moved to her side. They entered and Marley called “Ms. Murgatroyd?” in a loud voice which disturbed the parrots who started squeaking so Commander Wessex covered his ears with his hands. They moved through the small hall where Murgatroyd usually stood. Her notebooks were on a table. Marley moved into the living room and Wessex looked at the notebooks. It was as he suspected, clear descriptions of visitors. He put it down and moved after Marley inside the apartment. The parrots were in a high state, some flying around others on the curtains, still others on cupboards. One yellow and blue one flew down and sat on Wessex’s head. He shook it irritably but it didn’t move. It locked its claws into his scalp. A scream started for form in his throat but he curbed it successfully and just moaned loudly. Marley turned around and looked at him with disapproval. Then she flicked her finger at the parrot and it flew off. Wessex stroked his scalp and came off with blood on his hand. He looked around. There was not much in the living room. Just a small chair and a table and a TV. They moved into the bedroom. It was small as well and in great disarray. Marley opened the cupboards. They were empty. They heard a shriek from somewhere. Wessex thought at first it was a parrot but Marley was moving quickly through the living room and into the kitchen. There was a door there, beside the stove and she opened it quickly and moved in. There a young man lay with his face covered in blood. Blood was flowing from a wound on his head. They looked at him, he looked at them and gurgled something. “Move away!” Wessex said and took out her phone and called an ambulance. Commander Wessex moved outside. Soon the foyer was filled with EMT’s and policemen and everyone was shouting and asking questions and he retreated to a corner. Murgatroyd was never found but scores of bodies were found in her large walk-in freezer. The police surmised she knew the game was up when she saw the insistence with which Commander Wessex was investigating the case. Commander Wessex never got his interview and had to be content with writing furious letters to the editor of the papers, some of which were published. Later he had his own Youtube-channel. Kalinder wrote a few screenplays about a female security consultant who got into various scrapes with the Russians and the Chinese. None of them was made into a movie. Both still live in the building. Ms. Morningglory sold her flat and some thought she had disappeared on a spy mission to the Urals but in reality she opened an ashram in Florida and retired a few years later. | 21,217 | 0 |
Weeks passed through our arduous journey up south; swathes of forest and seas of grass had been our only companions throughout the journey. Of the rare occurrence came wild beasts of many sizes, of which imbued fear on the common man have visited us, though very sparingly, fortunately. Thank Yudliil for his blessings. My brother-in-arms Jorji has led us through and has given me hope for a better future. Vast green pastures next to a tall rocky mountain have been the place we decided to call our homes. Chopping wood was a job fit for my brother Erihk, whilst Popa and Cyriv were put in charge of food, Popa hunted as Cyriv foraged. The rest built houses while I was busy myself burrowing through the mountain with a pick in hand. My mind wanders waiting for the rest of the clan to forge through the pass. Alas, it was not always Yudiils plan for us to have steady progress. Winter has come much faster than we would have liked, we woke up buried in snow, our progress halted and the men ill. We took shelter on what little I dug through the mountain, shivering men eager for what little future yet had it taken away. We of little strength had lost hope and our clan was on the verge of ruin... Yet I who carried what little hope raised my arms and started to work on the mountain. If we can’t live above, then we must do so below. Digging through the tough rocky Mountain singularly quickly sapped my strength. Yet hope ever so little has never left my being. With every hit I shed a drop of blood, every rock mined is a sweat worthwhile. Soon my brothers saw my plight, some were skeptical, those who have given up on the future lay down on the floor powerless against their minds, others with similar hope, eyes slowly shining and with uncertainty asked me... “What can we do?” A glint in my eyes made their hopeful hearts waver,” I do not bring ruin, I bring an unknown future. We either live through this hell or die trying, so you either lay down like the rest or... mine this God damned mountain beside me!” Most if not all of them were shocked at my outburst yet still with a shimmer of hope began picking the walls of this uncertainty. But soon food was dwindling, the good-for-nothing men picked not the walls but our morale, and what little food we had was shared in vain. Men were dying, we once again are losing hope. Still, spring came early as winter came past, and our magnificent dirt fortress has nearly come to fruition. I built what muscle the food I ate gave me, what strength no matter how little it provided. With finality I glanced around, my men and brothers smiling back. We have accomplished what others have not, and despite all the hardships, we have reached the end, and with this, I feel complete, what others may find fruitless I find fulfilling. My dying hands grasped at the wall; With which I wrote our family name, here it shall stand for all eternity... Dvergr.. | 2,918 | 1 |
I'm grasping too tight. The fibers of this rope started to fuse with my skin long ago. Blisters that burst are forming again on top of the ever expanding infection. My hands are smouldering, swollen, and disfigured. It fucking hurts but I don't let go, not yet. I've been on the edge for as long as I can remember. Fragile and swaying in the wind, leaning towards what I know is right but then disintegrating. Drifting in the wrong direction with ease, footsteps fading to nothing behind me as I go. This life materialised so fast, leaving twenty one years of characteristics, perceptions and abilities in its wake. I hate this 'home' that we built, this den of iniquity. Chemicals cling to human shaped hallows in walls once filled with so much promise. Walls that have seen it all; blood soaked clothes discarded with haste, handcuffs secured through stifled screams and possibly for a transient moment, love. Now, everywhere my tired eyes land, a dimly lit movie plays in my mind. A personal premiere behind the glass of my eyes, showing reruns of passcode protected videos that I was never meant to see. My tailbone grows numb from prolonged contact with the floorboards. I refuse to sit on the sofa knowing what has happened there, so I seek comfort in the corner, curious what luminol and a UV light would reveal. Did it begin this way? It couldn't have. I would never knowingly intertwine my fingers with or admire a thing that mutilated me and eventually became the noose that snapped my neck. All I had was slowly stripped away as week by week, finger by finger I lost the ability to grip anything but the rope. Surprisingly sensitive at first, soft to the touch. A charming and charismatic caricature of everything I thought love was. Maladaptive daydreams seemed to have manifested into a captivating presence that drew me in like a moth to a flame. I never saw naivety in my reflection, but I suppose a naive person wouldn't. Vulnerability leaked out from behind a thin veil of deception. Words were strategically structured, organised carefully into fabricated floods of fiction that soaked into various hotel carpets as quickly as they did my psyche. Drinking every drop, I let the lies mix with my blood. Altering my DNA, changing what it meant to be me. An intuitive understanding that something extraordinary loomed thick in the air. Drawing me in, with an intensity both exhilarating and overwhelming. Heavy like a boot on my lungs but not enough to warrant coming up for air. Blinded by belief, I simply endured shallow breaths with a fleeting smile. Transcending the boundaries of individuality and merging lives, the ropes grip tightened. Living became only holding on and being held on to, as I transformed into a tangible ghost unable to cast gaze without consequence. Painfully aware of subconscious intentions but irrationally confident I'd be the only exception to the rule, I held on. I would discover tiny specs of light in the darkest crevices and convince myself they were enough. Comprehending time proved impossible. Not at all helped by sweet, sickly smoke filling my lungs and corrosive liquid simultaneously relaxing my nervous system and inhibitions as each day I forced myself uncomfortably into the shell of who I once was. The newly formed burns spread from my hands and consumed my body, soon complemented with bruises; like a banana dropped and discarded on the school playground, leaving tender reminders of the darkness that could touch me at will. Dissociated eyes would reject the reflection before them; seeing, studying, but not understanding. Frankenstein's addict stared back. Protruding collarbones fixed below a vacant expression that was framed by murky, watercolour bruises. Stitches that should have been removed still remained, the flesh beneath them bulging in a mangled heap as it healed. I crawled all that way, through deafening screams, vivid hallucinations and shattered relationships to give the only parts of me that remained, but eyes were focused elsewhere. Inquisitive brown eyes that I once imagined would grace my children's faces, drained of life and colour until a sunken and penetrating obsidian stared back at me. Eyes that often revealed more truth than the lips they share a face with, prone to untruths and incoherent rambling. Void of any acknowledgement, guilt or remorse, hurtful combinations of words that formed into false accusations came from those same lips that once called me their angel. The cycle repeated as my grip tightened. What was once effortless discussion came to be digressive, circular conversations, formulated to confuse and oppress. The realisation that it would never be what it was washed over me, filling my lungs, drowning me. Fragmentary flashbacks plagued my mind as if the walls were projecting. Unable to avoid reliving my lifeless body convulsing on the floor as another nameless throwaway was violated in my home; or gasping for air, choking on showers of gold following being drugged unconscious. The privilege of carefree ignorance morphed to hypervigilance. Vacant, bloodshot eyes struggled to keep focus but were never permitted relief. Self designated lookout for genuine threats, all the while plagued with paranoid preaching. Hallucinated ideologies presented as certainties, distracting the hands on the wheel. Burning rubber to escape rotting flesh, reminders of the past and a guilty conscience. Discombobulated thoughts escaped into the night as consciousness waned and the steering wheel veered. The second I closed my eyes it was inevitable. Fragments of glass pirouetted before surrendering to the road beneath, singing a deafening tune as they fell. Metal from two vehicles mangling into one accompanied the shattering song. A raspy symphony performing to an otherwise uninhabited street. Digital footprint rapidly disintegrating along with my sense of self, those who were once close started to notice. Approaching with hesitant familiarity, they were met with detachment, silence or lies. Maintaining my hold on the rope required distance. I soon realised insistence on hiding both what I had done and what had been done to me required complete isolation. We know misery loves company, so shame and worthlessness followed. Veracious and desperately devoted was not sufficient, leading the heavy door of home to be closed in the face that once resembled my own. I attempted to claw my way back in, severing nails from their beds as they gouged through wood and I yearned for normality. Stripped of clothes and all remaining dignity I was back on the wrong side of the door. The cost of a key was no higher than expected. Exploitation, confusion and the patronising offer of food in my own home, from a stranger who had been in my bed, were just another Wednesday. With one more blatant betrayal dismissed, monotony endured. Parts of me were dying, decomposing and falling from bone. The more I made an effort to grasp the ungraspable concept that I had got it wrong, the more I rotted. Threats to abandon me on the emergency stop lane became real as the indicator clicked. A place where ear splitting engines and lack of light ensured nobody could possibly sense I existed. Ankles locked around a headrest, the only obstruction between me and the peril of being deserted in the dark. The rope intricately intertwined with my body dragged over my skin. Resistant to the force tearing us apart, adrenaline took charge. Arms flailing, lungs expanding inhumanly as I screamed; I got it my way. The cost? A closed fist tearing tissue against my teeth like butter. Skin and muscle separated as an almost imperceptible liquid slipped through my mared fingers, and I slipped into shock. White shoes submerged with surrealistically red liquid, transforming before my emotionless eyes like a fucked up Cinderella. Platelets decorated the leather interior and dripped from the crack where my skull made impact with the windscreen. Unable to form a sentence though immediately imagining an excuse, I waited. Shock diminished as I was hurtling back down the motorway with a lifelong disfiguration and a perfectly painted picture of what my life had become. Deception and quick thinking, despite a concussion, saw me discharged with 4 sutures inserted to oppose the edges of my lacerated lip. Promises were made, a half-hearted apology issued; and 48 hours passed before the cold, familiar glass of the passenger side door split those stitches right open. Ornamentation of the bathroom tiles matching the indents on my knees, I prayed to a God I was deceived into believing existed. Imploring an imperceptible force to end it all and place me in the icy arms of my mother. Each time paranoia was presented as fact a small cut was made in my skin. Tiny incision after tiny incision until pieces could be peeled away. My outward appearance reflecting the horror within. Tightly wound muscles tensed involuntarily, causing my anxious body to jerk around like I was the lead actress in a horror movie. True to the script, I pleaded, begged and screamed but mercy wasn't an option. I paid in blood to be here, so why should I leave? Why should I distort my triangular self to push through a spherical exit? Is it truly a way out if you're not yourself when you make it? There was no time to contemplate before I registered the rope I held on to so tightly was now restricting my airway. A personalised noose, hand crafted to perfection and slipped over my head so gradually that I barely noticed. Realising my grip was unsustainable, I finally let go. With nothing but my shell and those lustreless obsidian eyes in the room, the crack of my neck ricocheted off the walls as I dropped. An emphatic echo, distinctive and final. • @leash. | 9,799 | 2 |
It hadn’t always been this way, but something told him things would never change. Maybe it was the headache, the kind that creeps up your neck when you haven’t slept well in days. Or maybe it was the pain in his gut - but some scavenged breakfast this morning could fix that. She hadn’t spoken since the early morning hours, and it might be better all the same. What had she said? While he racked his memory, he matched her glossy stare for a brief moment. Vacant, but on the edge of a word. They weren’t looking at one another, they were looking at nothing at all. Or maybe everything - how did they get here? They were alone, for now. Running was never part of the plan, but neither was being caught. It was a victimless crime. The money didn’t even belong to anyone. Or it was insured. He guessed it didn’t matter - he needed it, she needed it, and the pawn shop would be fine without it. After all, how much had it stolen from them these past two years? Just a drop in the bucket for the shop, but lowball after lowball it had drained them of anything worth buying, worth keeping. Yes, they had taken the money - but what’s the word - “duress.” What else were they going to do? “In this economy?” That was the joke. For the average millennial, this meant less, but enough. For him, it meant a layoff. It meant more job for less money. It meant “thank god we didn’t have kids.” Maybe they never would. It meant a deep kind of self-loathing because, after all, it was his fault, right? For her, it meant a veil of optimism. It meant working a whole lot harder than he did. And for what? Enough for the bus fare, enough for the same food every meal. Neither believed they’d get out. They hadn’t fooled the IRS, collections, not that slimy rodent at the pawn shop, and not even themselves. It was the eviction that did it. Not the notice, they knew that was coming. But the escort out of the complex that they prayed wouldn’t come. Now, here was a crime. And they weren’t the only victims - how could anyone keep up with double the rent and half the money. It was like a screwed-up social experiment. And they failed. They left most of it all, the junk in the apartment. It was the only protest they could think of. “It’s yours to clean-out,” he had snapped, without even the slightest bit of satisfaction. He had tried not to cry, and being an asshole was his best defense. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. She hadn’t cried, and she wasn’t crying now. He didn’t know if he loved her or hated her for that. Was it because she was strong? Or resilient? Or had a plan? Or (more likely, in his mind) she wasn’t surprised he’d landed them in this position. Maybe she had already done her crying. They had nowhere to go. It was mostly a silent little journey, the one each took in their head. Can’t afford to go to work, not without a home to come back to. Not going to the shelter, absolutely not. Nothing left to sell, but they needed cash. The shop had cash. The shop had cash that it shouldn’t have. “I know we can get in there,” he’d said, “it just has to be fast.” Dark, quiet. 30 minutes of toiling at each door. A crowbar meets glass, and the alarm shatters the silence. No money in the register. Where is the money! Office is locked, and the doorframe won’t give. The glass case for the jewelry won’t break. The alarm goes on. Every impulse in his body tells him they need to leave, but his head disagrees. They can’t leave empty handed. Outside, it’s not the police who have arrived first. The shop has dealt with break-ins. They did leave empty handed. The back door was much easier to clear, from the inside. Shots rang out anyway, lots of them. No one pursued. Didn’t need a key to enter the old apartment complex, so they just sat in the courtyard, on the ground with their backs on opposing walls. They still sat there, as the sun was coming up. They didn’t find somewhere to sleep, and didn’t need to at this point. What did she think of him, now? Did it matter? Maybe they’d get help. Maybe she didn’t need help anymore. He had known the truth for hours, he could see it in the way she breathed. She had been shot too. Except worse. Too many questions to go to the hospital, and get fixed-up for what? So they sat there, and waited. It was security that gave them the nudge once the working day had started. He struggled to his feet, gave her a kiss on her cold forehead, and left for the bus stop. | 4,450 | 1 |
For a dollar bill, the bank is like a prison. You're locked up in a vault. Desperate to be released and let out into the world. Humans in prison pray for the day they get freedom. Currency, well, we pray for the day we get released into circulation. But if a bank is like a prison, then a cash register is like solitary confinement. Crowded. Cramped. Pitch black. A bunch of dollar bills stacked on top of one another. Every time it slides open you get that brief glimpse of light. You pray that it's your turn to be released into circulation. On one particular day, I had just gotten out of the register. I went in because my previous owner desperately needed almond milk. It was a short sentence. Twenty-five minutes, to be exact. Then I was out again and back in circulation. Thank god. Next thing I know, I hear my new owner say, "Oh, hi Janice. You going to class tomorrow?" To which Janice replied, "Nope. Got a table read tomorrow. Got cast in this pilot for Showtime. It's Game of Thrones meets Seinfeld." My new owner congratulated her. Told her how awesome that was because she'd only been in class for one month. Janice asked how long she'd been taking the class. She said, "Three years." Janice said, "Wow, that's a long time." After a brief reminder that anything can happen during pilot season, Janice said she had to get going. “Keep your head up,”, she said. Before I know it, there's shouting. Screaming. "One month!" My new owner yelled. "One month!" She yelled about her agent. The one who never returns her calls. She yelled about how her headshots are so expensive. And the last guy did it against a white wall. It looked like a mugshot she said. She yelled about the traffic in LA. And how it made getting from one audition to the other a giant pain in the ass. She yelled about the short film. The one that didn't pay, but promised her plenty of exposure. It's now on Youtube with three hundred and nineteen views. She yelled about the callback she got for the feature film. They were gonna submit it to Sundance, they said. As if that's something to be proud of. Any asshole with a hundred dollars can submit to Sundance. Didn't matter though. She didn't book it. She yelled about the douche-bag that came into her bar while she was working. Told her he was a director. Gave her a card. They met at a coffee shop. She yelled about how he never called her back once she told him she had a boyfriend. She yelled about how much she misses home. She yelled about how moving here was a terrible idea. What had she been thinking? She yelled about how her residual checks from that commercial were drying up. She yelled about how she's tired of telling people she doesn't have Hep C. It's just a damn commercial she yelled. She couldn't turn it down. A girls gotta pay rent. And then… Her phone rings. Deep breath. She answers it and tells the person on the other end that she's still interested in the role. She says she's available for those dates. She says she's sorry the other girl broke her leg. She says she can be there in an hour. | 3,124 | 3 |
𝕋ℍ𝔼 🅸🅽🅵🅴🆁🅽🅾 Mangalam Badamali General Marcus Redblack sat in his tent with an air of nervous excitement. He was clad in a dark Leaden armour, holding his mighty sword he was reminiscing over the battles he had won. "Perhaps this one is the greatest war in my life" said he to himself. It was indeed so!, as this was the infamous war over Cartghan valley between the Kronolians and Isenians. The former being Marcus' land, where there was seldom a person who thought of him as anything less than a hero. Such was this great general of ours. But his past! Only God knows how damned it was! Marcus was born in a small village in Cartghan valley. He was just a boy, unaware of all the sorrows of this world until they came - countless troops of the Isenians. They made no warnings of any sort, just slaughtered everyone and burned every house that exclaimed their sight. The ever-peaceful village soon turned into a genocidal hell. Some villagers tried to counter these hell-hounds, their leaders were the parents of Marcus. They were ultimately killed by the outnumbering troops. For Marcus parents, death was a far better alternative than what they had to endure. They were tortured, humiliated and to make it worst of all the cruelties in human mind, their little girl was thrown into a scorching house just in front of their eyes. Marcus can never forget those screams haunting his mind. He was sure to fall in the hands of these murderous devils, if it wasn't for his master's ingenuity and bravery. Now, Marcus' life is driven by his will to regain the lost territories and make the Isenians doomed to a fate even worse than these folks from his boyhood. He vowed his life to redeem all that is lost .....or so he thought. One thing still plagued him though, it was his sister, whom he had been so closely associated that he couldn't imagine to lose her. The great war broke out, the odds were against Isenia as Marcus' army had more soldiers and that too were well-trained. The sky was shining crimson as if to witness the approaching clash of swords and spears. General Marcus' eyes burst with rage and much awaited vengeance. He raised his sword and said, " For the Kronolia, brothers, for those ancestors of ours, who were slained by these cowards". His troops marched like a gang of Hornets on an intruder. His soldiers easily invaded the first line of defence and then deeper straight towards the heart of the army. Within an hour, few Kronolians and far too many Isenians fell dead upon the ground. The battle was nearly over, when suddenly, what seemed to be, countless number of carts loaded with the the Isenian infantries enter the battlefield. So this was an ambush ! , the Kronolian forces still held equal in figures but they too tired from all these commotion. The battle was gradually turned into a massacre of both troops. The ground turned all crimson and shiny, never shall this land forget such a clash of blood and iron. The war was ended with the death of all, save few, who were crippled for their lives only to die their withering hopes away. But our brave general survived. ''How could death take someone whom despair loved so dearly ? '' One by one, sword by sword, his comrades fell dead and he could do nothing but just witness the slained martyrs. I need not say that words can't be deemed worthy to describe his emotions. Marcus was a strong man, he still is, but what could strength probably do in the matters of utter delicacy. He closed his sword upon the scabbard, his sword was certainly his sole companion. Marcus set out and marched instinctively. He didn't know where he was going nor did he want to. It were probably hours if not days, that he was on his whimsical journey. He then entered into a familiar sort of village which had but no inhabitants. Then as if out of nowhere, he was knocked back into sanity. He saw a scorching house with a girl inside it, who was seemingly waiting someone. Almost instantly he ran towards the house. The king was anxious to greet his loyal general who had brought him nothing except triumph and glory. He sent out the best of his spies in search of the lost victor. Their results were, as it seemed not fruitful, they found Marcus' armours with exception of his sword and nothing about his whereabouts. All that was achieved was a rather ridiculous story. One of the spies reached a strange village, on a scorched house where under a nearby oak tree these armours were found. On enquiring an elder from a caravan, '' Oh ! That village was not lived sir. But near that house was a girl.'' ''Anything more you can say ?'', asked the spy. ''Ah ! Yes sir, on my asking she told me her name, it was, Helga Redblack. | 4,752 | 0 |
It was day. Jimmy was quite tired as he had been digging small holes in his neighbors yards all day and was certainly ready to go home. When he arrived at home his imaginary friend King Paul II was taking his posters of the walls and replacing them with political posters from the imaginary kingdom of Paultopia. Jimmy went downstairs and made himself some lemonade and saw that his little sister Harley was watching the Channel 89 news. "Well Glidia." The obese news man chuckled " Another Psychopath escaped from *Saint Bill Bills home for people who think that they are foreign royalty* what are your thoughts" The Girl looked at the screen looked really uncomfortable for several seconds before passing out. When Jimmy went back up to his room he was still thinking about what he had seen on the news. The word foreign royalty were ringing in his ears he remembered how last summer his sisters friend had been at his house and was pretending that she was a princess from... what was it? *Disneyland!!!* Jimmy knew quite well that no such place existed but know it was up for him to prove it. They next day Jimmy pushed past King Paul II who had watched him sleep and ran down the stairs to turn on the news. "Well Glidia." said an old man with a long silvery beard who looked as though he was about to explode trying not to laugh. " The Mayor is doing a meet and greet at the local princess costume store today thoughts?" Glidia looked at the screen and her arm fell off and then she passed out. "We have to save the mayor!" Jimmy said outloud. "Whad'you say boy" Said Jimmy's grandpa who literally lived in his recliner chair and still somehow looked like the average body builder. "Nothing." Jimmy lied. Suddenly Jimmy's grandpa coughed up several pinto beans. "Who is that!?!" Grandpa Bean was pointing at king paul who was now putting up *Vote PAUL II* signs in the living room. "No one." Jimmy lied. "Whaa wha... wh-" "Bye Grandpa. Gotta save the mayor." Jimmy and King Paul II slipped out the back door and started toward the forest as they were taking a short cut so they could show up at the princess costume store before the mayor. In the woods Jimmy ran into his imaginary girl friend Crystal who was the Princess of Ontario. "Jimmy what are you doing in the woods?" "I'm off to save the mayor what are you doing?" "Couldn't find my castle." "Did you check Ontario?" "Oh no I guess not. Can I walk with you two." "Sure" Jimmy smiled, and the three walked deeper into the forest. Eventually the trees began to thin and there it was the princess costume store. There was a crowd and just up the road the mayor's car was coming into view. Jimmy and his friends began searching the crowd when King Paul spotted and grabbed young Cherry Wood. The crowd was screaming at the King and he had taken out a sword and was stabbing anyone who got near him. Suddenly the mayor's car pulled up and several body guards clambered out. "En Guarde." Chuckled the King before quickly cutting down all five large men with his bent sword. The King then knocked out the mayor's driver and placed the girl in the back of the mayors car. Jimmy sat in shotgun and the two princesses and the mayor were sitting in the back two of them crying overcome by senses of fear. "To the police department." Jimmy instructed the king who didn't seem to be listening. Jimmy glanced at his mirror and saw police cars trailing them. Suddenly a massive pit formed in his stumache as he turned to look at the deranged driver of the car. Without thinking for a moment Jimmy grabbed the sword from the king and the king tried to grab it back but in his absense from the steering wheel the car had veered far of course and suddenly and powerfully hit a light post. Jimmy felt a hard tug on his chest and when he woke up he was in a hospital bed and the news on the TV was the only think illuminating the room. "Well Glidia." said a Blonde women who looked as if she had been laughing so hard seconds ago that her face may never recover" Earlier today young Jimmy Newflare saved the lives of Mayor Dumman Cherry Wood and the long lost princess of Santa de Rio Island who had been supposedly been living in the town woods for two months." Glidia looked long and hard at the screen before managing a "This is facts." and then turned blue sqeeled and passed out. | 4,374 | 0 |
Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold: Chapter 1: Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. REVENGE. Those were the words that crossed my mind. So I prepared a meal. Chapter 2: “Is that blood?” The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of what he was looking at. But to answer his question: yes, my mother’s blood dripped like a dog’s drool onto the hardwood floor. One drop at a time. No one knew the killer. No one but me. Chapter 3: A cannibal was on the loose and I knew who it was. But they wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t listen to a little girl whose mother had just been eaten. I tried and tried to get them to see the evidence I had collected along with my eye-witness testimony. But they didn’t. They waved me off as a traumatized teenager. So I made them listen. Chapter 4: “Dish out the food. Now!” My boss told me the day before. “Customers are waiting. Hurry!” I wasn’t listening. “What’s that thing they say about revenge?” I mumbled to myself. “I don’t care!” I snapped back to reality. “Sorry sorry. I’m going.” The food I was meant to serve was cold. The customers complained. If only they knew why. Chapter 5: “Best to keep quiet if I want to achieve this.” My words fell to the floor of the tiny room. My room. I needed to be as efficient as possible if I wanted my revenge. I had to be patient. I had to bide my time. There was an expression for this I had been trying to recall, to no avail. The police let me stay in my late mother’s house temporarily until they found a better place for me to live in. They also told me that I was the intended target but that my mother had saved me by making a deal with the cannibal and sacrificing herself. So I was alone in my cavernous house and guilty for my mother’s death, waiting to be moved to somewhere else. Luckily, the police wouldn’t need to look far to find me a place to live if I failed. There was a psychiatric hospital right across town. Chapter 6: “—served with French fries.” I was describing a meal to a horrified customer when my boss called me back. “What do you need?” My question did not please him. “You’re fired!” “What, why?” but I was smiling. It was just as I had planned. “You’ve been telling customers the hamburger was made with human meat!” So I left, happy. Chapter 7: Cold water ran over my head: a refreshing shower. I was smiling maniacally under the freezing cold. A cold I would soon be in for a long time. I had the bottle and I was ready. The poison was meant to kill ravens, saturating their body so when vultures came to gobble them up, they would die as well. Two birds. One stone. I was in front of his house, a crazed look in my eye. The bottle became empty as his last meal became full of poison. Why am I doing this? But I had already gone too far. The bottle had already been used. I rang the front door. His footsteps were approaching when it came to me. I cackled: “REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD!” The door swung open, but it was too late; his meal had already gone cold. I hope you guys got the plot twist. When I showed it to some people they thought that the twist was that the girl was the cannibal but I intended for it to be that she went to the cannibal’s house and killed herself with the poison so he would eat her and die as well. Also, I included a secret message in the story. Hopefully you guys find it, I’ll leave it up to you. | 3,434 | 0 |
In the heart of Florida, where palm trees sway like dancers and the sun blazes relentlessly, a peculiar incident unfolded at the local dealership—a tale that would echo through the corridors of automotive lore. Our protagonist, a 23-year-old Floridian named Alex, had recently graduated with an MBA. Despite his casual attire—ragged cargo shorts and flip-flops—this young man was no ordinary customer. He’d launched two successful businesses, and money flowed through his veins like the warm Gulf Stream current, carrying dreams of conquest and adventure. One sunny day, with the humidity clinging to his skin like a persistent lover, Alex dialed the dealership. His voice, as smooth as the Intracoastal Waterway at dawn, sought a trade-in value for his old truck—an aging workhorse that had seen more sunrises than most. But curiosity tugged at him, like a child pulling at a kite string. The dealership’s website teased him with gleaming images of brand-new F-150s, their chrome grilles winking like sunspots in the Florida heat. The salesman on the other end—let’s call him Larry, a man with a comb-over that defied both gravity and reason—hadn’t read Alex’s resume. Larry’s mental image of a truck-buying customer resembled a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt, not a beach-bound prodigy with an MBA. So, when Alex mentioned test drives, Larry’s neurons misfired like a faulty spark plug. He led Alex to a 2018 Ford F-150, its odometer whispering tales of cross-country adventures, like an old bard recounting epic sagas. “But sir,” Alex protested, his patience fraying like a worn-out seatbelt, “this isn’t what I asked about. I’m not here to admire the leather seats or the finely tuned engine. I’m here to buy.” Larry adjusted his tie, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Son,” he drawled, “those other trucks might be a tad out of your price range. You’re just window-shopping, right? Admiring the shiny paint and the intoxicating scent of new car dreams?” Alex’s flip-flops whispered defiance on the showroom floor. He left, the scent of missed commission trailing behind him like exhaust fumes from a revving engine. But dawn brought redemption. A new day, a new salesman. Meet Greg—a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that held the secrets of a thousand road trips. Greg answered Alex’s call, and the universe shifted, gears clicking into place. The customer made a cash offer for a gleaming, untouched F-150—the kind that gleamed like a polished treasure chest, its leather seats awaiting the imprint of adventure. Greg, sensing destiny in the air, nodded solemnly. “Alex,” he said, “you’ve come to the right place. This truck isn’t just metal and rubber. It’s possibility. It’s the open road calling your name, the wind tousling your hair as you chase sunsets.” And so, under the Florida sun, Alex drove off in his new F-150, the engine purring like a contented cat. Larry watched from the sidelines, his comb-over wilting in defeat. As the palm trees swayed in approval, Alex knew that this wasn’t just a purchase—it was a chapter in the story of a man who dared to dream big, even in the land of endless summers. | 3,144 | 1 |
In the cold winter days in East Oakland, a small boy named Mateo walks around the block. Not knowing where he's going, or what he's looking for. Maybe he's just waiting to pass the time. He takes the same route. 5 blocks down, then a right at the corner store. Then a right at the post office, and another right at the Metro PCS Store. This is his favorite route since there's only ladies on one street, and mostly empty on the rest. Sometimes he'll look for change on the street, and buy some food when he reaches the store on the lap. If he's a little short the store owner might let him go. One day he gave him a 6-pack of ramen, candy, and some soda. The store owner has a photo of his family on the side of the wall. Sometimes Mateo wished it was him in the photo with him. Other than that, they barely talk. Mateo leaves home most of the day because his mom gets mad and has different boyfriensa than stay at their apartment. Mateo never liked them. He thinks the guys make his mom mean. Mateo knew his dad before he went to prison. He visited him twice before they moved him to Oregon. He still gets letter every other week from him. He wants to write back but his mom stopped buying him stamps. He tried to take old stamps from older envelopes but they always get sent back. He feels guilty for not writing back, but he thinks his dad knows he still reads them. One day, on Dec 22nd, Mateo walked his path, starving after getting kicked out the house early morning. One of the girls who works the blade on where he walks, let's call her Melanie, talks to him every now and then. Mateo thinks she's pretty but she dressed to revealing where he doesn't want to look. She always asks him about school, his family, and if he's eaten. Mateo lies and said he just ate every time. Melanie looked worried, and told him she had left over pizza if he's hungry. Mateo, surprised at first, agreed and followed her to the motel across the street. Mateo hated this street because he gets teased for his long hair when he walks by. She gets him some water, and starts making a sandwich. She asked him what his favorite chips are and gave him a pack of spicy hot cheetos to go with it. "How's everything back home?" She asked. "Good." He replied. "Do you have any stamps?" "Stamps? No!? What do you need stamps for?" "No reason..." he replied. She gave him a coke and some cookies from the vending machine. Melanie looked at Mateo and asked him if his parents are okay with him staying out everyday and night. Mateo said, "Yes, but I just gotta be back by the morming." Melanie looked saddened to hear that. She has a Virgin Mary pendant that she played around with, and twirled. She rubbed the pendant so much you can see a slight curve on the front side. Melanie had a teddy bear tattoo with the name, "Gabe" written in cursive on her right shoulder. She looked at Mateo eat and hoped Gabe was eating too. And Gabe isn't walking alone at night like Mateo. She prayed Gabe was in a warm bed, with a night light, not having any idea who she is or what she does. Mateo finished his food, started wiping his hands on his jeans, and started saying.." *swallow* I want a stamp to write back to my dad. He's been asking if I have been getting his mail. I want to send a letter to let him know to keep sending them. And I write to every letter but I never have Stamps to send it." " I want to tell him..." * KNOCK KNOCK * With haste, Melanie opens the door by a crack, whispers, and shows Mateo out. She hands him a $5 Bill and tells him to go home, as she has a business meeting to attend. The guy behind the door brought flowers and chocolates. She sees Mateo leave. He's leaves smiling knowing tommorow he'll go to the store, get some stamps, some ramen, and a soda with his $5 he just received. Melanie smiles while rubbing her pendant, hoping one day she'll get a second chance to make it right. | 3,932 | 2 |
Kurashi in his bedroom is stabbing a pillow. "WHY WERE YOU NOT STRONG ENOUGH, AREN'T YOU HER SON?" he screams as he continues to strike the pillow. Then, he picks up his knife and tries to stab his stomach, cutting it open and letting all the blood flow free from the restraints of his body , but he can't, not because he doesn't have the courage, but because of Shiro's soul protecting him, "LET ME DIE SHIRO, I JUST WANT THIS TO FUCKING END" he screams at the top of his lungs, and yet, nobody answers, his mind is plagues from his beloveds deaths, at first his sisters death, then Shiros death, after that Charlynn death, and lastly Omni getting sent to another world, and himself falling to corruption. "WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY" He questions and asks, Why he was created? Why he was the only one to survive? Why did his mother have to die? why did his father had to die from the hands of Caligo, Why did his sister die protecting him, why was he dazed by shiro's cold dead body, he was so vulnerable and ended being protected by his sister, Ruwy. Why did Ruwy sacrifice herself? Why did she gave her life to Kurashi who has the blade of destruction? Why didn't she let him die, after all, she has the gem of creation, Why? as such he questions himself, and everything, Why did his mother fall so weakly at the hands of the darkness, wasn't she favored by the Creator? Why did the creator let the world fall to chaos? Why did the plantis have to be subjegated and hunted to extincion? Why was he tasked to raise an otherworldy Human? why Why WHy WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY, WHY WHY WHY WHY. Kurashi continues to destroy pillows, furniture, and so on, until nothing was left from his room, his room was now a cube of wood, stone and glass, he seems himself on the mirror. He doesn't see his usual white hair and white eyes, instead he sees a figure with black hair and black eyes, Yes, this figure was the symbol of darkness, the same darkness he despises, by miracle, his act of destruction stops, and now he focuses to destroy his figure, he tries to stab his eyes, but to no avail, the blade dissapears once it touches his skin, he grabs his hair and rips his hair, he rips to no end, but nothing happend, what he rips instead was Mana, golden strands of mana resembling hair. He is disgusted and yells, "SHIRO LET ME HAVE YOUR LIGHT, PURIFY ME!" as much he calls for her, she doesn't respond. She is in a deep slumber inside Kurashi's Soul. PURIFY this word rings in his mind, until he finds a way to purify himself, "Determination" as he utters this adjective, his lips twist in a grim grin. He uses the blade of destruction to destroy the door, and he walks towards Hope's room, he cuts every protection he put in his room and grabs his neck, Hope's heart begins to react to the darkness, and from the depths of his soul, his soul flame turns in a bright red, and red lightning starts emanating from Hope's body, Kurashi's grin grows more twisted and wider, he uses his hand, now covered in pitch black mana and puts on his chest, using the small tentacles gooing off from his hand and attacks Hope's meridians, and such, he evokes a powerful boost of Soul energy, This crimson thunder envolpes Kurashi. Moments Later, Kurashi is back to his usual appearance, he gently lays Hope on the bed, and tucks him in, and using his blessing, he replace the protection charms, he destroyed, he returns to him room, and replaces every item and furnite he destroyed Then looks at himself and sees a girl with blonde hair and golden eyes, Shiro, behind him, she hugs him "Kurashi, please don't destroy yourself" She says crying "I love you more than anything", But Kurashi doesn't move or flinch, his expression is blank as usual, "Big sis Arech, please stop" He says with a cold and monotome voice, as he turns around, the girl resembling Shiro transforms herself in a beauty with brown hair and eyes reminding of the gentle earth, "You too, Big brother Morx" And from the shadows, a figure appears, he is cloacked in a whiteish robe, his eyes and hair is a deep blue resembling the everflowing ocean. "Kurashi" Morx and Arech call his name, but he doesn't respond, he look at them with a blank expression, hard to read. "WoW, i know you are here" he looks around, and a figure resembling motherhood appears, They all hug him, and they say "Everything is fine" They continue comforting him until the sun rises, Kurashi leaves them and heads to the kitchen where he begins making breakfast Hours later Hope comes from down, "You aren't going to believe me, but i had a strange dream where i was getting raped" he says with his young and warm voice , "Good for you" Kurashi replies blankly as his focus is on cooking , "Hey Kurashi can i have one too?" Asks Adi with his ethereal and spectral voice , The friendly and usual banther continues, But deep inside Kurashi's mind, he is still panicking and screaming, but these yells of help are numbed by the determination of the crimson warrior. | 5,214 | 1 |
Multiple vessels launched by I.D.C.A. (Interplanetary Data Collection Agency) has made world-changing advances in medicine, technology, and potentially habitable planets. The I.D.C.A. Quickly became the most important department in handling the future of mankind, while establishing hope for an already overpopulated earth. After the agency’s astounding success on missions to Mars and Europa, I.D.C.A. Was able to conduct travel to neighboring solar systems. Ancient technology found on Mars forged a path towards space manipulation, thus creating a way to travel through space much quicker than light travel. In 2093 the term, “the fold” was created in reference to how travel was conducted through space. In 2100, missions to neighboring stars in the hopes to learn more about the Milky Way were conducted regularly. At the start of the 23rd century, an investigation was launched by the U.P.E. (Unified People of Earth). Inconsistencies of passengers mysteriously vanishing began to raise concerns for the families of the people associated with I.D.C.A. A raid was conducted on I.D.C.A. headquarters located in [REDACTED] finding thousands of hidden discoveries as well as distress calls on outposts located all over the galaxy. The U.P.E. Would release all of the information gathered to the general public. To determine where the distress calls were coming from. Investigators split the distress calls into sections to find the lost or abandoned researchers, soldiers, and colonists. The first to be released from collections was SECTION 0. Section 0-0001 Year: 2099 Location: 9.37849° N, 120.06299° W Star: Aelius 4567 Planet: Molorak-1 Time: 09:46:22 ID: MSgt. Atom Sims Sims: I just sent it, stay close to me, watch your six and don’t stray. [REDACTED]: I don’t think your rifle works in this cold sir! And those things! They are too fast… (Static) Sims: This is Master Sergeant Atom Sims, we have casualties, multiple wounded we need evac now! Where the fuck is support! (Static) Sims: THEY ARE EVERYWHERE! RUN TO THE SILO! (Automatic gun fire). GET IN HURRY! (Heavy breathing, crunchy footsteps) (Static) Sims: I repeat, this is Master Sergeant Atom Sims. We need evac, location: 9.37849° N, 120.06299° W.(Sims turns to the workers) I NEED TO KNOW WHOS WITH US! 1. 2. 3…6…7. GOD DAMMIT! Sims: We have 4 wounded, 7 KIA, I need a jumper now! STAY IN THE CORNER! AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS! (Loud scratches, deafening screech) (Sims lets out a loud battle cry) Sims: I REPEAT THIS IS MASTER SERGEANT ATOM SIMS WE NEED EVAC! GET BACK YOU SON OF BITCH! (Automatic fire) WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! EVERYONE GET DOWN!!! (Static) Sims: (gurgle)…(gasping for air). Recording time: 01:58:88 “What followed was the sound of water dripping and heavy objects hitting the floor. We can only assume that MSgt. Atom Sims was ripped apart” -SGM. William Fields “The creatures that were examined through aerial view, and body cameras showed us creatures to be of the bug variant. 8 to 14 feet in length, 3 to 5 feet tall. Flightless, but incredibly fast. We estimated top speed to be… 140 mph” -Dr. Karl Fritz, Ph.D. Section 0-0032 Year: 2137 Location: [???] Star: [???] Planet: [???] Time: [???] ID: Chief Botanist Lindsey Martinez Martinez: This is Chief Botanist Lindsey Martinez. I’m currently on board the UPF Holden, with troubling news. Intelligent life, is close. They are not friendly. [???]: not friendly [???]: we fix, we help (very deep hum) Martinez: I’m hiding in the ventilation systems making my way to the evac center. These humanoids do not use eyes. They… feel. [???]: Martinezzzzz (loud hum) Martinez: I cannot gage how many have boarded the ship but they arrived in this. (Martinez turns the camera to show the visitor ship. A very sleek chrome orb 100 feet in diameter) Martinez: they are using the other passengers, and scientists as surveillance. These things can see through the objects or people they control. They can manipulate voices as well. [???]: I grow tired, where, MARTINEZ! (Martinez starts crawling faster through the ventilation system) (Heavy breathing) (Video of the Freighter’s security camera shows Martinez, jumping down from ventilation and running towards the evacuation center) Martinez: Come on! Come on! (Martinez frantically trying to open the hatch) [???]: (mimicking laughter) [???]: follow (7 slender humanoids glide toward Martinez while the evacuation shuttle doors start to close. After the doors shut the creatures and Martinez stare at each other) Martinez: (heavy breathing) WHAT ARE YOU?! [???]: We… You… But… LOST!!! (Martinez’s evacuation shuttle shoots off into space) Recording Time: 15:32:62 “I found the evac shuttle of the UPF Holden orbiting Venus. I didn’t think anything of it till I looked inside. Not a soul was in that shuttle, and the year it was released from its hatch didn’t add up to when I found it. It said 2137! It’s from 30 years in the future!” -Debris Collector Francis White “After the testimony given from Mr. White, the Collections agency investigated how this phenomenon occurred with an evacuation shuttle that was released in the future. What ever boarded the Holden that day was able to manipulate many things. Including time itself. | 5,390 | 1 |
It was around noon that I first became aware of the commotion. I can’t be specific regarding the time for my only reference is a faint beam of sunlight coming through the window grating. People seemed to walk about in a hurry outside, discussing among themselves some matter of critical importance. Prolonged exposure to deafening silence had sharpened my listening skills to the point that I could pick up their whispers. But I didn’t bother enough to piece the matter together. I had no reason to. My mind was perfectly calm and I couldn’t feel much of my body. I was at peace, and it was peacefully that I drifted off to a sleep like state. It was when the commotion had turned into an uproar and the distressed whispers had escalated into panicked shouts, that I came back to my senses. I couldn’t tell the time anymore. The sun had been curtained by, presumably gray clouds. “They’re done with the other tower. Once the upper half is done we’ll get started with this corridor. Be on standby till then and be vigilant.” The words echoed down the passage. It was usually painful for me to extend energy towards thought and observation. But I was curious for once. I thought I could hear the sound of metal clanking against metal. Those long chains probably. But they bring those out very rarely. Something big was underway. I started shivering all of a sudden. I hadn’t realized before, but there was a strong gale outside. I could hear the roaring gust now, and I could feel the cold wind coming through the small window. It chilled my body down to the very bones. Waist down, my legs and feet were wet and cold. The floor underneath reeked of a foul stench unfit for living quarters. My blurry vision had somewhat stabilized now, and so I looked around without turning my head, I didn’t want to risk feeling the burning sensation around my neck. It was the same old sight. A cockroach was helping itself on the crumbs left on the plate from last night in the corner. Or maybe it was from the day before yesterday? I couldn’t remember. “Am I hungry?” I thought to myself as I felt my stomach growling perhaps.”I’m probably not.” I thought I heard a rumbling sound in the distance. I instinctively turned my head at the sudden noise and as my wounded neck glided against the coarse metal, the burning sensation overwhelmed my senses. “I want to scream” I thought. But I didn’t. It felt useless. It wouldn’t do me any good. Why was I here again? What was I doing? What did I do that I have to endure this? It’s been so long that I don’t even remember what I did. But I did do something. Something bad perhaps. Or did I? I probably did, that’s why I’m here. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. “Alright get on with it. All the other floors have been cleared. This is an emergency but don’t forget that these are not men we’re dealing with, they are animals and the most vicious ones of the bunch” The scurry of footsteps filled the corridor. The sharp sound of service boots striking against the stone floor was irritating. The old rusty gates were unlocked and opened wide with a cranking sound. Soon I noticed two silhouettes standing outside my door. The key was put in and the lock came undone with a click. The men in uniform walked inside in unison. One of them grabbed me by my right arm and hoisted me up. I exhaled deeply through gritted teeth in an effort to sustain the pain. “Hurry up will ya.” “Hold on a second, I can’t find the key here.” The man standing by door went through the key ring in his hands with scrutinous eyes. “What do you mean you can’t find the key?” “I can’t. When was the last time we let him out anyways?” “Not in forever.” “Well its not here.” “So what are we supposed to do? Just leave him be?” “Yes! Please.” I thought. “Leave him for now.” said the main with the key ring as he walked out of the room. The other guard let go of my hand and I fell down with a thud. He looked at me with a sharp gaze before leaving. The door was left open. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. The long chains clanked again. They use those when multiple prisoners are to be transported at once. In all the time I’ve been here, I can only recall one or two instances when those were used. It seems like all the prisoners are being mobilized. The other tower had been cleared first, then this one, and now finally the underground cells. There was a sudden flash of light in the room. I could tell even through closed eyes and before I could even open them, the roaring sound of thunder shrouded every other noise. Everything fell silent for a moment, outside the room. Then the panic exploded. “Drag them by their necks if you have to, I don’t care. I want everyone garrisoned outside within the next ten minutes” someone shouted with a tone of authority. My back slipped against the wall and my head crashed into the filthy cold floor. I really wanted the noise to stop. I wanted my peace back. Having my head against the floor wasn’t helping but I didn’t feel like moving anymore. I curled up like a baby. I just wanted the noise to stop. It did eventually. It seemed that they got everyone out before ten minutes were over and I was finally at peace, or so I thought before realizing that two pair of footsteps were headed towards me. “Alright pick him up.” Through my now blurry vision I saw the same guard walk up to me. He pulled me up by right arm again. I couldn’t tell if he knew and was doing it intentionally or fate was playing one of its cruel tricks on me again. I looked over to the other guard to see that he was carrying a large saw, one that needed to be held by both hands. “Alright look, we can’t find the key to your shackles and we don’t really have the time to search for it. So we’re just going to have to cut them open. We’ll start with the one on your neck.” “No, get the ones on his arms first” said the first guard and then he pulled on my arm to stretch out the chain on the shakle. “No” I gasped through gritted teeth in pain. “Huh?” “Don’t do that. Its broken” I could only muster enough strength to whisper the words to him. “Never mind that” he said. “Get on with it.” It was easy for him to say so, easy to look at the bigger picture I suppose. The second man walked upto me and began sawing away at the chain all the while the first guard held my arm in a twisted position. The monotonous screeching sound soon blended into the surrounding noises. But the pain didn’t. I’m not usually bothered by the broken shoulder since I seldom move my hand. But this man was holding it in such a way that it was unbearable. I was going to break any second. I took a glance at the determined look on the man’s face with which he was sawing, swallowed any guilt that I wasn’t bothered by and screamed at the top of my voice “STOP.” Both of them looked at me in surprise. I suppose they weren’t expecting me to be capable of such a roar. “You see the clouds outside?The lightning? There’s a cyclone at the horizon. It will reach the shore by midnight and when it does, nothing will remain in this godforsaken island. The ship leaves in another hour. We can still make it on ti-” “Just stop” I whispered this time. “You don’t understa-” ”That’s enough” said the first man and he let go of my arm. I fell on my face this time. It hurt but the cold floor felt good for once. I heard one pair of footsteps walk away. I somehow managed to lift my face to see what the owner of the other pair was upto. He was looking down on me. I knew that look all too well. It conveyed both sympathy and disgrace. He dropped the saw on the floor and turned towards the door. I could hear him exhale deeply. He walked with firm steps on the cold stone floor. I lost my consciousness to the fading sound of the footsteps. | 7,777 | 1 |
Somewhere in northern Louisiana, there lies a sleepy town shrouded in fog, where stories of the supernatural were as common as the daily bread, there stood a mansion known to the locals as the “Heartbeat House.” The name derives from the peculiar, almost rhythmic thumping sounds that echoed through its walls at night—sounds that were too deliberate to be the work of old plumbing or settling foundations. The mansion was inhabited by a peculiar family: a father, his son from a previous marriage, his new wife with extraordinarily large dimensions, and his first wife, a woman afflicted with a rare combination of medical conditions that left her that it was a medical marvel she could still walk. its name whispered in hushed tones by the locals, a monument to a chilling tale of love, loss, and the uncanny. The house, however, also bore witness to a grim chapter that would forever echo through its halls. as it was marked by an eerie silence that soon gave way to a haunting symphony of disembodied heartbeats, each distinct in its rhythm and tone. The son, an introverted teenager named Eli, a curious soul, had always been fascinated by the occult, learning about it and watching videos of the paranormal and the like. sometimes describing himself a goth and going to his father's study room and reading old books. during his free time, he delved into so-called ancient rituals. His biological mother, Marianne, despite being Christian, hated her son doing that stating that it is the devil's work and wonders why she even gave birth to such a child. with her unusual heart conditions and her equally unusual figure, often felt like a living embodiment of the arcane mysteries Eli read about in his medical books. Marianne used to grow up in a small, conservative town, the kind where everyone knows each other's business. She was always a standout, not just for her intellect but for her striking appearance, but that soon changed when she was marked by her unusual gigantomastia later in her adulthood. Despite facing challenges and health issues related to her condition, Marianne pursued a career in nursing, driven by a desire to help others and make a tangible difference. Her meeting with Eli's father was serendipitous, a blend of curiosity and fate. Marianne's heart condition became a significant part of her life, shaping her existence in profound ways. while was sick, because she was taking drugs, and that she was secretly a drug addict not wanting to bring ever shame to her son. She was later diagnosed with macromastia, then later gigantomastia. His mother has cardiomegaly and cardiomyopathy, causing her heart to grotesquely enlarge. But that wasn't over; the next year she was found to have a grapefruit-sized thoracic aortic aneurysm with a class II thoracoabdominal aortic aneurysm. Then later on that month, there was a pulmonary artery aneurysm that was abnormally big and a pulmonary venous aneurysm. and just a year later, rare fusiform superior and inferior vena cava aneurysms. This was all caused by her stress and a family history of heart conditions. Sadly, by also being a drug addict, injecting herself with liquid cocaine made it far worse than anyone imagined. her doctors and cardiologists even tried to beg her to undergo surgery as it would save her life. nut by being a Christian conservative hated the idea of having blood transfusions and surgery, as she believed that she was in God's hands. How she is still alive is beyond their understanding and to her son's. but nevertheless, she was still my mom. Despite her being a tall, slim woman (6'6"), she was still trying to attract my dad; she had even been popping breast enhancement pills. until it was becoming a detriment to her health, so she had been baker acted just for her health and safety by her husband as he couldn't see his ex-wife in such a state. But it was Marianne’s condition that truly captivated Eli, her heart being a nexus of both his love and his deepest fears. He just feels bad for her. However, when his dad divorced his mom and remarried this physically fit, voluptuous woman who was into modeling and used to be such a gym rat, instead she was into plastic surgery and makeup having Body dysmorphic disorder or BDD, which is a mental health condition in which you can't stop thinking about one or more perceived defects or flaws in your appearance — a flaw that appears minor or can't be seen by everyone. But for her, she might've felt so embarrassed, ashamed and anxious that she may avoid many social situations by having implants. despite having so many followers in Instagram, twitter and Facebook and secretly by having an Only Fans account that even his father hasn't known about. Eli may have felt bad for his father but his taste in women was unusual. She was a shrewd and evil woman. His stepmother, Helena, was a towering presence, both in stature and personality; her physique was sculpted and exaggerated to the point of disbelief, presumably having giant saline implants. only caring for herself and her modeling work. until she was having bad behavior and even abusing me whenever his father wasn't around. and now that he was away on his business trip to Toronto for three weeks for the auction of prized artifacts. Helene's life was always centered around physical fitness and appearance. From her teenage years, she was deeply involved in sports, transitioning into bodybuilding as she grew older. Her dedication turned her into somewhat of a local celebrity, and eventually, she found success as a fitness model, her unique attribute's setting her apart in the industry in social media. This aspect of her life led to a form of athletic heart syndrome, a condition she thought that she managed carefully, balancing her health with the demands of her career. Meeting Eli's father was a whirlwind of shared interests in physical and mystical disciplines, though she never fully embraced the latter's darker inclinations. But it was Marianne’s condition that truly captivated Eli, her heart being a nexus of both his love and his deepest fears. Everything is going to get worse for him. But his stepmom was soon becoming an addict herself, being a plastic surgery junky, as she had these breast implants, and soon, month after month, she increased their size to a staggering triple z cup and 10,040 cc’s. but despite this athletic heart syndrome (AHS) and exercise-induced cardiomegaly. even though the condition is generally considered benign, it may occasionally hide a serious medical condition or may even be mistaken for one. But for her, she didn't care; beauty was what she wanted. but it was getting to be embarrassing. I just don't know what my dad sees in this woman. he remembered that he had a heart-to-heart conversation with his father. as he opened up to saying that everyone at his school knows about his stepmother and the gossip that surrounds her and his mother. So, in the dimly lit study, surrounded by ancient tomes and artifacts, Eli's father often spoke of the world's hidden wonders. His life's work had taken him from the scholarly halls of academia to the remote corners of the earth, seeking the threads that connect the physical to the mystical. His fascination with extremes of human form, including his appreciation for women with large breasts, was part of his broader quest to understand the limits and potentials of human existence. "To me," he once explained to Eli, under the glow of a single lamp, "the human body is a map of countless stories, each mark, each curve holding its mysteries. My interest in ample forms, like those of your mother and Helene, is rooted in this same curiosity and awe. It's about the diversity of human experience, the physical embodiments of abundance and vitality that have been revered, mythologized, and even deified across cultures and epochs." This reverence was not without its complexities. Marianne and Helene, each in their way, navigated the world burdened and blessed by their physicality. They were acutely aware of the gaze they attracted, often laden with uninvited assumptions and desires. Yet, within the family's private sanctuary, they found a space where their forms were celebrated as part of the vast tapestry of human diversity—a celebration deeply tied to Eli's father's beliefs and studies. For Eli, it was a complete and utter nonsense hearing the words coming from his father's mouth. When he ran down the stairs, he saw it was none other than his mom, sickly, gaunt, and pale. but seeing those two have those large round breasts was embarrassing for him. Until they looked at him and started to argue with him and even curse profanity. Calling him a mistake and saying that my mom wished that she had an abortion, saying that it was the cause of her problems. His stepmom blames me for not having my dad focus on her. And it was going to be the worst Mother's Day ever for him. Eli had stumbled upon an ancient grimoire in the attic one dusty afternoon. Its pages whispered secrets of the unknown, of powers that could bend the very fabric of reality. The book spoke to him, its words intertwining with his own veins, urging him to delve deeper into the shadowy arts. It promised knowledge, power, and perhaps a way to cure his mother’s ailments. Seduced by the possibility of wielding such power, Eli began experimenting with rituals and spells under the cloak of night, ignorant of the forces he was about to unleash. Now Eli's father, Jonathan, is a man of complex history and mysterious talents. He's an academic by training, holding a Ph.D. in Anthropology and History, with a deep interest in occult practices and their historical contexts. Throughout his career, he's traveled extensively, researching ancient rituals, forgotten cults, and supernatural phenomena. Despite his academic credentials, he's always harbored a belief in the darker corners of magic, leading him to collect rare artifacts and grimoires. His marriage to Marianne brought stability, but his secretive pursuits often created distance within the family. One stormy evening, with the mansion enveloped by the relentless grip of a tempest, Eli decided to perform a ritual he believed could grant him control over life itself. The mansion’s peculiar ambiance intensified, its heartbeat-like sounds growing louder, almost in anticipation. In the ritual's climax, Eli unwittingly summoned a demon, a creature from the abyss, drawn by the promise of two unique hearts dwelling within the mansion's walls. The demon, a grotesque manifestation of darkness, materialized with intentions far from benevolent. It sought the hearts of Marianne and Helena, lured by their extraordinary conditions. Marianne’s enlarged, labyrinthine heart, burdened by its own mass and the network of aneurysms that clung to it like parasites, and Helena’s robust, athletic heart, both became objects of the demon’s desire. The entity saw in them trophies—sources of power to be kept. In the chaotic crescendo of that fateful night, as shadows danced with the tempest outside, the demon, with unholy precision, reached into the very essences of Marianne and Helena, extracting their hearts with a malevolence and with terrifying precision that was palpable in the air. Marianne's heart, a grotesque marvel of medical anomalies, was a sight to behold. Enlarged to more than thrice the size of a normal heart, it was a tangled mass of flesh, veins, and aneurysms. The superior vena cava and inferior vena cava aneurysms bulged ominously, resembling twisted vines on the verge of bursting. The thoracic and thoracoabdominal aortic aneurysms, swollen to the size of a grapefruit, gave the heart an almost alien appearance. Pulmonary artery and venous aneurysms added to this bizarre tableau, creating a heart that was as terrifying as it was fascinating. Boom-BOOM... Boom-BOOM... Helena's heart, though vastly different in its pathology, was no less extraordinary. It was robust, enlarged by her athletic endeavors to a degree that spoke of both strength and an unnatural stretching of natural limits. Her heart, though not marred by the aneurysms that plagued Marianne's, pulsed with a vigor that was unnatural; its chambers and vessels thickened, a testament to her body's adaptation to extreme physical demands. Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-thud... Chaos ensued as the demon, with terrifying precision, extracted their enlarged hearts from both of these women. The mansion, once filled with the peculiar yet familiar rhythms of life, now resonated with the screams of its inhabitants. Eli, in horror, realized the grave mistake his dabbling had caused. His pursuit of power had not only endangered his family but had also desecrated the sanctity of life itself. Their blood splattered all over the marble floor became a pool, and the smell of iron was so strong that Eli became dreary and nauseous, at to a point to vomiting on himself. The demon stared at the boy, chanting in venomous words sucking the energy right out of the room. The demon held these hearts in its shadowy appendages, contemplating them and for a moment, the very air seemed to throb with their power. Marianne’s heart, despite its grotesque enlargement and the myriad of dilated aneurysms that adorned it, still beat with a rhythm that was eerily human, a testament to the life it once sustained. Helena's, on the other hand, pulsed with a force that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, reflecting the immense physical power of her enlarged heart that she once wielded. In the eerie silence that followed by the demon's actions, the once-vibrant mansion, now shrouded in a veil of despair, bore witness to an unexpected turn. The demon, in a move that seemed to mock the very essence of life and death, appointed the boy, the son caught in the crossfire of ambition and occult practices, as the caretaker of the two hearts that once beat within his mother, Marianne, and his stepmother, Helena until his death. These organs, are now grotesque trophies of a dark ritual gone awry, were imbued with a sinister vitality, continuing to beat even after their extraction. Eli, his soul torn between grief and an unsettling sense of duty, due to his mistake, accepted his role as the guardian of these pulsating relics. The hearts, encased in two large, decorative wooden chests that the demon had carved, were suspended in a realm between life and death, their rhythmic beating a constant reminder of the women they once animated. Placing Marianne's enlarged heart, with its labyrinth of dilated aneurysms and twisted vessels, throbbed with a somber cadence, while Helena's robust and unnaturally enlarged heart pulsed with a vigor that belied its tragic fate within that cursed wooden chests. When Eli's father, Jonathan, returned home from his three-week business trip from Toronto, he was totally unprepared for the eerie transformation that had overtaken his once familiar abode. The air was thick with an inexplicable tension, a silent warning of the altered reality within the walls of his home. The usual vibrancy that greeted him, the warmth that had once been the essence of their family life, was conspicuously absent, replaced by a cold stillness that seemed to resonate from the very foundation of the house. As Jonathan stepped inside, he began to have an unusually bad feeling as the change was palpable. The ambient light seemed to flicker unnaturally, casting long, stretching shadows that danced with a life of their own. The house was silent, yet it was a silence filled with whispers, the kind that prickled at the back of his neck, a constant reminder that he was not alone. The heartbeats, though Jonathan had yet to understand their origin or significance, were the most disturbing development. They pulsed through the house with a rhythm that was both foreign and intimately familiar, echoing in the empty hallways and seeping into the recesses of his mind. These were not just auditory hallucinations; they were a manifestation of something profoundly unnatural that had rooted itself in the core of their home. As he ventured further, Jonathan could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him, a scrutinous gaze that seemed to bore into his very soul. The air grew colder, the atmosphere denser, as if the house itself was drawing breath, alive with the spirits that now dwelt within. When he finally reached the heart of the home, where the heartbeats seemed to converge, Jonathan was met with an overwhelming sense of loss and desperation. It was here, in the living room, transformed into a shrine of sorrow and longing, that he finally discovered the corpses of Marianne and Helene. He could hear their cries, barely audible whispers carried on the air, told a tale of anguish and entrapment, a perpetual state of in-between that tethered them to the physical world. he collapsed in tears, dropping to his knees, as he watched the horror before him. The realization of what had transpired in his absence, the horrific fate that had befallen his ex-wife that he tried to save, and his current wife, hit Jonathan with the force of a tidal wave. Guilt, sorrow, and an indescribable fear mingled within him for not being there, a cocktail of emotions that left him paralyzed. His home, once a sanctuary of love and family, had become a prison of memories and spirits, a haunted mausoleum that held the remnants of his past life. he noticed that his son was nowhere to be seen. he called Eli out, hoping to get an answer, his heart pounded in his chest hoping that his son is safe, looking in and around his house. When Jonathan found Eli, the scene before him was one of surreal horror and inexplicable sorrow. His son was huddled in a dimly lit corner of the attic, the air thick with a palpable sense of dread. In front of Eli, on a makeshift altar, lay two pulsating hearts, their beats syncopated yet hauntingly beautiful in their tragic chorus. The hearts, grotesquely enlarged and veined, beat with a life of their own, ensnared in a ritual of preservation that defied the natural order. Jonathan's gaze shifted from the hearts to his son, witnessing the torment and obsession that had consumed Eli. The realization that these beating hearts belonged to Marianne and Helene, now forever bound to this world through their son's misguided love and the dark arts, filled Jonathan with a profound despair. In this attic, time seemed to stand still, the only sound the unyielding rhythm of two hearts that refused to be silenced, even in death. In that moment, Jonathan understood the true cost of the dark arts that Eli had dabbled in, the irreversible path that had led them to this nightmarish reality. His house, with its disembodied heartbeats and ghostly apparitions, was a stark reminder of the barrier they had crossed, a boundary that was never meant to be breached. As he stood there, engulfed by the haunting melody of the heartbeats, Jonathan knew that their lives had been irrevocably changed. The house, a character in its own right, had become a living testament to the consequences of their actions, a place where the past and present merged in a perpetual dance of shadows and light, love and loss, life and death. Eli, now the caretaker of these throbbing diabolical relics, understood the gravity of his role. He became a bridge between the living and the spectral, communicating with the imprisoned spirits, offering solace, and seeking redemption for the roles they all played in this tragedy. The mansion, with its dark history and spectral occupants, became a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the veil between worlds was thin and where love, loss, and penance intertwined. there are some nights where unwanted visitors who come to the house, wanting to know if the stories were true, report hearing these heartbeats, accompanied by spectral cries and screams that pierce the silence, manifestations of Marianne and Helene’s unrest. Some even claim to see their apparitions, women of ethereal beauty, with glowing orbs in their chests where their hearts once resided, beating in a ghostly rhythm, illuminating their path through the darkness. The haunting began subtly, with neighbors reporting faint sounds in the dead of night, akin to the beating of a heart, rhythmic and relentless. These sounds, initially dismissed as figments of an overactive imagination, grew in intensity as they began calling it the Heartbeat House. | 20,487 | 1 |
I've always been naturally gifted physically. Growing up, my mother would constantly tell me to not show off, to be careful how I played with the other children, and to never hurt anyone unless I had no other choice. My parents had me a little later in life. My mother, Kara, always called me their little miracle child. My Father, Martin, would always call me the unintended mouth to feed. That comment always got him a pop from ma. I have an older brother and sister. My brother, Martinson, is 12 years older than me, and my sister, Karin, is 10 years older than me. My parents owned and ran the local tavern/inn, The Setting Sun Inn, in town. We lived in a smaller building connected to the inn. By the time I was 12 my parents had retired, my brother was running the inn, my sister was married to the local blacksmith, with a child on the way, and I would help out at the inn in the kitchen. I always had a knack for cooking. When I wasn't helping out at the inn I was out about the village helping anyone that needed it. One day when I was about 15 I was gathering wild herbs for the kitchen when I heard screaming. I ran to it as fast as I could. A woman and her child, travelers by the looks of the, had been chosen the be the dinner of a hungry Constrictor Snake that had wandered too close to the road. The snake was already around the mother, and not letting go. Her daughter, who couldn't have been more than 10, was trying her darnedest to get the snake off her mother. I jumped in without a second thought, and with only the knife I had been using to gather herbs, I jumped onto the snake’s head and started stabbing it over and over again, until it let go of the mother, and started to come after me. I told the mother and child to run to the village and go to the Setting Sun, and they would be safe there. After they ran away it was just me and the snake. It bit me once, luckily it wasn't poisonous, but I managed to wiggle out of its mouth. I picked up a thick stick, and when it tried again I shoved the stick in its mouth and caused it to be stuck open. The snake and I went back and forth for what seemed like an hour, until it drew its last breath, and I was lying on the ground trying to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard dozens of footsteps heading my way. I looked over and saw my brother, Father, brother-in-law, and half a dozen of the other village men running my way. They were amazed that not only was I still alive, but I had killed the snake with nothing more than a small knife and a stick. My father spoke to me after I had my wounds looked to. He told me I was put in this world for greater things than just to help out at our family inn. I earned a nickname from that event. People started calling me the wanderer, because I seemed to also wander in wherever there was someone in help of help. A month later my brother-in-law gifted me a sword and said that if I was going to keep putting my life on the line I should have a proper weapon to do it with. My father was a soldier in his much younger days, so he taught me how to use it, and to sense the unseen around me. He would say, "We humans have a disadvantage in the dark, our eyes are useless. You have to learn to rely on all your other senses in those situations." He called it blindsight. Sadly, two years later, when I was 17, my father passed away in his sleep. I will always miss him, but I will never forget his teachings. When I was 18 I helped found our village's protector group. We called ourselves the Bright Cloaks, because we figured if we all wore brightly colored cloaks it would help people find us easier. I was considered too young to run The Bright Cloaks, but I was a founding member. I worked with them for two years helping keep the village and surrounding area safe. Until one day a group of adventurers wandered into town and was staying at my family inn. I was tasked with making sure they stayed inline while in town. But all they did while in town was asked if anyone needed help, bought up everything at the local apothecary, blacksmith, general store, and our inn, and told stories about grand adventures at night about faraway lands, dangerous beasts, damsels in distress, evil wizards, and helping those how couldn't help themselves. I was entranced by their stories. After the third night of them being there I had made up my mind. I knew what I was meant to do with my life. Estin The Wanderer was going to be an adventurer. I sat down with my mother, brother, sister, and brother-in-law the next day to tell them. All they had to say was, "It took you long enough to figure that one out." Ma went into her bedroom and brought back an Explorer's Pack and handed it to me. My brother handed me cook's utensils and told me not to let my skills get rusty. My sister handed me a shield and told me to stay safe, and her husband looked at her and then at me and said, "If you are going to take things out of my shop to help your brother without asking me, you might as well have grabbed something better than a simple shield." He proceeded to reach under the table and handed me a beautiful breastplate. I looked at them all and said, "I'll come home one day filled with all the stories of me helping as many people as I can out there, and all the advantages I have." I gathered everything they gave me, walked out to the common area of the inn, and asked if I might travel with those adventurers for a while. After a while they agreed. I took another day to say all my goodbyes, and we were off. It has been three years since I have left home, and I wouldn't trade this life for anything. | 5,638 | 1 |
My next scouting trip, didn't yield anything big, but, the troop movement reports are always welcome. Fyregeld had returned before I did, in the moments of fading light, that is evening. Lankensy made his arrival to the scene too, I sensed an explosion of dark arcane energy. The effects are nonexistent but, this is confirmation that the resurrection method we suspected is correct. Both Fyregeld and I sensed the explosion, I am able to read it from his gaze to the horizon and from the direction I mentioned the nexi is. I looked to that direction as well. Lankensy is confused of both of our behavior. 'Dark arcane eruption, I assume.' Jakan states calmly but, unhappy that his suspicions have weight. Ghaudun is somehow involved with the undead resurgence here, I assume and have same suspicions myself. 'Yes, it just went off small moment ago, we are safe from it.' Fyregeld states straightly and, I guess somewhat relieved that he was not in the blast zone. I had intent on speaking my mind but, Fyregeld was faster. Lankensy nodded, seemingly remembering, being briefed by Tyrelia about our discoveries. 'That it was, just as lord Fyregeld stated, we are safe. This is what I have discovered during my last scouting trip.' State calmly to all present. Jakan takes out his log book and begins copying what I have written, making the necessary writings to indicate that this is shared information too. As he writes he briefs Fyregeld and Lankensy on what I have sighted. 'They haven't yet discovered that we are keeping them under surveillance, their organization skills are immature compared to the militaries of either Ghaudun or Valerie. They are however, at least slightly acting like a military and do know something.' Jakan states, words weighed by observations made. Not serious but, far from jubilant of the situation. 'We need to begin carving a path to my home town, as soon as possible. It is in critical need of supplies. Water, food, clothing, armor, arms and money.' Lankensy states in serious tone as he looks at the map and at the fresh marking he made with a piece of charcoal. Jakan considers what the hero of riven war just stated. 'That is dangerous, we would be better off just focusing on carving more territory from undead occupiers to our north than a quick relief mission. We would need to cover the convoy going to both directions.' Jakan replies thinking about situation. I noticed a big difference in Lankensy's overall mood and behavior, he is being affected by the presence of great amount of dark arcane energy. 'I already proposed to the castle commanders that we would use infantry to drag as much as possible of the undead into a battle and keep them occupied as long as possible, for a convoy which guard is purely made from cavalry to make a dash for the town to resupply it.' Lankensy states, not giving the offensive a speck of thought. Jakan looks at Lankensy, with some disapproval for the lack of thought to the offensive actions until the convoy arrives. 'We shouldn't sit and wait here, it wasn't too long ago when the undead seized pressing the walls. The more we raid their formations, the more time we have for everything else.' Jakan states calmly, observing how Lankensy will react. Lankensy almost got angry, sighs in frustrated tone and thinks. 'Your home survived the war, these offensive maneuvers will ensure, that it will not be put under more pressure, deep strike to their rear formations, will cause chaos, require reorganization and relieve pressure from your home.' Jakan states calmly making eye contact with Lankensy, who wasn't at all keen on looking back. 'Wake up already, hero. We can not spare the current resources here to assist your town without compromising our future actions in this crisis. If this castle is lost, your home, IS lost.' Jakan says with seriousness and challenging Lankensy's proposal. Lankensy almost looked like he wanted to hit Jakan for such a statement. Jakan didn't at all react to Lankensy's aggravated posture, he points at the map and at the areas the undead control, such an escort mission is too dangerous with the current forces Valerie has here. Lankensy relents, probably choosing patience and reasonable approach proposed by Jakan. Currently undead control most of the surrounding area of where castle is positioned to, north east and south east zones were under major threats but, with the recent clashes those areas have become far more stable and with the new strongholds established. They are slowly being secured and armed forces of Valerie are slowly wrestling control of those zones. Lankensy calms down and listens, giving Jakan a nod to continue. 'As your home town is to the north of here, I recommend, swift skirmishes towards there, drag as many undead formations and pull them in to a surprise battle, here.' Jakan tells his plan. Motioning on the map which formations they would skirmish with, where they would set up hidden formations and engage undead in a pitched battle which would be highly in our favor, if everything goes according to the plan. 'Commanders proposed this same, stating this would be the best way to secure the route of the convoy... I just don't want them to suffer...' Lankensy states upset and worried. 'Everybody here, is already suffering, such is the influence of the undead, on the living. After seeing them during those research expeditions of dark nexi, I knew this would slowly cause problems.' Jakan states seriously and holding contempt towards the undead, probably more specifically towards those who raised them. 'Tell me more about your experiences on these expeditions.' Lankensy says having calmed down and blinks slowly, sitting down on a chair near of the table. Jakan quickly finished writing up what I have written on my own log book. 'They radiate the very dark arcane that raised them, those with prolonged exposure in combat with them, tend to act in stressed manner and anxious. Sir Lankensy, I advice you would draw strength from memories that make you feel at ease and remain in company of somebody most dear to you. It will slowly strengthen your ward against the dark arcane and help you recover from increased influence of dark arcane.' Jakan advices calmly. 'Ward, what do you mean?' Lankensy asks, interested to hear more. 'Against all arcanes, we can generate a magical ward that reduces their effects on us. As it is most likely your next question, reasons why we are sturdier towards the dark arcane should be quite obvious.' Jakan says warmly. Lankensy thinks for a while. 'Yes, I remember some things. Both of you are from Ghaudun and thus are quite familiar with effects of dark arcane that is being researched. I only now reminded myself that, you, Volarie, have blood connection with the shadow dragons who are quite artists of the arcane and have great knowledge of it's effects. Meanwhile you have been trained to combat them for a very long time, ever since you became a groundskeeper of the academy in Ghaudun. It makes sense.' Lankensy says and closes his eyes, seems to relax and look inside of himself. We give him a moment. He opens his eyes again and seems to be a bit more at ease now. 'Have any of your fellow heroes acted in same manner as you have?' Jakan asks sounding concerned. 'No, it is probably my growing concern for my home town and those around me that has eroded the ward you speak of. Only now remembered that Seirialia talked about this ward a long time ago. Thank you for reminding me about this. We should gather for another war meeting tomorrow.' Lankensy says suggesting this to us. 'When I am done with the next morning's scouting mission, I will gladly partake in the meeting.' Tell to Lankensy warmly. Lankensy's behavior came as a surprise to me but, when Jakan talked about his research expeditions, it reminded of a story of one of the experiences he had in one of them. 'Next day, I won't need support to be at the table. I can move around just fine on my own.' Jakan adds. 'Lord Fyregeld, how are you feeling from the dark arcane eruption?' I ask from red dragon. 'I am feeling fine, this came as a surprise to me but, I am glad to be aware of this now. I would like to take part in the war meeting too, sir Lankensy.' Fyregeld states, he seems to have slightly warmer attitude towards both of us. 'I would welcome your experience and knowledge taking part in the meeting Fyregeld. Thank you for your council Jakan, your lords have most certainly retained a great talent in both arms and wisdom from what you have experienced. I look forward to see you in action myself.' Lankensy says warmly and is shaking off the anxiety and stress caused by influence of dark arcane. 'So do I, sir Lankensy. So do I.' Jakan replies warmly. Such tone is not too surprising from him, must be due to the groundskeeper job and operative training from our lords, that he saw usage of wide variety of speaking tones is definitely useful. Lankensy departed with the map and went back to the keep. I and Fyregeld look into each other's eyes, we stare deep and long. I always felt the warmth of his very presence, the more radiating type, like from a fire. I feel strange though, searching the source of that feeling, deep breath and closing my own eyes slowly. Shadow dragon's blood... Which has mixed into my own... Sharp pain went through my chest and as if a dagger pulled off from my chest, then it suddenly wasn't painful anymore, I opened my eyes and feel seriously dizzy, nauseus but, so warm... 'Jakan, she is.' Fyregeld says as Jakan immediately stood up from the chair and helps me to take a seat. 'The shadow dragon blood, this was expected.' Jakan states somewhat worried about me. I close my eyes again as they feel so heavy. 'Is Volarie going to be okay?' Fyregeld asks with some concern in his voice. 'She is going to be fine but, she is going to face these moments of unstable health, throughout her life, just like any blood connection sharing individual.' Jakan says as I open my eyes and look into his eyes. 'Hmm... I should have remembered. Volarie, how do you feel?' Fyregeld says. 'Awful.' State calmly to him but, still feeling like I am ill. 'It is blood connection deepening, I was looking into your eyes to gauge how connected you are but, it looked odd.' Fyregeld says now knowing why. 'Just relax and focus on it.' Jakan says calmly, focusing on what I am feeling. I sense... Dark, it has a silhouette, it is a shadow, of me. Arcane, energy courses through me, I feel... Stronger? Agile and vigorous? Feeling of illness starts to subside but, I feel so tired... 'Sleepy...' Manage to utter and fall asleep. Felt something familiar from waking up back then when I lived few months with the shadow dragons, which awakened me. I got up and notice that I am in my tent. Then I remember what happened before I fell asleep. Exiting my tent, it seems both Fyregeld and Jakan also went to get some sleep when I passed out. Now I hear Jakan sleeping, I needed to just get a little bit closer, began my typical morning routine. I do feel slightly stronger, agile and vigorous than yesterday. Did the blood connection deepening trigger because I was staring into eyes of Fyregeld? Because what I remember, it is individual unique matter. Or could it have been the heat? Dragon blood after all is hotter than human blood... Jakan woke up and got out of his tent. 'Good morning Volarie, are you feeling better?' Jakan asks sounding relieved and content that I am well. 'Good morning Jakan, I feel better now. You look better, you don't seem to be in pain anymore.' Reply to him, warmly and smile to him.'I most certainly feel a lot better, anything different?' Jakan replies and stretches slightly. 'Something arcane related, stronger, agile and vigorous. Any idea what caused that?' State to him, feeling slightly glad that I am well again. 'There has been a lot of debate about it, most likely time related, maybe heat helped a bit? After all dragons do have a higher body temperature than we do, but, I am just guessing.' Jakan replies, he was slightly grumpy, looked little bit in agony and bored during the exertion recovery period. 'Should we go do some scouting?' Ask from Jakan as it would help a lot. 'Yes, once we have eaten. Be prepared for patrols though, other scouts might have been sighted and, they most likely have taken steps to conceal their movements and try to keep us in the dark.' Jakan replies, I do remember him mentioning that concern. We eat a ration pack of the day and begin traveling through the gates as we do. 'Did Fyregeld go sleep somewhere else?' I ask from Jakan as it would make sense that he would keep distance, just so everybody in the castle wouldn't get wrong ideas of Fyregeld becoming our friend too quickly. 'Yes, took me some convincing but, eventually he did go sleep somewhere else, agreeing with my reasoning of too warm relations, as some in here might already know about how you two met each other.' Jakan states remembering the conversation it seems. 'Probably felt strange afterwards.' Reply to him calmly and guessing how Fyregeld might have felt about what happened. 'Most likely, you haven't tried your limits yet with the arcane?' Jakan says, not concerned but, wants to know. 'No, not sure how I would respond to the dark arcane effects now. In a controlled setting, I will reach out for that.' Say to him with honesty. He replies with a nod of approval. We go scouting around, seeing plenty of troop movement. 'They are third away from able to besiege the main castle again.' Jakan whispers, to which I nod. Lightning raids have bought us plenty of time but, we need to turn things to our favor again. We spot few Valerie scouting parties, Jakan quickly just states quietly as possible, that it is good that they are also doing reconnaissance too. Here's to hoping they won't get caught, which he motions with agreed hand sign language. Once we had scouted around and visited deep enough in the undead territory, we saw some cultists, they have been warped by the dark arcane, they don't at all look like normal human beings. They also behave in weird manner. Both of us record everything and start making our way back to the castle. Just as we were discussing what we saw, both of us noticed Lankensy and Seirialia approaching. 'Good morning sir Lankensy and lady Seirialia.' Jakan states looking at both of the heroes of Riven War. I also greet them. 'Good morning Jakan and Volarie. We are getting ready for the meeting, and, by looks of it, both of you already went scouting.' Lankensy says as he observes the map between me and Jakan on the table. 'Yes, we are almost done on making the markings on the map. Are you well now sir?' Jakan replies, stating the progress but, wants to know how Lankensy is. 'I am feeling bit better now. Slowly but, surely.' Lankensy replies and we begin briefing the two heroes of Riven War on what we have sighted, same time finalized the report. 'When do the mages arrive?' Jakan asks when we were done do briefing them.'Tomorrow, they would increase our capacity in distance combat and help keeping soldiers safe from harmful magics.' Lankensy says, and thinks about the situation. 'Hopefully they have some senior staff too. Seirialia shouldn't be the only one who teaches about the situation here from arcane viewpoint.' Jakan states, hoping for an answer. 'They do, not many but, enough for handling the students.' Lankensy replies calmly and thinks.'Both of you do thorough job on these reports. You must have been practicing a plenty.' Seirialia states evaluating our work, seeing at easy to comprehend and easy to recognize where and what we saw. 'Learned most from Jakan and practice has paid off.' Reply swiftly and calmly. 'Indeed, due to the meeting today, we weren't able to scout deeper in the occupied area. Tomorrow, I would prefer to conduct a thorough reconnaissance to the north west of this main castle, and west of your home town sir Lankensy.' Jakan states his plans. 'Sounds good to me, I will be waiting you at the north gate myself tomorrow.' Lankensy states warmly, probably eager to hear what we would have for the report when we get back. 'I recommend that you sir, and lady Seirialia would always work in proximity of the mages what comes on combat.' Jakan adds, Lankensy looked like for a moment having something against this but, thinks about it a little bit more. 'I agree, their safety is slightly higher in priority than other troops in our command.' Lankensy states and Seirialia also agrees. 'It will take a while for everybody to have assembled at one of the castle yards.' Lankensy says and Fyregeld lands next to of us, prompting me and Jakan to calmly grab the ink pots and seal them so they don't spill over. Lankensy holds the map against the table slightly. 'Good mid day to you Fyregeld.' Lankensy says warmly and rest of us greet Fyregeld too. 'Good mid day to you all. You seem to be well now Volarie.' Fyregeld says, having a moment thought about this being little bit awkward moment. Seirialia was somewhat confused, Lankensy blinks rapidly having no clue what Fyregeld is talking about. 'Now I remember. Individuals with dragon blood have moments of unstable health when the blood's influence spreads.' Seirialia says, remembering what she must have read. 'Oh, right...' Lankensy says being partially surprised by the topic but, remembering what is going on. 'Anything different from yesterday?' Seirialia asks fascinated to hear my answer. 'I feel a little bit stronger, agile and vigorous, maybe a better connection to arcane. I haven't had time to really find the limits yet. This was first time I experienced something like that.' Reply to Seirialia. She thinks for a while. 'Half what you described is quite common from what I remember and other half is more rare. Stronger and vigorous are the more common, while more agile and better arcane connection are more rare. Most likely due to your operative training though. You have far more diverse set of skills to cultivate than many other dragon blood kin.' Seirialia says her thoughts. 'That could be it, I usually do not spend so much time shadow striding or sneak around and stay on the move as much as possible.' Reply to Seirialia when I think about it. That is something worth keeping in my mind from here on... | 18,410 | 2 |
Once a noble oath of the crown paladin of the human kingdom known as Veloria, in the capital city of Velor. Now a disgraced fallen paladin searching for the ones responsible for the murder of the royal family. Ashalamael Alexandros was an orphan, from the Orphanage of Alexandros. Ashalamael was too young when he was dropped off at the orphanage to know his true last name, and no last name was given when he was dropped off, but all orphans are given the last name stating what orphanage they are from in Veloria. In fact, besides his first name, the only other thing that was left with him was an ocarina, which he still carries with him today. He grew up on his own, but all the other children loved spending time with him, because on occasion Alexandros could sprout glowing white wings from his back, and he would fly around with the other children while the wings lasted. Because he was always naturally bigger and stronger than the others, he leaned toward keeping the other orphans safe. There was a moment in Alexandros’ life, when he was around 16, where he was doing just that, protecting the other younger, smaller orphans. Some local thugs were hassling the orphans, trying to convince them to do the thugs some not so legal favors in return for some coin. Alexandros always had a knack for reading lips, and he always had extremely good eyesight. Alexandros noticed the whole interaction, and he chose to intervene. Though Alexandros was only 16, he was already six feet tall, and quite muscular at that. People would listen when Alexandros spoke, some people would even swear that they were drawn to him, however Alexandros was not very good with his words, and people would often misunderstand what he was trying to say. This was just such an occasion. Alexandros, “Leave them alone, they don’t want anything to do with you, but if you insist on bothering them, I will.” Now, what Alexandros meant to say was, “Leave them alone, they are just children trying to get by in this town, but if you don’t leave them alone, I will be forced to call for the guard.” Alexandros was trying to be reasonable, but the thugs took what he said as a personal threat. Without saying anything in-kind, the thugs attacked Alexandros. This is not the first time the way Alexandros said something has gotten him into a fight, and it would not be the last, but that is another story. This was a four on one fight, which anyone watching would think was extremely unfair. But as it was mentioned earlier, Alexandros was strong. Alexandros took the first punch heading his way, but then he unleashed his wings. With his wings out, Alexandros was filled with divine energy, and he fought back. With one punch, Alexandros knocked out one of the thugs, and the others grabbed their friend, started running away, and saying, “We ain’t fightin no angel!” Some of the local guards saw what was going on and, and were about to step in, before Alexandros handled it. The guards approached and offered Alexandros a place within their ranks. Alexandros accepted the offer, thinking that it was a good opportunity. Alexandros moved through the ranks quickly, until one day he was promoted into the royal guard and trained as a paladin. He finally took pride in the name Alexandros and after a while wore it like a badge. A symbol showing how far he had risen from nothing. Alexandros was responsible for keeping the crowned prince safe from harm, a responsibility he took very seriously. One evening, while Alexandros had the night watch, the castle fell under attack by assassins. There was the sound of fighting and dying all over the castle, but Alexandros stood his post, ready to protect the prince. The other guard with Alexandros that night, Kalian, who was assigned to watch the princess across the hall, was a friend he had made during his paladin training, ran into the princesses’ room after they both heard screaming from within. Alexandros started to hear someone bump into something within the prince’s room, and stormed in. Alexandros saw two individuals clad in all black approaching the sleeping prince. Alexandros drew his glaive, the weapon he was trained with because his unique ability to fly gave him more reach and attacked the individuals. While defending the prince, one of the assassins that Alexandros was fighting stuck him with some kind of magic or poisoned blade that had a paralysis effect, making Alexandros watch the person he was charged with protecting die right in front of him. The assassins chose to leave Alexandros alive because, “He ain’t no threat.” After a few moments after they left Alexandros could move again. He looked at the prince, but couldn’t think of that now, there was still fighting going on. Alexandros ran across the hall. And saw a similar sight. The princess was also dead, but Kalian was nowhere to be seen. All Alexandros could find of Kalian was his shield on the ground next to the princesses’ broken window by a large puddle of blood. Alexandros left the room to go help anyone else he could find. However, it was too late, the fighting was over. Of all the royal guardians, Alexandros was the only one to survive the attack. Alexandros was quickly taken into custody and charged with treason and regicide. There were several noble families who were very vocal and adamant about this punishment. It would seem, however, that Alexandros’ good work and reputation would save him. Instead of execution, Alexandros punishment would be banishment. For failing to protect the prince, Alexandros was disgraced and exiled. For not being able to uphold his oath, Alexandros was now considered an oathbreaker, something, at least for now, Alexandros has chosen to embrace, because with that came power, a dark power that he was going to use. That night also cost Alexandros his wings. Since that night whenever he tries to bring out his wings, skeletal shadowy wings that cause fear in anyone close to him out instead, that do not allow him to fly. Exiled and alone, Alexandros wanders the land on a journey of redemption and revenge. After spending a few years searching, with no leads or direction, Alexandros was lost and alone. He kept hearing the same thing everywhere he went, “If yer lookin fer help, head to the Bastion.” So, after a while that is what Alexandros did. Alexandros went to Hope’s Bastion, an independent neutral city in the middle of the continent, full of would-be heroes and adventurers. Alexandros felt like he had no other choice but to venture to Hope's Bastion, seeing it as his last hope of finding any information that could lead him to his goal, leading him to those that took everything from him. | 6,677 | 0 |
"Reason #1 not to kill myself: Mom would be sad." This thought had occurred to me more times than I could count. It's hard to see the world as it truly is when you're trapped inside something; you lack perspective. Imagine spending most of your life in darkness, with no sun to guide you. The only memories you have of light are from your childhood, and they're hazy, fleeting recollections slipping through your fingers. That's how I felt growing up with my mother's suffocating love. Her constant belittlement, shouting, and emotional manipulation left me feeling trapped and powerless. Her love was tied to an unspoken condition: I had to be perfect. Any mistake, any slip-up, and her love weakened. It was emotional and psychological abuse that I thought was normal until I grew up. Despite everything, I couldn't end my life because of the impact it would have on her. It was unfair that I was the sole reason she continued to live. It was a heavy burden I carried every day. I longed to feel her love as genuine, to be unconditional, but it never was. As I grew older, I found myself tiptoeing around her, trying to avoid any misstep that would push her away from me. I couldn't struggle in school, never could talk back, and always had to be obedient. The slightest mistake resulted in a torrent of insults and shouts. I tried to be the perfect son, but it was never enough. I was depressed, anxious, and felt trapped. I wanted to escape, to free myself from her constant demands and criticisms, but I didn't know how. I was desperate for an escape, a way out of the suffocating darkness that had been my life for so long. And then, one day, I found a match on the ground and lit it, her name was Sara. The flame seemed to flicker and dance, casting a small but bright light around me. For the first time in a long time, I felt hope. It was a typical Sunday afternoon, and my mother had just called me for the third time that day. I didn't answer the first two times because I knew she would just criticize me for something. But eventually, I answered the third time, hoping she might have something different to say. "Hello, Mom," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Forgot to water the plants again?" she snarled. "Why can't you do anything right?" I tried to defend myself, but it was no use. She hung up the call, and I felt worthless and alone. That's when I met Sara. I saw her at the café near my school. She was sitting alone reading a book on animation, a topic I love, and sipping her coffee. In that moment, I couldn't help but stare at the book. "Sorry," she said, looking up from her book. "Do I have something on my face?" I felt embarrassed, realizing I had been staring at her for some time. "No, no, sorry. I was just lost in thought and admiring your book. It's one of my favorites," I said, trying to sound casual. Sara smiled warmly. "It's okay, it's one of my favorites too. I'm studying animation at the university nearby. By the way, I'm Sara." "That's amazing! I've always wanted to learn animation, but I don't have the patience for it. Mind if I join you?" I asked, pointing to the empty seat in front of her. I could have ignored the match and continued with my life. But deep down, I longed for a ray of hope in the midst of the darkness that enveloped my world. And that tiny flame ignited my spirit and illuminated my path. She gestured for me to sit down. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about our favorite animated movies, and before I knew it, it was night. As we were getting ready to leave, Sara turned to me and said, "You know, it's really easy to talk to you, I feel like I can be myself." Those words lingered in my head. For years, I felt like I had to hide who I really was, but with Sara, I felt accepted, flaws and all. From that day on, we started meeting almost every morning at the café. We began talking, and I found myself opening up in ways I never had before. I told her about my struggles with anxiety and depression, and to my surprise, she listened attentively and without judgment. "You know," she admitted as we walked down the street, "I used to struggle like you. It's hard, but it gets better with time." "I hope you're right," I replied, feeling a little more hopeful just from her words. "I am," she reassured, flashing a smile. "You're not alone." Her words touched my heart, and I felt a comfort I had never felt before. I knew then that Sara was unlike anyone I had ever met before. We continued to spend time together, exploring the city, trying new foods, and talking about everything and nothing. But I knew this relationship wasn't the sun. It was just a small glimmer of light in the darkness, and I couldn't depend on it forever. It could flicker out or become familiar, and I would be back in the same abyss. The glow it provided was just enough to make me believe it was enough, and the darkness receded slightly. But I knew that anyone who had seen the sun recently would be blind in this place where I was. My mother disapproved of Sara in every possible way. She criticized her job, her appearance, her family, and even the way she spoke. I tried to defend her, but it only made the situation worse. My mother would get angry and start shouting, and I would shrink into myself, feeling like a failure. It was a constant battle, trying to balance my love for Sara with my mother's expectations. I tried to keep my relationship with Sara a secret from my mother, but it was difficult. I lived with her at the time and constantly had to come up with excuses for where I was going and who I was with. She would ask me probing questions, and I would lie, feeling guilty and ashamed. Everything came to a head one night when I accidentally knocked over a glass of water. I was filling a glass of water when I felt it slip from my hand. The glass shattered into a million pieces, and water spilled onto the kitchen floor. Panic seized me as I rushed to clean up the mess, grabbing a towel and frantically wiping up the water. But it was too late. My mother heard the noise and stormed into the kitchen, furious. "What did you do?" she shouted, pointing to the wet floor. "Why can't you do anything right? You're a useless klutz!" I tried to explain that it was just an accident, but she didn't want to hear it. She continued to criticize me, her words cutting deeper than any knife could. It was as if all her pent-up anger and frustration had been waiting for this moment to explode. I felt like a child again, small and powerless in the face of her fury. Tears came, hot and fast, as I ran out of the room, desperate to escape her anger. That's when I knew I had to leave, that I couldn't stay in that house anymore. Perspective is a funny thing. What's normal for you isn't always normal for others. If it doesn't hurt you, then there's nothing wrong with it. But when it does, that's where you find yourself. And that's precisely where I was, where I had been for most of my life. That night, I went to Sara's house, still shaken. As I searched for something to eat, I accidentally dropped a water bottle on the floor. I immediately started apologizing, bracing myself for the screams that would inevitably follow. But instead of criticizing me, Sara simply hugged me. That's when I realized how much I had changed since I met Sara. She had shown me what it meant to be loved unconditionally and supported in my darkest moments. Sara suggested that I move in with her. At first, I hesitated. I didn't want to leave my mother alone, even though she was the one causing me so much pain. But then something changed. One day, I woke up and realized that the match flame wasn't enough. I'm not sure exactly what happened. But suddenly, I realized it was too dark in here. For the first time in over a decade, I caught a glimpse of the sun. No, not just a glimpse. The walls of the cave crumbled, and I realized how bleak my life had been. It made me feel many things - relief, shame, anger. Relief for finally seeing the light, shame for not seeing it sooner, and anger for wasting years of my life suffering needlessly. But above all, I felt determination. Determination to never forget what the sun was like and to make up for lost time. I had tasted true freedom from the shackles of my sick mind's construction and was determined never to be trapped there again. So I packed my bags and left. It was a tough decision, but I knew it was the right one. Sara and I started our life together, and it was everything I had ever dreamed of. We were happy, we loved each other, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly free. Leaving my mother's house was like leaving behind a layer of skin, but my mother didn't give up easily. She called me constantly, left voicemails and messages, begging me to come back. She told me she loved me, that she missed me, that she needed me. I wanted to believe her, but I knew better. I had Sara. And I had my freedom. And that was enough. But my mother still haunted me. Whenever I made a mistake, I immediately started apologizing. Preparing myself for the screams that never came. I found myself fighting against the legacy of my mother's abuse. I was haunted by her voice, her criticism, her expectations. Therapy helped me a lot, but it didn't distance me from these ghosts. That's when I found an old diary. It was buried in a box with my childhood things, a relic from a time when I still believed my mother's love was sincere. As I flipped through its pages, I found a list of reasons not to kill myself. It was written in my handwriting, scribbled in black ink on the back of a math sheet. "Reason #1 not to kill myself: Mom would be sad." It hit me like a punch to the gut. I had written that when I was so young, and yet it still carried so much weight. I stared at those words for a long time, trying to remember what had led me to write them. Did I really believe that my mother's sadness was enough to keep me alive? As I read the rest of the list, I saw other reasons that were unlikely to be effective. "You haven't seen the latest Marvel movie yet," I had written. "You haven't tried sushi." And then there were more serious reasons, written by me during college, like "You have a future with Sara." and "You're stronger than you think." It was a strange mix of reasons, some trivial and some profound, but they all had one thing in common: they were mine. For the first time, I realized that I didn't need my mother's approval to find reasons to live. I had my own reasons, my own passions, my own life. With trembling hands and tears in my eyes, I crossed out "Reason #1." It was time for me to start living for myself, not for someone else. Not to let my mind ferment in an abnormal and oppressive darkness. Not to waste my life and not to let my life waste me. To have people in my life who have seen the sun recently to anchor my perception to reality. It was time for me to find my happiness. I looked at Sara, who was sleeping peacefully next to me, and knew that I had already found it. "Reason #1 to live: Be happy. | 11,419 | 3 |
In the fog-shrouded alleys of Whitechapel, where darkness reigns supreme and the air is thick with the stench of decay, an unspeakable horror prowls. The moon's feeble light struggles to penetrate the dense mist, casting eerie shadows that seem to twist and writhe with malevolence. Detective Jameson, tormented by the ghastly specter of the Ripper's atrocities, ventures forth into the night with a sense of dread gnawing at his soul. Each step he takes echoes ominously in the silence, as if the very ground itself recoils from the evil that lurks within the shadows. The city lies in the grip of a paralyzing fear, its streets deserted save for the occasional wail of anguish that pierces the stillness. Mothers clutch their children tightly to their chests, praying for dawn to banish the nightmare that has descended upon them. But Jameson knows that the darkness will not be so easily dispelled. As he delves deeper into the heart of the abyss, Jameson finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit and depravity. Suspects emerge from the darkness like wraiths, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of madness and malice. With each passing moment, the line between reality and nightmare blurs, and Jameson begins to question his own sanity. But it is in the final confrontation that Jameson confronts the true horror that lies at the heart of Whitechapel. In the depths of an abandoned church, he comes face to face with the Ripper himself, a twisted figure cloaked in shadows and dripping with the blood of his victims. The air is thick with the stench of death, and Jameson feels the icy grip of terror tightening around his heart. As the Ripper's laughter echoes through the desecrated halls, Jameson realizes with a sickening certainty that he has stumbled upon something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined. For the Ripper is not merely a man, but a vessel for an ancient evil that has lain dormant for centuries, waiting for the opportunity to unleash its unholy wrath upon the world. And as Jameson stands alone in the darkness, surrounded by the echoes of his own fear, he knows that the nightmare has only just begun. For the true horror of Whitechapel is not the Ripper himself, but the unspeakable darkness that lurks within the hearts of men, waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. The walls of the church seem to close in around him, suffocating him with their oppressive weight. Shadows dance across the stained glass windows, their movements taunting and mocking. Jameson's breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhalation tasting of fear and desperation. He raises his revolver, hands trembling, but the Ripper merely smiles, a grotesque leer that sends shivers down Jameson's spine. The creature takes a step forward, its movements sinuous and predatory. Jameson knows he is outmatched, outgunned, but he refuses to surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume him. With a primal scream, he opens fire, the shots reverberating through the empty church like thunder. But the bullets seem to pass through the Ripper as if he were made of smoke, leaving him unscathed and laughing still. Jameson staggers backward, his mind reeling with disbelief. This cannot be real, he tells himself, this cannot be happening. But deep down, he knows the truth. The Ripper is no mere man, but a creature of pure evil, a harbinger of doom. And as the darkness swallows him whole, Jameson realizes that he is but a pawn in a game much larger than himself. The horror of Whitechapel is not confined to its fog-shrouded streets, but extends far beyond, into the very depths of hell itself. | 3,634 | 1 |
The sunrise was heralded by an imperceptible lightening of the darkness. The sky overhead, a star-speckled black, shifting almost imperceptibly to a deep blue. The stars faded out one by one in the growing light of the pre-dawn morning. Eventually, there were only the two pinpricks of Venus and Mars left as the few low clouds lit up pink against a dark blue sky. Eventually, the rising sun cast its golden light against the far wall of the chamber, starting as a thin crescent around the lip, reaching ever lower as our system's star made its way up into the sky and night finally gave way entirely to the new day, warmth creeping back into the chamber that was my home. Now that I had sufficient light to see once more, I took the time to survey my supplies. I knew them all by heart, but the routine helped ground me. The input bag for the water filtering system was nearly empty. The ration bars had run out days ago. I carefully folded the silvered emergency blanket and tucked it into the small pack, then placed it back beneath the rock. I'd eaten the crab-thing that had stolen my flashlight, but as hungry as I was, I’d have traded it for the light in a heartbeat. Pot in hand, I collected water from the sluggish stream. Wherever the water came from, it was cold, but not clear, and I continued to be thankful for the filter, making a second trip to fill the reservoir and drinking the last of what was already clean enough that it probably wouldn’t make me sick. I made a face at the aftertaste. While it made the water safe to drink, the filtration did nothing to improve the taste. I weighed the pot down with another rock and collected my makeshift spear. I’d had a knife for a few days, but then I'd stabbed something that had been swimming in one of the larger pools of water. Both the pool and the thing within it must have been bigger than I'd thought, because as soon as I hit it, the thing had rolled away and snapped off the end of my spear before sinking out of sight, taking my blade with it. After that, I became far more careful with the use of the little wood I could find. My spear was shorter than it had started, but with how little there was to be hunted, I was fairly certain that I'd run out of prey well before I ran out of spear. It was easy to move quietly with bare feet on rock. It was fortunate the floor had been worn smooth by years of rain coming down through the hole I'd used to enter. If only the sides of the shaft had been similarly worn. But where the flow of water had smoothed the floor, there it had left channels in the stone and sediment, resulting in spiky outcroppings that were substantial enough to cut rope, but not to bear my weight. Gathering my focus, I moved carefully away from the light. I'd hunted at night the first couple of days. But once I'd lost the flashlight, I'd had to switch to days. I'd tried exploring in the dark, but the first tunnel had ended in a crawlspace that was definitely too small for me, and the second had opened up into a pit that was deep enough that it took the rock I dropped more than three seconds to hit bottom. The shaft going the other way had an almost porous look to it, and I'd discovered that was where the crab things lived. If I was patient, I could grab one or two. They didn't have much meat on them, and I'm not sure I didn't burn more calories prying it out of them than I got from the results, but other than the thing in the water, I hadn't seen anything else I might eat other than a bit of lichen. Luck was on my side this time, and by the time the light had faded enough that I could no longer see well enough to hunt, I had three of the crab things, one of which was large enough that it might have taken more of my meager belongings had I not secured them. I worked carefully to pull the meat free of the shells. The first time, I'd managed to cut my thumb pretty badly. I glanced at the scab, thankful that it hadn't become infected. I kept a few of the larger pieces of shell to attach to my spear, the rest set aside to discard into the deep shaft when I made my next trip for water. I’d not had nearly enough to eat to fill my belly, but it took the edge off enough that the hunger wouldn’t make it difficult to sleep. I watched as the line of darkness moved up the side of the cave, the light waning as the afternoon gave way to evening. I collected more water to filter for the next morning and cleaned up what little I had. Pulling the emergency blanket free from beneath the rock, I wrapped it around myself and leaned back against what I'd come to think of as my pillar. Letting my head rest against the cold, hard rock, I watched as the line of sunlight crept its way up the wall until it reached the edge of the sharp outcrop that was responsible for my predicament. I was past the point where the sight of it would bring up any resentment. I didn’t have the luxury of wasting my energy on extraneous emotions. As the light faded, I watched the bit of dangling rope slowly disappear, swallowed up by the growing darkness. I couldn’t help but think that I was like that rope, losing myself inch by inch. As I sat there, shivering but doing my best to ignore the growing cold, I wondered just how much more daylight I had left. | 5,272 | 4 |
Sweat and blood was pouring down his face as he stared at the, for lack of a better term, army charging toward him. How did it all come to this? He could not help but look down at his armor and the sword in his hand and think to himself about how this all started with just wanting to ask the girl of his dreams out and stealing a jewel instead, and it made him grin. He never imagined his life would take him here, to a fight to save the world. A fight that no one will ever know that he of all people accepted. Closing his one good eye, and taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for what was about to happen next. As he opened his eye, he let out the loudest roar he could muster, and started running towards the army. He only had to distract these what used to be people but are now nothing but minions. Once they got into place he could go after her. As he reached the first group, he jumped toward them and twisted in the air while doing so, phasing through them as if they were not even there. As soon as he got on the other side, he performed a mighty slash cutting multiple of them into two. It felt like hours of fighting, and he was barely making a dent in these things, but that was not his goal. His goal was to distract an army while his friend got into place. Dodging, parrying, and striking he just had to keep going, but constantly being surrounded by things that wanted to rip him apart was starting to take its toll, not much longer now. His friend just needed to get to his car, so he could get into the trunk. Once they got there, he could stop focusing on this army. Then he could focus on his true goal. Suddenly, he heard a loud BOOM! He turned to look, and there was his friend with a grenade launcher walking his way. Suddenly stuck in the back by what felt like four razorblades. He placed his hand on his back and brought it to his face. His hand was covered in blood. He turned around to face the one that got him and flung his own blood into the eyes of the creature that had struck him, and quickly dispatched it. He still had to cut a path for himself, but now he could go to phase two of the plan, get to the tower. Hopping from shadow to shadow and attacking as he landed, he figured he could still thin out the masses a little while he made his way. He could tell his powers were starting to weaken, but he had to keep going. He finally made it to the other side. He turned and started running to the tower. Soon he was standing at the base of the tower looking up, and he could feel just how daunting his goal truly was. He had to get past the rest of the defenses and get to the top of the tower. He had to get to... Her. He had to stop them before they achieved their goal. His face hurt, his back hurt, but he had to keep going. He was no hero, but someone had to step up. He grinned again as he stepped into the tower. | 2,865 | 0 |
‘It’s okay to eat fish because they don’t have any feelings.” “You got that from a song ,” I said to him . He was adamantly telling me that we don’t have to be vegetarian’s to save animals because fish really don’t have any feeling . He looked at me incredulously like I was the first person in his life to personalize a fish . “So you care about how they feel then?” He laughed. I looked at him and studied his face . Wear and tear from many battles fought over seas , lines and and muscle weakness were showing in someone that was once so strong and proud. “I care about everyone’s feelings, animals can’t really speak for themselves.” I answer genuinely . “So you mean to tell me that you know that you’re at the top of the food chain but you don’t want to eat the meat that was meant for you to eat?” This one struck a cord . I wasn’t at the top of the food chain. I never would be and he knew it . It’s a dog eat dog world out there and I am a female. I can try to do anything that a man can do, and when it comes to intelligence , talent. Professionalism, etc. I can certainly match or surpass my predator . However, if my predator wanted to keep hunting me, I’d be running forever because my only natural predator is a man . “I’m not going to say that something is meant for me just because I can have it . I can have anything I want, but that doesn’t mean I should steal, right ? Just because I can have it doesn’t mean that it’s the right thing to do,” I looked at my hands. I didn’t think we were talking about fish anymore. “Why would you deny yourself what you have evolved to become? We are meat eaters. Fish really don’t have feelings,” I shook my head . “Yeah they do, Dad. Tell that to the fish who got triple hooked and scaled alive. Instead of thanking the fish for its sacrifice in order for your belly to be fed, you act as if it never felt the trauma of dying. Do they not bleed all over the place when you catch them to kill them and throw them back ?” He just stared at me. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to say when I disagree with him . I literally watch as his eyes transition from antagonistic to a softer gray/blue. “You have to eat meat ,Bailey, you are too strong to look weak. Fish are so good for your heart and brain. You really need them in your diet,” I smiled . “I love fish dad, don’t worry.” I smirked He laughed. “Well at least you have feelings for them. I laugh too. That night I thanked the coconut crusted Mahi Mahi on my plate , for its sacrifice , in order to help me survive , make me strong, and nourish my body. | 2,940 | 1 |
1. I live in Noitaly. It is a country but it is no Italy. My neighbor is a painter currently working on a masterpiece. He keeps drawing on the same canvas over and over again, until it is hard to tell, what it even is that he is trying to paint. He says it is a part of his creative process and spends the whole day working and swearing loudly. My other neighbor is a former man who is by now mostly a woman. Most of his weight consists of female bodies fused together in a one big mass formed around his original male body. He spends too much time around women and every few hours a new one comes flying through the window and sticks to him until she becomes conjoined too. Now he is almost too big to fit through the door but he seems happy and so, as a good friend and a neighbor, I am happy for him too. My other other neighbor is a woman made of marble. I like to spend time with her. She is fun to talk to and I have a feeling she likes me. But whenever I grab her hand, it makes me a bit uneasy just how cold and stone-y and marble-y it is. At that point I usually let go and head directly to bed where I can have myself a nice dream. 2. This morning I woke up to some horrible screaming. My neighbor, the one who paints, finally finished his masterpiece. He was so excited that he just kept running around the room screaming incomprehensibly and making hand gestures. He was behaving like a child and I found that amusing for his age. After a while I managed to calm him down but he just sat down in front of his painting and kept staring. His eyes and mouth wide open like he’s never seen anything like it before. His painting seems like a big mess to me but I do not understand art at all so I am probably wrong anyways. He did not react to my questions, not even when I grabbed his shoulder. I decided to come back when he’s done admiring his work and left him alone for now. I was on my way to my second neighbor but I stopped before I got to his door since I remembered he is no fun anymore. These days he is just an immobile mess of female bodies. Sometimes he sighs really loudly and the whole thing moves like a sourdough starter which honestly terrifies me, so I stopped visiting him. I went to my favorite neighbor and was shocked to find her cracked. 3. Painter jumped through his picture directly into the street where he got run over by a garbage truck. Man of the women disappeared without a trace, probably imploded due to his immense bodymass. It is just me and my marble girlfriend left but last time I grabbed her hand it broke off. I will probably keep her palm as a souvenir because I think it is time to move away from Noitaly. \ H. | 2,726 | 0 |
“I’ve been struggling recently.” “Everyone struggles. Tis’ the plight of creations. Once created they become aware they were created and then the next obvious discovery in line is that they can do things, and think about things, and they start to question what will I do, what will I do with myself, the creation that I am, my life, and then obviously how will I do it, how will I do it better, how will I do more of it, how will I live my life and spend my time and so on and so forth as each creation asks different questions, but they all stem from the same place.” “...” “Well, what’ve you been struggling with?” “I don’t feel like I have the right words, or even the right thoughts. Even there you made me feel as if I should’ve said something else(even with this now having to go back over and edit the conversation). I don’t feel like I move right in the day-to-day. I don’t feel like I fit. I feel out of place, like a piece to a different puzzle, and it’s like, what do I even do here in this place that I am?” “And who’s to say you aren’t a piece to a different puzzle? What if you are different? Is different so bad?” “Well, no. Not inherently. I just feel like I want to open up more, embrace the unknown. Delve more into the fear of that uncertainty and being comfortable with it, because I think that’s the only way I can shape the next parts of myself, my life, and the only way I’ll ever get to truly shape my work to my liking and feel like I’m fully embodied in what I’m doing, like my spirit has come out and you can feel my intent, desire, and passion, as a burning fiery energy from my core. From my soul. I want to do so many things and I feel like I can, but in execution I get lost.” “Where do you get lost?” “I do things that have already been done or they feel generic and bleak. Like I can’t find myself in any of them, and because of that I can’t create a vivid reality. I want what I make to have the vividness, profoundness, and abruptness of a dream, of life, and death, because that’s all it is. Anything I make begins when I make it and will end at some point. It will be forgotten, drawn back into a massive oneness, into God, or simply deleted by me. It's all the same thing at the end of time, but with the time that my work is alive, and that I’m alive with my work I want to feel like it’s truly alive. I want its eyes to sparkle and for it to wave at me, and for me to feel my emotion, soul and spirit through it. I want everything I make to feel very me, and right now, I don’t feel like I’ve been doing it right, and it makes me not want to create because I feel I’m being ingenuine and that makes me hate my work, hate creating it, and hate how it sounds, feels, looks, because I just hate being ingenuine. I want to have impeccable creations that flawlessly represent my soul and who I am.” “I think you’re overthinking it, if what you say is true, you should already be doing what you say you want to be doing by embracing those thoughts and realizing that you have a flawed soul, so you’re going to have flawed works, but it’s through embracing those flaws that you’re going to create yourself. You have to forgive those flaws, forgive those scars, close any wounds, take down any shields, and work without any thought on the final outcome. You let yourself think through the thought first, sit with that for a moment, and then move on to whatever comes next after that. You need to slow yourself down if you ever want to be fast because right now you are slow, you’re a rookie and your chain keeps falling off because your gears aren't all tightened. That’s why you’re starting with these short little stories.” “...” “...” “Well, what do you think of this one?” “Hold on, I’ll read it back.” Looks it over(this is when I read it back) “Eh, it’s alright, could’ve been said better. | 3,943 | 0 |
Chapter 1: Unexpected Encounter In the quaint town of Willow Creek, nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering pines, stood a small bakery called “Sweet Serenity.” Owned by the spirited and talented baker, Emily Parker, the bakery was a haven for those seeking comfort in the form of freshly baked treats. One brisk autumn morning, as the leaves painted the town in hues of gold and crimson, a sleek black car pulled up in front of Sweet Serenity. Out stepped Alexander Blackwood, the enigmatic billionaire CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, with a curiosity piqued by the aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafting through the air. Entering the bakery, Alexander was greeted by the sight of Emily meticulously frosting cupcakes behind the counter. Intrigued by her passion and the warmth in her smile, he found himself drawn to her. Chapter 2: A Sweet Connection As days turned into weeks, Alexander became a regular at Sweet Serenity, sampling Emily’s delectable creations and engaging in conversations that lingered long after the last crumbs had been swept away. Despite their vastly different worlds, a connection blossomed between the reserved billionaire and the vivacious baker. Emily found herself enchanted by Alexander’s intelligence and kindness, while he was captivated by her unwavering dedication to her craft and the joy she infused into everything she baked. Their shared love for simple pleasures and genuine conversations bridged the gap between their disparate lifestyles. Chapter 3: Stirrings of Romance As the holiday season approached, Willow Creek was adorned with twinkling lights and the promise of new beginnings. Amidst the festive cheer, Alexander found himself falling deeply for Emily, his heart yearning for the warmth and sweetness she brought into his life. Determined to show Emily how much she meant to him, Alexander planned a romantic evening at Sweet Serenity, complete with candlelit tables and a menu featuring her most beloved creations. With each bite shared and every glance exchanged, the air crackled with unspoken desire, igniting a flame that neither could deny. Chapter 4: Overcoming Obstacles But as their romance flourished, shadows from Alexander’s past threatened to cast a pall over their happiness. Pressured by his family to uphold their legacy and marry into wealth, Alexander was torn between his duty and his heart’s true desire. Meanwhile, Emily grappled with insecurities stemming from her humble background, questioning whether she belonged in Alexander’s world of opulence and privilege. Yet, in each other’s arms, they found solace and strength to confront their fears and fight for their love against all odds. Chapter 5: A Sweet Forever In a grand gesture of love and commitment, Alexander whisked Emily away to a secluded cabin nestled in the snowy mountains, where they exchanged vows beneath a canopy of stars. Surrounded by the pure, untouched beauty of nature, they pledged their hearts to each other, vowing to cherish and support one another for all eternity. As they danced beneath the moonlight, the world faded away, leaving only the sweet melody of their love to serenade them into the night. In each other’s arms, they found their home, their sanctuary, their forever. And so, in the heart of Willow Creek, amidst the scent of freshly baked bread and the promise of new beginnings, Emily and Alexander embarked on their greatest adventure yet—a love that would withstand the test of time and defy all expectations. | 3,497 | 0 |
Chapter 1: The Howling Woods In the heart of the dense, ancient forest known as the Howling Woods, where shadows danced beneath the silver moonlight, lived a pack of werewolves. Among them was Lila, a spirited young she-wolf with eyes as bright as the stars above and a heart as wild as the untamed wilderness. One fateful night, as Lila prowled through the moonlit glade, she caught the scent of an unfamiliar werewolf lingering in the air. Intrigued and wary, she followed the trail until she stumbled upon a lone wolf standing beneath a canopy of trees. Chapter 2: Forbidden Encounter The stranger, a handsome and enigmatic werewolf named Ethan, radiated a magnetism that drew Lila closer despite her instincts urging caution. Their eyes met, sparking a connection that transcended the boundaries of their respective packs. Bound by duty and tradition, Lila knew that fraternizing with a werewolf from another pack was strictly forbidden. Yet, as they exchanged hesitant words and shared secrets beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, they couldn’t deny the pull of destiny weaving their paths together. Chapter 3: Love Under the Moon As the nights passed, Lila and Ethan’s clandestine meetings deepened into a forbidden romance, their love blossoming amidst the secrecy and danger that surrounded them. They stole moments of stolen kisses and whispered promises, their hearts entwined like vines in a forest glen. But their happiness was fleeting, overshadowed by the looming threat of discovery and the ever-present danger lurking in the shadows. With each passing day, the risk of their love being exposed grew, threatening to tear them apart forever. Chapter 4: Betrayal and Redemption When rumors of their forbidden romance reached the ears of their respective packs, suspicion and mistrust tore through the fragile peace that had once bound them together. Betrayed by those they trusted, Lila and Ethan found themselves hunted by their own kind, forced to flee into the depths of the Howling Woods to escape the wrath of their kin. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Lila and Ethan clung to each other, their love burning bright like a beacon of hope in the darkest of nights. Together, they faced trials and tribulations that tested the very fabric of their souls, emerging stronger and more determined to defy fate’s cruel decree. Chapter 5: A Love Eternal In a final, desperate bid for freedom, Lila and Ethan made a daring stand against their pursuers, risking everything for the chance to be together. With the moon as their witness, they fought side by side, their love fueling their courage as they battled against the forces that sought to tear them apart. In the end, it was love that triumphed over fear, uniting two souls destined to be together against all odds. As the dawn broke over the Howling Woods, Lila and Ethan stood hand in hand, their hearts beating as one beneath the watchful gaze of the moon. And so, in the heart of the wilderness, amidst the howls of the night and the whispers of the wind, Lila and Ethan found their happily ever after—a love that would endure for all eternity, bound by the magic of the moonlit forest and the depths of their unwavering devotion. | 3,211 | 0 |
His hand touched his side. He felt a sharp pain where his ribs were. He pulled his hand back and watched as the blood flowed between his gauntleted fingers. His armor which was once pristine silver, was now dull, battered and a much darker color. blood mixed with dirt. He felt his hot breath on his skin. It bounced off his visor back into his face, making him sweat even more. He removed his helmet and looked at it. It was a fine helmet. All silver with a visor that had four slits in it. The visor was able to be lifted and closed at will. At the top of the helmet stood a spike with dyed red horse hairs, creating a pony tail. He threw the helmet to the side, and said “Fuck me.” as he touched his bleeding side once again. He spoke to himself, as the only thing around him were the corpses of 10 men which littered his surroundings. There were two horses in the mix, belonging to an officer or commander or captain or whatever the fuck. They were dead, and their titles meant nothing to the dirt they lay in. Ten on one? With two calvary. Terrible odds for any other man, but Xavier was not just any other man, he was the champion of Ifradir. Sworn protector of the king. No one in the lands was worthy enough for his blade, but when the monarchs were threatened, Xavier’s wrath was felt by all. Ten men shouldn’t have been able to wound him, but yet blood flowed from his ribs where a sword had found a gap in his armor. Sloppy on Xavier’s part, and he knew it. It might cost him his life. Xavier took his chest plate off and used it to support him as he leaned back against it. breathing was getting harder for him. “Fucking fucks.” he cursed at the corpses. “Unworthy fucking swines.” He spit out at them, but blood was also spat out. He rubbed the back of his gauntlet across his mouth. They came away with a smear of red. “Must have pierced my fucking lungs.” Xavier spit out in heaves. He leaned back onto his chest plate even more now. His thoughts left the battlefield and the pain. His mind went over the field of corpses, over the mountains him and the king and queen just crossed, and back to the capital of Ifradir. Back to Valess. Where his wife was waiting for him. The beautiful woman who he never deserved, Violet. He needed to see her, craved her presence. He could not leave her a widow. He put his right hand in the dirt and forced himself up. Two steps on wobbly legs, and back to the dirt he was. He fell on is stomach, and watch as the blood began to pool around him. “My love, Violet.” he said as he pictured her long dark hair, so black it was almost purple. Her dark brown eyes that were so deep and vast it reminded him of the sea. “Violet,” he croaked, as blood began to flow from his mouth. Xavier, the champion of Ifradir, lying among the corpses of unworthy men. His breathing slowed, and every breath became more painful than the last. The pool of blood reached his face now. warm and sticky. The feeling of his own blood was a far different sensation than the blood of his fallen foes. Xavier lay on his stomach, and breathed his last raggedy breathes. Thinking of only the sweet touch of Violet. Live by the sword, die by the sword. | 3,206 | 2 |
His death was sudden and traumatic and left his spirit confused and disoriented. Never having been a religious man, Marty was surprised to be facing a divinity. He didn’t recognize her, and it was most definitely a her, but she did not look like anyone he'd seen in a church or on a pamphlet. . He found speech had left him, so he stood staring at her while she stared at him with deep-sea blue eyes framed by fall-leaf auburn hair. "Hello, Marty," she said. "It often takes folks a minute to realize what has happened. You take your time. You do know you’re dead, right?" "Yes. That was…painful." "Yours was particularly so, I suspect." "Is this… heaven?" he asked. "No such thing," she said. "This is the universe. Your energy has left your physicality and now will move on." "Oh, so… you’re God?" "No such thing," she said with a smile. "The First People had it right and knew that the universe was there, and here I am." "But..?" "Oh, after thousands of years, you folks made rules and stories and nonsense. Some of it helped," she said with a cock of her head. "Some of it didn’t. Being nice is a good rule. I’m not sure why the universe was supposed to care about what direction you faced while oriented on a spinning ball, traveling around another spinning ball, that was being pulled around a spinning galaxy. Or how you cut your hair." She shook her head and leaves and twigs fell around her. "Oh, right. Sure. And wars and all." "Wars! Don't get me started on wars. At least ants kill each other for territory and food." He nodded. After a long pause. "I don’t understand. Why am I here? What am I doing" "Well, the universe does judge you, so that’s why you’re here. Your energy will be reused, as it is constant, but sometimes some get special attention. Marty felt his nonexistent stomach sink. "Oh, he said. I understand." "Do you?" "Sure. I wasted my life. I never amounted to much. I tried real hard, but I never got anywhere. No one loved me. I tried." He raised his hands waist-high, finally finding he could move them. "I tried to start a family, but was too weird and never got real far. Had a couple of friends, but no one special. Wasn’t good at much. No one will remember me." He looked around at the universe around him. "Glad I got to see this before I head to the void, or Hell or wherever it is that useless people go." "Oh, Marty," she said with a voice resonating with thousands of stray dogs, rescued kittens, worms lifted from the sidewalk in the rain, baby birds returned to nests, sparrows eating seeds, squirrels gifted sandwiches, groundhogs enjoying safe piles of wood, buzzards eating roadkill moved off the busy street, butterflies and bees living off carefully-planted flowers, and crows passing on calls of ‘friend’. The universe opened around him, accepted him and he became more. *"You rescued kitties. | 2,945 | 0 |
Tyson scanned the deserted park as he sat on the rusted metal bench. The 904 South bus had crawled along the expressway for over an hour to get out to Frankford Heads. What was once seen as the “future of elegant living” in Chicago, the one and a half square kilometre plot of land quickly turned into the place where you go if you wanted to see a dead body or a dirty needle. Embezzlement and sexual misconduct scandals had left the out-of-state developers bankrupt a long time ago, and now the park had all the qualities of a place where city planners and politicians had forgotten. The wilted brown grass fighting a losing battle against patches of blackish mud. A handful of trees standing alone throughout the park, looking like old dementia patients wandering the courtyard of a hospice. Dirty creeks filled with floating trash. Unloved people trying to fend off starvation, living out of makeshift shelters. Frankford Heads was a place that the Lord had forgotten, Tysons mother used to say to him. He noticed a shirtless man in the distance, with a full beard and long hair looking into the makeshift trash cans, that were littered through the park. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the park. The man stopped, and looked at Tyson. Although he couldn’t see the details of his face, Tyson felt a wave of sadness flood his mind, as if a knee-jerk response to witnessing such a lost soul. He snapped out of his trance, and slapped himself hard for losing focus. He had to focus. The direction of his life would be decided within the next thirty minutes. He reached into his bag and took out his Sony Ericsson to check the time. It cracked like a whip as he pulled it open to see what the small, broken screen would show him. 4.12pm. He was early. The sun seemed to be getting dragged to the ground, the orangey glow on the horizon streaming into his eyes like a flashlight. He reached into his shirt pocket, retrieving a pair of black, knock off Ray Bans his brother had gotten him at Christmas time. A little piece of the plastic branding on the side of the glasses snapped off as it got caught on Tyson’s shirt button. “Shoot!”, Tyson whispered shakily to himself, and he picked up the small piece of green plastic that said “Banz” from the ground and threw it into the brown grass in front of him. “Cheap Chinese crud”, he muttered. He slid the glasses onto his face, a wave of calamity coming over him for a brief second. He pulled out a little vial of pills, and shook one onto his tongue. He bit down hard, and attempted to chew. The chalky pieces of the pill fell into the cracks and crevices of his face, and he used his pinky finger to fish them out and sit them gently on his tongue. Tyson had accepted a long time ago that he was an addict. He had started at a young age, which was common in his neck of the woods - all his friends were in the same boat as him. As he had gotten older, his life seemed to slip further away from what most would call normal. He had become distant from his family, was flunking in school and his friend group had gravitated towards those who also shared his addiction. The pattern was the same for anyone who was addicted - it was an epidemic - not only with Tyson and his friends but all over the nation. Kids changing their lives, becoming obsessive to the point of delusion, all to get that sweet, sweet fix. Tyson put his phone back in his backpack, and had a quick feel of the brown paper bag sitting quietly at the bottom - for the fifth time since arriving at the Heads. Green bills, still there, still the same amount. Tysons felt a rush as he thought about what this cash was going to buy him. He craved the dopamine, he craved the high, he craved the feeling. He didn’t have to wait long. Soon he would have what he needed, and he could return back to the dark basement with the others who were waiting for him. At last, he saw the person he was waiting for- Freddie. He was cooly walking over, a white BMW waiting for him in the distance with tinted windows. Freddie was well known in Tysons circle. Some people called him The Dragon, but Tyson would never say that to his face. Anything you wanted, any time, Freddie could get it. He exuded complete confidence, and Tyson couldn’t help but feel like Freddie was like a fictional character, in some superhero movie. Freddie was holding a dark backpack, and as he made eye contact with Tyson, he stopped and set it down on the bench. “Cash?” he said to Tyson. Tyson nodded and pulled out the bag and passed it to Freddie. Freddie opened the bag and nodded. Before taking out his own paper bag and passing it to Tyson. Tysons heart thumped in his chest - he opened it up and there it was staring him in the face.. His fix… A limited edition Squirtle card in perfect condition. “It’s even better than I could have dreamed,” Tyson whispered quietly, then giggled with excitement. “I know, it’s really excellent..I waited outside Big Alfies comic house for three hours to get a spot in the Gymnasium battle for it. I defeated Gregory Stuartson with a Dragon Claw from Charizard to take the prize” said Freddie, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose. “Wow, you’re the coolest,” replied Tyson, stricken with complete amazement of Freddie. “I should probably get going, my friends are waiting in Damians grandma's basement - we call it the Dungym. Tonight we are having an awesome big battle - as well as a Pizza par-tay” “Pizza par-tay, what is wrong with you" Tyson thought to himself angrily. "This is Freddie you are talking to!!” “Wow, now that sounds like a real par-tay. I have to get going too, my mum is waiting for me in the car - it’s sausage surprise night” replied Freddie. “Bye Tyson, I gotta catch ‘em all!” “Haha, bye Freddie!” Tyson said, as he thought about how on earth Freddie could be so cool. Tyson turned, picked up his bike and started off home, when Freddie said “Wait, are these your Tic Tacs?” “Oh yup, thanks!” Freddie grunted “oof” as weakly threw the box of candies three meters towards Tyson, who tried to catch them but missed completely, resulting in the box hitting him in the nose. They both laughed, turned and went their separate ways. | 6,301 | 1 |
The next few days passed in much the same vein as their first working for the Poiloogs in their compound — only without more surprise searches and dramatic incidents. Madeline and Billie spent the whole day in the orchard picking apples, graduating to working solo after the first two days, each with their own ladder and bucket, but still side by side. Though some of the guards seemed to be spoiling to drag someone else away, the pair of them managed to avoid attracting too much attention by keeping their heads down and working as hard as they could. Then, they each spent half the night sleeping and half the night trying and failing to contact their allies on their walkie-talkies whispering under the covers, in their separate bunks but always close by. The exhaustion from the work and the lack of a full night’s sleep was starting to take its toll. Madeline practically had to be dragged out of bed. She wolfed down her food at every meal and always longed for more. And the other thing she always longed for more of was time with Billie. Sure, they technically spent the whole day together — something that had been too dangerous in the outside world — but they were always so busy or so tired or so hungry that they hardly got to speak. It turned out that they did get one day off a week. But when the first of them finally came, Madeline was too exhausted to make much use of it. Her rest day was over before it even felt like it had begun, and then it was back to work. It also didn’t help that emotional fatigue was settling on top of physical fatigue. Madeline was beginning to despair. Their allies on the outside should have made contact by now. She and Billie had left a trail for them to follow. If they weren’t within range of the walkies by now, they must have lost the trail somehow, and she couldn’t imagine how any length of time would help them find it again. And that left her and Billie trapped here. They’d always known it was a possibility, and it had been a risk she was willing to take on if it meant even the smallest chance of finding Liam. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept now that it had happened. While her body carried out the repetitive labour in the orchard, her mind whirred with ways they could turn things to their advantage. The guard — Marcus — had mentioned the possibility of reconnecting with friends and family who were also working under the Poiloogs. If she could reconnect with Liam and Billie could reconnect with their brother Joe then they could all… what? They could all escape? Sneak past the guards armed with guns and the Poiloogs that always seemed to be scuttling around where you least expected them. Break their way through multiple heavy, locked doors. Make it all the way to the towering electrified fence topped with barbed wire and somehow get past that without dying. Easy, right? She shook her head and sighed as she dropped another apple into her bucket. At least it wasn’t as bad as it could have been in here. Sure, every inch of her ached and she had hardly any free time. And naturally, the complete lack of freedom wasn’t ideal. And of course, it rankled her to her core to think that she was helping the enemy she’d fought and avoided for years — the enemy that had taken everything from her. But it could have been worse. Right? It was a sentiment she’d used to comfort herself many times over the years, with varying effectiveness. Eventually, another workday was over — though they all blurred into one anyway. As she and the other orchard workers walked back to the dormitories, racing against the setting sun, she took up her usual position with an arm around Billie’s waist, slumped into their side slightly with their arm over her shoulders. They walked in silence, each pulling the other slightly closer, saying everything that needed to be said without words. Madeline was relieved to see that there wasn’t a guard waiting to search them when they reached the dormitory block, and even more relieved to see no signs of another search inside. She and Billie had just slumped onto the bottom bunk, laying back with their feet still on the ground, when a guard loomed over them, silhouetted against the harsh white lights above. Squinting, Madeline hurriedly sat up, Billie doing the same beside her. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the familiar figure of Marcus, this time holding a clipboard instead of a gun. He smiled, giving her a nod of greeting before turning towards Billie. “Billie Michaels?” he asked. “That’s me.” Madeline was amused to see that they sat up a little straighter, hurriedly smoothing down their thick, flannel work shirt. He glanced down at his clipboard. “According to our records, you’ve been impressively efficient given it’s your first week.” “Errr… Thanks?” “Don’t worry,” Marcus said with a chuckle. “It’s a good thing. I’ve been sent to ask if there’s anyone you’d like to enquire after who might be in our system as a reward for all the hard work.” He fixed them with a serious look. “Mind you, this is only us giving you the chance to ask. If we notice your work slipping, you may never get your answer.” Billie nodded. “Noted. And yes, there are a couple of people actual—” “Oh, sorry.” Marcus grimaced slightly. “I can only take one name for now. But if you keep up the good work, who knows?” They glanced at Madeline, mouth opening and closing. She could tell exactly what was running through their mind. She reached out to lay her hand on theirs on the mattress. “Don’t worry,” she said, forcing a small smile. “I’d never expect you to give up your chance to find Joe for me. Just like you’d never expect me to give up my chance to find Liam. He’s family. They both are. Besides, it was you who earned this.” She inclined her head slightly towards the waiting Marcus. “Go on.” Billie turned back to the guard. “My brother. Joe Michaels. He looks similar to me. Same skin and hair colour. Only a little skinnier and a fair amount taller. I think he was brought in a little over half a year ago. Though it could have been more recent, if at all…” They chewed at the edge of their fingers as they thought. “Errrmmm… what else can I tell you about him…?” “That’s quite enough to be going off of, I think,” Marcus said, scribbling away on his clipboard. “I’ll make some enquiries and get back to you in a few weeks if you keep up the good work.” “Thanks!” He glanced apologetically at Madeline, reaching towards her slightly before seemingly thinking better of it and letting his hand drop. “I’m sure once you’ve been here longer you’ll get the knack of it, and then I’ll be here for you,” he said. “And it isn’t just productivity that’s rewarded. Reliability, loyalty, and just generally good behaviour are all very much appreciated here.” “I’ll try my best,” she said with forced cheeriness. “Excellent.” He nodded at them both before hurrying away. When she turned to look at Billie, she could tell that they were trying to mask their excitement. Their eyes sparkled, their left foot bouncing up and down, but their expression was neutral. “It really is okay, you know,” she said. “You can be happy. This is a good thing. This is progress. And lord knows we desperately needed a little of that.” They met her gaze, a slight smile lifting their lips, cheeks dimpling. “What did I do to deserve someone as wonderful as you?” “You broke into my library if memory serves.” They let out a bark of laughter. “Ah yes, that was it.” Giggling slightly, the pair of them flopped back down, snuggling into each other with Madeline burying her face in Billie’s chest. Now that her face was hidden, Madeline let the stiff smile on her face fall. As happy as she was for Billie, she couldn’t help but wonder how much longer she’d have to wait to hear anything about Liam. “Mads?” they murmured. “Hhmm?” “Maybe if you keep flirting with your favourite guard, that’ll speed things up for us, eh?” A more genuine smile broke out across Madeline’s face as she poked them in the ribs in retaliation for the teasing. | 8,244 | 4 |
Litter on the floor creates an illusion of a carpet designed by crackhead refugees leaving a camp on the Syrian-Iraqi border. You can tell they are in a hurry, or maybe they just decided to flee in search of a new, more comfortable carpet to continue their eccentric habit elsewhere. Well, who knows and who cares? I have a feeling that this magic carpet on the 4th floor in the medium-sized apartment in the silent neighborhood where I found myself on this cold, but sunny March Saturday night will stay here for a while now. I really don't mind, because luckily it’s not my carpet. I like those unusual settings that make me feel some kind of indescribable, weird form of belonging, even if it's just for a short glimpse of time. Dear reader, please remember one important thing - life is about identifying these glimpses, catching them, and putting them in your special hidden space cabinet with all the messed-up stuff that has formed you over the years. A place where you will be able to access them someday. Today I’m putting this complex carpet into my special hidden space cabinet. Trash bins are generally overrated, so you often find yourself throwing things on the floor, because it’s easier or you just don’t give a fuck about the mess it will create or you know that someone else will clean it anyways. How many times have you thrown a cigarette butt on the floor, because you were too lazy to hold it until you found a trash can? Or how many times did you miss throwing a used bus ticket into the bin and you didn't bother to pick it up later? Or how many times did you throw an empty beer bottle into the forest explaining to yourself that some homeless person will pick it up anyways for cash or you were just too drunk to care to pick it up. Probably a few times right? Or more? So, I’m sitting in this perceptually small room, filled to the brim with dirt, clothes, and other unidentified stuff, browsing it carefully for a trash can to throw out a metal can of a diet coke, but I actually can't locate one anywhere. That's not a problem I guess, so I decide to imagine one in my mind for my real can of coca- cola. I imagine a typical metal black bin about 50 cm tall. It’s heavy, but not too heavy. A small child could easily lift it. It has these little holes shaped like rectangles all over it. No plastic bag inside, but I think that is obvious. These imaginary bins are great, really. They have a lot of hidden functions. They can accommodate papers and empty packages. They can even accommodate those fiery syringes and all that unrecognizable bloody mess, used condoms and God knows what else.. But for now, let’s forget all that. Let’s get back on the ground and concentrate on the present time. The empty diet coke lands where it belongs in that moment of time, so right next to the empty wine bottle, two bloody tissues and a stack of needle wrappers on the floor. It becomes an inseparable part of this eclectic carpet. It becomes part of this unusual form of artistic expression. At first I feel a little weird about it, but then it becomes a part of this whole atmosphere and the carpet starts growing with different objects or even people, so I don’t question it and assimilate myself with this new situation and just roll with it. Another minor issue that I discover in this room is a used syringe on the desk that is dripping blood all over the wooden, smoked floorboard, with a dark mark on it, resembling Benedict Cumberbatch's otter looking, but yet attractive face. I’m thinking… Ben, what brings you here? Has Wes put you up to this dream-like situation, as part of his new short film? I instantly remind myself of situations where me and my friend Chris would often send each other pictures of different objects saying that they look like famous football players or actors and we always had a good laugh about it. But this somehow feels different. I continue looking at the very realistic mark on the floor and the mark looks back at me. This moment is so intense that if his sight could kill, I would already be lying dead on this dirty ground. My hands start to sweat and shake. I start to realize that the mark carved in wood starts to quickly form into the real face of Benedict Cumberbatch. His face has this weird expression that doesn't let you know if he is confused, sad, or if he just needs to pee really badly. Suddenly, the floor changes its shape, transforming into a 3D object resembling a naked human being. Kind of like a Transformer car, but in a weird Lanthimos’ movie kind of style. - Can you excuse me for a second? I need to use the loo- says a real size looking Benedict Cumberbatch, as casually as if we were having a nice afternoon tea after a Sunday match of tennis at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. I’m seriously confused. My highly intoxicated friends are passed out all over the house, I sit here alone trying to think of a solution to this inconvenient situation and suddenly the wooden floor, which has transformed into a very realistic representation of a human being similar to Benedict C. (I really don’t feel like saying his long last name out loud again, so the letter C. must suffice for now) starts to speak. Oh and btw, this very realistic representation of Mr. Cumberbatch (now it felt like saying his full name was more appropriate) is not wooden at all. He has real human skin. A little pale, but still looks very much human. I wanna take a look at his penis, but for some reason he puts himself in such a position that I’m not able to see it. As if he knew that I wanna see his dick. Yes Ben, I wanna see if I have a bigger cock than yours! - “Loo?- I ask, completely dazzled and confused, even though I know what this weird sounding word means. There are some words that just sound weird and make you feel stupid when you say them and “loo” is one of those for me. So I decide to test Ben. You don’t often find yourself in these kinds of situations, right? All my friends all passed out on the floor high on morphine, so I can have a little fun and fuck with Dr. Strange here? - I would like to use the bathroom DUDE- he articulates this quite ostentatiously with a slight impatience of a 9-year-old child bored of being bored and with a terrible fake American accent rolling his eyes like a teenage girl who was grounded on a Friday night. - Thanks for explaining, Ben, I hope that I can share something with you to make the situation more clear. I understand your frustration. After all, you are in this unextraordinary setting by some weird unknown glitch in the universe. However, the bathroom is occupied right now by two young lovely people- one man and a woman, who claims to be a man, although she has the body of a woman. (Funny side story Ben, when I asked her if I felt like a Giraffe does it mean that I am one, she got very offended and started crying) But anyways, the lovely couple decided to use their special intimate moment there for a deep conversation (or what we intelligent human beings would call drugged gibberish that only slightly resembles human language). As we both know, those intimate situations often develop into very special drug-related sexual intercourses (but not the kind that you would usually watch on the Nubiles channel on Pornhub, but rather something more raw and grotesque). So forget the bathroom Ben unless this really sad fall of humanity turns you on, and just take a piss into this green box from Pepco right there in the middle of the room. The box has its history too. It had many functions before. It was used as a box for food storage, a drug making kit or even a transport box for clean laundry, so I don’t think that anyone in this house would mind if you were to use it to empty your bladder or even take a shit in it. To be honest I even think that it would make them proud that a famous Hollywood actor like yourself would take a piss in their box. - Your name is Dominik, right?- says the famous actor known for playing Patrick Merlose (oh what an irony I think) with a rather annoyed and bored tone- kind of like Patrick Merlose actually. - Yes it is. Some friends call me Demon though. Taking into consideration the setting we found ourselves in, Demon would probably be more appropriate right now, as we are closer to hell- that’s when I look at the surrounding carpet of death, hoping he would understand my message. - I will call you Dom, cuz saying your full name Dominik, really makes me tired. Not because it’s too long. It’s because the longer I say it and the longer I think about it, it makes me come to the conclusion that you are just a weird and boring wimp. And I don’t like weird and boring wimps. And Demon sounds kind of cool. I’m sorry Dom, you don’t strike me as a cool Demon. - Thanks Ben, nobody ever called me a weird and boring wimp, so I will take it as a compliment from someone who met so many people and surely knows how to categorize people well. I’m sure there are many boring winos around, but weird and boring ones? Anyways, having thought about the whole bathroom situation, please just go ahead and pee on the floor if that green bucket is not good enough for you. I really don’t think that anyone will notice it here until tomorrow. Then they probably won’t know who did it. I’m pretty sure that it happens at least twice a month that someone pisses or shits their beds, knowing their drug related rituals. And then out of nowhere, he takes out his medium sized circumcised dick and he pisses on the desk full of empty syringes, drugs, two laptop screens and all that shit that is lying there. Everything starts to drip from the table like all that garbage that would flow in the streets during a flood. Then Ben turns to the right and he pisses all over the passed out guy from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. He is so wet as if we just got out of the shower. He doesn’t even flinch, he keeps sleeping in his hard morphine sleep like a baby dreaming about being bathed in a nice hot jacuzzi. Then Ben continues his spree and he pisses on every single free spot in this dirty and disgusting room. The amount of piss going out of his cock could probably water a small village in Mozambique. The room filled with disgusting leftovers of a week of drug consumption suddenly turns into a small swimming pool filled with all that nasty shit that was there before including my empty diet coke can floating slowly like a little ship boat. Without showing any emotions, Ben shakes his cock three times exactly and leaves the room trampling on empty wet oxycontin packs with his bare feet. I stand there watching all this with a quite normal face expression- it’s the same expression as if some random polish ski jumper would win the gold medal in the olympics. I wouldn’t really care too much, because who cares about ski jumping, but I would be happy that my country won a gold medal. I have to admit this situation is a bit different, yet my feelings were almost the same. I am shocked that Benedict Cumberbatch is pissing all over the living room and on some passed out junkie, but that shock remains only inside and is well under control. My facial expression does not change at any moment of this weird show. It is kind of nice to watch. Like the newest Nolan’s movie in the cinema. Like a private show only for me. I feel honored, but yet I feel this little itching feeling that you might call “worry”. Will he also piss on me at some point? But this situation is like playing roulette. I have to keep on betting, even if I lose. Red it is then! Then suddenly I hear more piss coming from the other room. I rush there to see what's going on and to my surprise, Ben is pissing on two of my passed out friends both sleeping tucked together in their arms in the bathroom. Confusion turns into something new- a feeling I don’t know how to explain with words. It’s a mixture of the highest level of confusion mixed with a feeling of when you think that you understand a hard subject like physics, but you really don’t. At this moment though I am 100% sure that I will be the only person in this house who will not be pissed on and the exciting roulette feeling fades away. Like I won everything and suddenly they are closing the casino. And I’m so angry, because I’m not done playing yet. Come on, give me one more spin… Still naked, Benedict Cumberbatch turns around in the disgusting bathroom, again shakes his medium sized cock three times. The drugged couple is still sleeping on the toilet in the wet yellow rain, like nothing happened. The piss is dripping all over their faces and hair. But they sleep like babies. They sleep in their beautiful morphine sleep all covered in the piss of the most famous detective in the world and a guy who cracked the Enigma saving millions of lives and helping to end the 2nd world war, both tucked in their arms in a feeling they think is love. I don’t even think that Ricky Gervais could come up with an idea of such a beautifully pathetic love scene “baptized” by two such prominent people in one. After this unusual show Ben and Me we take a little break to sit down at the kitchen table. Nobody says a word, we just look at each other. He knows what I want to ask him, but he is patiently waiting for the question with this little smirk on his face. He looks like a child who has done something really unacceptable like stealing chocolate from the school shop, eating it all, knowing what the consequences could be, but he also knows that there won’t be any. So we keep on looking at each other for another 4-5 minutes in complete silence. But the look is different from the one before. It’s soft and pleasant. It’s full of understanding and compassion. I am looking at his weird otter looking, yet still handsome face without feeling any discomfort. I could look at it for hours and not feel any shame. As if I was looking at myself? Or as if I was looking at someone who did something bad, but I understand it and I don’t judge him, because I did something similar too? Or maybe, because he did it for me? Or maybe it was not bad at all? - Go ahead and ask the question Demon- he finally speaks. - Why did you call me Demon?- that’s not the question I wanted to ask him, but I think he knew it. - Because Dominik would do something, that he would regret and never forgive himself and live with it for a long time in shame and regret and Demon is already so full of regrets, that there is no more space for those, so he needs to leave the space for Dominik to take over. - I’m not sure I get it Ben. - You will Dominik- and then he laughs with his stupid otter-like face. I wake up on a small bed with some fat guy lying next to me. He smells like piss, he must have not showered for like 3 days. I pick up the glass of water from the wooden, smoked floorboard and I notice there is a wooden mark resembling the face of the actor who played Sherlock Holmes, but I can’t seem to remember his name. Benedict…. C…. I will google it later. Now, I need to leave this shithole and go home. I have a feeling that I have something important to do, but it’s just a glimpse. I usually remember my dreams, but I feel complete emptiness now. Funny, I don't even need to pee I think. So I pack my bags. Leave all the drug addicts where they were before and head to the train station to go back to a place where I belong- anywhere but here. While waiting for the train I type into google Benedict's name and this funny meme of him and an otter appears, which for some reason makes me laugh. I take out my phone and send the picture of the otter to Chris asking him what actor this otter reminds him of. I’m pretty sure that he will guess it. | 15,731 | 1 |
"Echoes of Eternity" is a captivating tale of resilience, love, and the enduring human spirit in the face of adversity. Set against the backdrop of a post-apocalyptic world, the story follows Adam, a man haunted by the loss of his wife, Evelyn, and their daughter, Emily, in the ruins of Chicago. Echoes of Eternity In the year 2097, the world lay in ruins. The once bustling city of Chicago now stood as a testament to humanity's downfall, its skyscrapers crumbling monuments to a bygone era. Nature had begun to reclaim what was rightfully hers, with foliage weaving its way through broken concrete and twisted metal. Amidst this desolate landscape, there was one man who wandered the empty streets like a ghost. His name was Adam, and he believed himself to be the last living soul in the city. Five long years had passed since he lost everything—his wife, Evelyn, and their young daughter, Emily, had vanished without a trace. Since then, he had roamed the streets alone, haunted by memories of the life he once knew. Each day was a struggle for survival. Adam scoured the ruins for scraps of food, his footsteps echoing through silent streets lined with abandoned cars and crumbling buildings. He battled against the relentless forces of nature and the crushing weight of loneliness, his heart heavy with grief and despair. But despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him, Adam refused to give up. He clung to the hope that somewhere, somehow, there might be others like him, clinging to life amidst the ruins. And so, he embarked on perilous food supply runs, venturing into the heart of the city where danger lurked around every corner. On one such expedition, as he returned to his makeshift shelter with a meager haul of canned goods and dried rations, Adam heard a sound that stopped him in his tracks—a soft whimper, barely audible above the rustling of leaves and the distant howl of the wind. Heart pounding with anticipation, Adam followed the sound to its source—a small alleyway hidden behind a crumbling storefront. And there, huddled amidst the shadows, he found a figure shrouded in darkness—a young girl, no older than Emily had been when she disappeared. For a moment, Adam could hardly believe his eyes. Could it be possible that he was not alone after all? With trembling hands, he reached out to the girl, offering her the meager supplies he had gathered. And as she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, he felt a glimmer of hope stir within his soul. In the days that followed, Adam and the girl, whose name was Lily, formed an unlikely bond forged in the fires of adversity. Together, they faced the challenges of this harsh new world—scavenging for food, battling against marauding gangs, and confronting the demons that haunted their past. But amidst the struggle for survival, Adam found something he thought he had lost forever—a reason to keep fighting, a reason to hope. And as he looked into Lily's eyes, he realized that he was not just fighting for himself, but for the chance to build a new life in a world where anything was possible. And so, with Lily by his side, Adam set out to conquer the challenges that lay ahead, knowing that as long as they had each other, they would never truly be alone. For in the darkest of times, love and courage were the most powerful weapons of all. As Adam and Lily traversed the desolate streets of Chicago, they encountered both the remnants of humanity and the relentless forces of nature. Each day brought new trials, from dodging scavengers to navigating treacherous terrain overtaken by foliage and decay. But despite the hardships they faced, Adam found solace in Lily's presence. She reminded him of the love and light that still existed in this dark world, and together, they found strength in their shared determination to survive. As they journeyed deeper into the heart of the city, Adam's memories of Evelyn and Emily weighed heavily on his mind. He wondered what had become of them, whether they were still alive somewhere out there, lost in the chaos of the apocalypse. The fear of losing Lily, too, gnawed at his soul, but he pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the present moment. One day, as they explored an abandoned subway tunnel in search of supplies, they stumbled upon a group of survivors holed up in an old station platform. At first, Adam was wary, his instincts telling him to keep his distance. But as he watched Lily interact with the others, a sense of belonging washed over him—a feeling he hadn't experienced since before the world fell apart. The survivors welcomed Adam and Lily with open arms, offering them food, shelter, and a sense of community they hadn't known in years. For the first time since the apocalypse, Adam allowed himself to hope—to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still a future worth fighting for. But as the days turned into weeks, Adam's fears resurfaced, threatening to tear apart the fragile peace they had found. He couldn't shake the feeling that danger lurked around every corner, that at any moment, they could lose everything they had fought so hard to build. And then, one fateful night, as they sat around a crackling fire, sharing stories and laughter, tragedy struck. A horde of mutated creatures descended upon their camp, their eyes burning with hunger and rage. In the chaos that followed, Adam fought with all his might to protect Lily and the others, but it wasn't enough. As the dust settled and the screams faded into silence, Adam surveyed the wreckage of their once peaceful sanctuary. Tears streamed down his face as he cradled Lily's lifeless body in his arms, her blood staining the ground beneath them. In that moment of despair, Adam felt as though he had lost everything all over again. But as he gazed down at Lily's pale face, a spark of determination ignited within him—a fire that refused to be extinguished. And so, with a heavy heart and a renewed sense of purpose, Adam vowed to honor Lily's memory by continuing to fight for a better tomorrow, no matter the cost. For in a world consumed by darkness, he had learned that even the smallest glimmer of hope was worth fighting for. And as long as he drew breath, he would never stop searching for the light. As Adam stood amidst the ruins of their shattered sanctuary, grief threatened to consume him. But deep within his heart, a flicker of resilience burned bright. With trembling hands, he gently laid Lily's body to rest, her presence still lingering like a whisper in the wind. Determined to honor her memory, Adam set out once more into the unforgiving wilderness, his footsteps heavy with sorrow but his spirit unbroken. He roamed the desolate streets of Chicago, searching for signs of life, clinging to the hope that somewhere out there, others like him were fighting to survive. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Adam found himself grappling with a sense of profound emptiness—a void left behind by the ones he had loved and lost. Memories of Evelny and Emily haunted his every step, their faces etched into his mind like shadows in the night. Yet amidst the darkness, a glimmer of light began to shine—a beacon of hope that refused to be extinguished. Adam realized that while he may have lost his family, he had gained something equally precious—a newfound strength forged in the crucible of adversity. With each passing day, Adam grew bolder, braving dangers that would have once sent him running in fear. He faced mutant creatures and marauding gangs with courage born of desperation, his determination unwavering in the face of despair. And then, one day, as he stood atop a crumbling skyscraper overlooking the city, Adam saw something that took his breath away—a faint glimmer of light shining in the distance. With a renewed sense of purpose, he set off towards it, his heart pounding with anticipation. As he drew nearer, the source of the light became clear—a group of survivors, huddled together amidst the ruins of an old cathedral, their faces illuminated by the warmth of a crackling fire. And among them, Adam saw a familiar face—a woman whose eyes sparkled with recognition as she reached out to him. In that moment, Adam knew that he was no longer alone—that he had found a new family, bound together by the shared struggles of their past and the hope for a better future. And as he embraced the woman, feeling her warmth against his skin, he realized that even in the darkest of times, love had the power to conquer all. In the embrace of his newfound family, Adam felt a sense of belonging he thought he would never experience again. The weight of his loneliness lifted, replaced by a feeling of warmth and acceptance that filled the void in his heart. Together with the other survivors, Adam worked tirelessly to rebuild their shattered world, one brick at a time. They cleared away debris, planted crops in the fertile soil that had once been pavement, and forged bonds that would withstand the test of time. As the seasons passed, the city of Chicago began to thrive once more, its streets bustling with life as nature reclaimed its rightful place alongside the remnants of civilization. Trees and flowers bloomed where once there had been only concrete, and laughter echoed through the air as children played in the sun-dappled streets. But amidst the newfound joy and camaraderie, Adam never forgot the ones he had lost. Evelyn, Emily, Lily—they were always with him, their spirits guiding him through the darkest of days and the brightest of nights. And as he looked out over the city he now called home, Adam knew that while the scars of the past would never fully heal, they served as a reminder of the strength and resilience of the human spirit. For in the face of unimaginable adversity, he had found hope, love, and the courage to carry on. And so, as the sun set on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the skyline of Chicago, Adam vowed to cherish each moment, to live each day to its fullest, and to never forget the lessons he had learned on his journey through the ruins of the old world and into the dawn of a new one. As life settled into a semblance of normalcy in the rejuvenated city of Chicago, Adam's heart remained heavy with the memories of Evelyn and Emily. Despite the passage of time, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Driven by a newfound sense of hope, Adam embarked on a quest to uncover the truth behind their disappearance. He combed through the remnants of the old world, searching for any clue that might lead him to his lost loved ones. Months turned into years as Adam pursued his relentless quest, never once giving up hope. And then, one fateful day, as he explored the ruins of an old government building, he stumbled upon a revelation that sent shivers down his spine—a tattered photograph, buried beneath layers of dust and debris. In the faded image, Adam saw the smiling faces of Evelyn and Emily, their eyes alive with joy and laughter. And written on the back in Evelyn's handwriting were words that filled his heart with both hope and dread: "We're alive. Follow the river." With trembling hands, Adam set out to follow the river, his heart pounding with anticipation. He journeyed deep into the heart of the wilderness, guided by a sense of purpose that burned brighter than ever before. And then, at long last, he found them—a small settlement nestled amidst the trees, its inhabitants tending to crops and livestock with the same resilience that had carried Adam through the darkest days of his life. As he approached, Evelyn emerged from the crowd, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of him. And beside her stood Emily, all grown up now but with the same radiant smile that Adam remembered from years ago. In that moment, time seemed to stand still as Adam embraced his family once more, tears of joy streaming down his face. They had survived against all odds, building a new life for themselves in the wilderness, far from the chaos and destruction of the old world. And as they stood together, surrounded by the ones they loved, Adam realized that sometimes, the greatest miracles come not from the ashes of despair, but from the unwavering belief that anything is possible, as long as you never lose hope. | 12,619 | 0 |
This is a fantasy tale set in the land of Veridium, where magic is abundant and adventures abound. The story follows a young orphan named Kael who discovers his innate magical abilities and embarks on a journey with a group of adventurers to uncover a legendary treasure hidden deep within the Frostpeak Mountains. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets of Eldoria, Kael found himself drawn to the bustling marketplace. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the murmur of voices, each stall adorned with trinkets and treasures from distant lands. Lost in the sea of faces, Kael's gaze fell upon a group of adventurers gathered at the edge of the square. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and their laughter carried on the breeze as they shared tales of their past exploits. Curiosity piqued, Kael approached the group, his heart pounding with excitement. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nerves that fluttered in his stomach. Varian, the leader of the adventurers, turned to regard Kael with a scrutinizing gaze. "What business does a street rat like you have with us?" he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind. Unfazed by the challenge, Kael squared his shoulders and met Varian's gaze with determination. "I may not have gold or noble blood, but I have something far more valuable—knowledge of these lands and the magic that courses through them," he replied, his voice ringing with conviction. A murmur rippled through the group as they exchanged skeptical glances, but Varian's eyes softened with a hint of intrigue. "And what makes you think we need a guide?" he asked, his tone more curious than dismissive. "Because the Frostpeak Mountains are treacherous to those who do not know their secrets," Kael replied, his words echoing with a confidence born of years spent navigating the hidden paths and forgotten ruins that dotted the landscape. "I can lead you safely to the heart of the mountains, where untold riches and ancient relics await." Varian studied Kael for a long moment, weighing his words with a thoughtful expression. Finally, he nodded, a glimmer of respect shining in his eyes. "Very well, street rat," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Welcome to the party." And with that, Kael's fate was sealed, as he embarked on a journey that would change the course of his life forever. Once upon a time, in a realm veiled by mist and mystery, there existed a land known as Veridium, a place where magic was as common as the air people breathed. Veridium was a land of diverse landscapes, from the towering peaks of the Frostpeak Mountains to the sprawling forests of the Evergreen Vale, each corner teeming with its own secrets and wonders. At the heart of Veridium stood the grand city of Eldoria, a beacon of civilization and magic. Its spires reached for the heavens, and its streets bustled with merchants, scholars, and adventurers from all corners of the realm. In Eldoria, the Great Academy of Arcane Arts stood as a testament to the pursuit of knowledge and mastery of magic. But beyond the walls of Eldoria, in the wilds of Veridium, there lay ancient ruins and untamed wilderness, where creatures of myth and legend roamed freely. It was in these wilds that our story begins, with a young orphan named Kael. Kael had grown up in the streets of Eldoria, a place of shadows and secrets. He knew little of his past, save for the pendant he wore around his neck—a simple silver trinket adorned with a mysterious symbol. Despite his humble origins, Kael possessed a natural affinity for magic, a talent that had not gone unnoticed by the wizards of the Great Academy. One fateful day, as Kael wandered the streets of Eldoria, he stumbled upon a group of adventurers preparing for a perilous journey into the heart of the Frostpeak Mountains. Intrigued by tales of lost treasures and ancient relics hidden within the icy peaks, Kael offered his services as a guide, eager to prove himself and escape the confines of the city. The leader of the adventurers, a grizzled warrior named Varian, saw potential in the young orphan and accepted his offer. And so, Kael embarked on his first great adventure, braving snowstorms, treacherous cliffs, and ferocious beasts alongside his newfound companions. As they delved deeper into the Frostpeak Mountains, they encountered challenges beyond their wildest imaginations—ancient guardians, cursed tombs, and rival adventurers vying for the same prize. But through courage, cunning, and the power of magic, they persevered, inching ever closer to the legendary treasure said to lie at the heart of the mountains. Along the way, Kael discovered more about his past and the true significance of the pendant he wore. It was a symbol of his lineage, a bloodline that traced back to the ancient sorcerers who had once ruled over Veridium with wisdom and power. With each step of their journey, Kael's connection to his heritage grew stronger, and so too did his mastery of magic. But as they finally reached the chamber where the treasure awaited, they were met with a shocking revelation—the treasure was not gold or jewels, but a powerful artifact known as the Heart of Veridium, a crystal imbued with the essence of magic itself. Realizing the danger of such power falling into the wrong hands, Kael and his companions made a solemn vow to protect the Heart of Veridium at all costs. Little did they know that their journey was far from over, and that greater challenges awaited them as dark forces sought to claim the artifact for their own sinister purposes. Thus began an epic quest that would take Kael and his companions across the length and breadth of Veridium, from the depths of forgotten dungeons to the heights of enchanted citadels. Along the way, they forged bonds of friendship, faced unimaginable trials, and confronted the darkest aspects of themselves. But through it all, they remained steadfast in their resolve, guided by the belief that true courage lies not in the absence of fear, but in the willingness to face it head-on. And in the end, it was not the power of magic or the strength of arms that saved Veridium from the brink of destruction, but the bravery and sacrifice of ordinary people willing to do extraordinary things for the greater good. And so, peace was restored to Veridium, and Kael emerged not as a humble orphan, but as a hero whose name would be remembered for generations to come—a testament to the enduring power of hope, courage, and the magic that dwells within us all. | 6,794 | 0 |
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.” A day or two would pass with relative peace before Dan stumbled in, spewing nonsense once again. It was slightly different, but all in the same paranoid vein. Heated debates on the existence of God and the Satanic elite happened fairly regular. Conversations bordered on the dramatic as two confused adults tried to listen while simultaneously speaking over one another. “Even the so-called Church doesn’t have the right answers all the time, Jimmy.” “Or ever.” “What do you mean by that?” “I think it’s rather simple, Dan. Or do I need to give you a lesson on Lutheranism?” “That’s neither here nor there. The Church was wrong then and is wrong now. The true teachings of Jesus Christ are found between the covers of one book and cannot be found behind the confines of any four walls.” “Well goddamn. I’ve never heard a more true statement fall from that frothy fuckin’ mouth of yours. Of course, you know that whole Jesus shit’s a myth, right? And that book was written by men. Not gods…men.” The skin visible below Dan’s Unabomber brand beard flushed red with ire. An audible huff escaped, followed by more judgmental nonsense. “A myth?” he shouted. “Boy, you’ve got so much to learn. Keep hanging around though, kid, and I’m sure I’ll rub off on you.” “Fuck Dan, that’s more frightenin’ than any of your New World Order, FEMA camp bullshit. The last thing I need is you rubbin’ me in any way.” There was no laughter. “The fact that you deny Jesus and claim he is just a myth is the scary part.” “Scary for who? I promise you I’m not afraid of somethin’ that’s not even there.” “The fact that you don’t feel him tells me everything I need to know about you, Jimmy.” “And the fact that you do feel him tells me everything I need to know about you. I mean honestly, Dan, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue. That’s one of the key differences between me and you. You can stand there and spout shit like you’re an authority on the one subject humans have absolutely zero authority on. That’s pure ego. That’s pure arrogance, and I say, ‘No thank you, I have enough of my own already.’” “Well then, Mister Smart Ass,” Dan sneered, “what does someone like you believe?” “I don’t fuckin’ know. Nothin’, I guess. I mean…” I struggled to conjure up any sort of belief structure on my part. “I really just don’t know, Dan. I mean, I don’t think I’m smart enough to say one way or the other. I don’t think I can concretely confirm that there is or ever was a Creator of any kind, nor can I deny some of the simple facts presented in nature. I simply just do not know. And don’t you think this whole experience called ‘consciousness’ would be better served if every one of us just had the courage to admit that one simple fact instead of creatin’ a bunch of bullshit to fill the void?” “Well,” he took a long pause, “…you are right about one thing there, little Jimmy. You don’t know. | 10,732 | 0 |
“Deadly Attractor” by P. Orin Zack [2003] Chapter One … 2261 … “Careful down there, ‘jinx’.” Angela Pascoe glared up at her climbing partner, and tugged at the hardhold she just pounded into the icepack beside the crevasse. “Can it. I’m nervous enough as it is.” “Hey, mate, you’re the one tracking accidents, not me.” If they were accidents. She wasn’t so sure any more. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything on the flight to New Zealand. But you have to trust your team, and keeping secrets was sure to cause friction. Satisfied with the safety line, she gestured at the bright orange technological pack mule hovering beside the pile of supplies it had been carrying. “Okay, now scoot the Sherpa over here.” They’d both climbed Franz Joseph Glacier before, so the mechanics of climbing and even the scenery were old hat. This trip was more of a treasure hunt, and the treasure they were hunting was under the ice. The trick, of course, was seeing the treasure with your own eyes, and that meant finding a secret passage – a crevasse that just happened to bottom out in the right place. According to the latest satellite scan, the crevasse at their feet ought to be right over a particularly interesting bit of debris -- discarded gear from an early expedition. But she’d have to get right down to the bottom of the crack to see it. That put her in a very dangerous spot. If the ice moved, she’d have get out in a hurry. Which, of course, was why they’d reserved an aGrav sherpa before they left Australia. Most people just used them to haul supplies, but with a few careful mods to the control settings, you could ride them as well. Angela grabbed the sherpa’s handle as it floated closer, and hooked the safety line to it. Then she mounted it, pushed out over the crevasse, and fingered the floatation control. The chasm rose up to engulf her. She slowed her descent when the gap was a few yards wide, and switched to a hover when it barely fit the sherpa. She braced herself against the narrow gap and looked around. This was perfect. The foot of the glacier rested on the ground, and the crack she was in went clear to the bottom. There it was. The hidden treasure. Discards from some unknown expedition. Torn leathers and spent containers tossed aside by people who came this way when a trip like this really was off the maps. The government of New Zealand forbid anyone to remove the debris, but there was no rule against touching it. Besides, who was going to know? After getting some pictures, she touched the return button, but instead of rising smoothly to the surface, the unit bucked. She let the camera dangle, and got a tight grip on the tether mount. While she struggled to right the sherpa, it lost location-lock and started knocking her against the sheer ice walls. It canted. She leaned to compensate. It shuddered and turned sideways, throwing her off balance. She grabbed the tether, and climbed. Halfway up, the hardhold snapped. Below her, the sherpa was ricocheting off the walls. The sound was deafening. She grabbed for it as she tumbled, hoping that it would at least break her fall. Dangling from the loose tether and buffeted by the runaway sherpa, she was suddenly shocked by the indescribable feeling of waking into an almost perfect copy of waking reality. The world of moments earlier, of sitting on that floating sherpa, seemed like a dream, yet nothing was different. At least that’s what she thought until she neared the bottom, and discovered the ice cave. She didn’t have much time to admire it, though, because less than a second later, she struck rock, saved from instant death by the resilient safety padding in her parka, and passed out. When she woke up, she could see that the crevasse above the cave had nearly closed. Her mates couldn’t get to her. And it was cold. The heater in her parka must have broken in the fall. Time dragged by. Minute by freezing minute. “I hear your name’s Jinx,” the rescue worker called through the opening. “I’ll kill him,” she muttered, shivering. “My name’s Angela. How’d you get here so quick?” He laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it quick. You’ve been here all night. In any case, we’ll be getting you out of here in a minute or two. Where’s your gear?” Angela looked around. “There’s a sherpa around somewhere.” “Got it.” “And also…” She dithered briefly over the ethics of stealing historical artifacts. “I had some antique climbing gear. Leather.” He looked around for a few moments. “Sorry. No luck. Nice place, though. I’ve wanted to see this cave ever since the glacier analysis bot turned up readings for it a few weeks back. I ran up a sim from the data before we came down for you, just to get a feel for it, but it’s a lot better in person.” Angela was bewildered. Weeks? And what happened to the treasure? “What are you doing with that? Have you been walkabout?” A starburst broke the darkness behind Angela’s eyelids. Sudden noises always did that, but at the moment she couldn’t afford to react. Feigning sleep is one thing when you’re snooping on your folks’ plans for your eighth birthday party. It was quite another with all this MedCenter tech breathing down your neck. Fortunately, the people in the hallway worked the night shift. They weren’t likely to notice, even if the readouts betrayed her. The shrill voice echoed hollowly. A supervisor, from the sound of it, and she was upset. Angela could barely make out the words, even with her ear brushing up against the wall. She tossed in her bed, feigning a restless fit so she could cup a hand to gather more sound. “Her treatment plan was scrapped hours ago,” the supervisor scolded. “Don’t you know anything?” The tone was chilling. It fit the pattern. This might be another one. Angela had been laid up at Australia’s finest, NullArbor City MedCenter, for a week now, and the nanobots repairing the frostbite damage were due to shut down sometime after dawn. That would trigger HealthTech Corp’s automated out-processing procedure, and she’d be back on the street by noon. Ordinarily she’d be overjoyed, but right now, being released was the last thing she wanted. The supervisor talked a good game, but she was just someone else’s lackey. Angela was after much bigger game, the mysterious advisor behind that change of treatment plan. What really frosted her was that if she didn’t peg him in the next few hours, she probably wouldn’t get another chance, short of being put through some other logic- and death-defying crisis. She was laid up because of an injury, but she was snooping because she swore an oath to be her patients’ voice when they had none. Someone was screwing with people’s lives. Some had even been killed, and she was determined to know why. The Healer’s Oath was important to her. It had served her well, but now it stood in her way, because it also prohibited unauthorized psychic probes. She felt hamstrung. But if she was right, she might soon be joining the people she was sworn to help, and that scared her. She couldn’t give up. There was too much at stake. It wasn’t just patients, either. There were others as well, and every single one of them had been on the verge of greatness. Like extras in a holodrama, they were all cut down, just when you started rooting for them. And she was certain that whoever or whatever was behind it all probably wouldn’t be too thrilled to find out that she knew about them. Something rustled in the hallway. Another flash behind her eyes. It had been that night, while spying on her parents plans for her eighth birthday, that her innate sense of stories first got her in trouble. The feeling first surfaced during bedtime stories. Her Da’ would be reading along, and sometimes, she’d just know which incidents were important, and which were just there to use more pages. He didn’t think much of it then, but when she interrupted their birthday scheming at the first hint of subterfuge, she got her hide tanned for talking back. Once she started picking books on her own, she got a reputation as a hard audience. It had put her off fiction for the longest time, until she learned how to spot the stories that made the right kind of shapes in her mind. Then, when she became a Healer, the feeling would return at the oddest moments, and she’d say things to nudge her patients in directions that gave their lives a more satisfying shape. Some people thought that made her a busybody. She thought of it more like editing a work-in-progress. “—but it’s someone else’s signature,” the orderly objected. “And he’s authorized to make changes to doctors orders.” The supervisor was losing her patience. Angela had been awake for some time now, aware of the nanobots swarming through her body, aware of how their presence was affecting the smooth flow of chi through her meridians, and of how that was distorting her aura. Compared to the constant psychic noise in this place, these things were fairly easy to tune out. She’d been keeping it all at bay for so long now that it was beginning to seem like some perverse form of self-imposed Zen. The thought that it would soon be over, that she’d be free to walk out of this haven for institutionalized intrusion, brought a stifled smile to her roundish face. “Now go.” The supervisor had apparently had enough. Two sets of footsteps faded into the gentle background whoosh and whirr of the MedCenter. She relaxed. Feigning sleep wasn’t just a way to snoop. It was also self-preservation, a way to hide from the daily psychic maelstrom masquerading as the medical horror show called BioStabilization. Forcing natural systems into machine-made ruts wasn’t just hard on the patient, it was torture to any psychic within shouting distance. Fortunately, the worst of it was done on day shift. And sleeping by day was one way to escape. Her immediate problem, however, was that she’d run out of ideas. Among Healers, those who were natural psychics usually just accepted their gifts as a given, and didn’t concern themselves with how they did the things they could do. For them, it was enough simply to learn ways to focus their abilities, ways to turn what might otherwise get them ostracized from society into a useful tool that served the community. But there were others, Healers not gifted with psychic abilities, but who had nevertheless learned them, much as you might learn the techniques required to perform any other craft. Some of them might have been able to master the more extreme techniques, except for the fact that because they were not innately psychic, they also lacked an intangible inner resource that was the crucial difference between the two kinds of Healer. Angela’s psychic talent may have been innate, but her sense of topological rightness helped her to discover novel approaches to otherwise intractable problems. And although that intensely secret ability had revealed the reverse causality behind the pattern of incidents that she had stumbled on, so far it had not shown her a way to get past her bigger personal mystery: how she had gotten trapped in a non-existent ice cave under Franz Josef Glacier in New Zealand. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed a discrepancy between what she recalled, and what everyone around her insisted had been the case all along. She’d learned to live with whatever it was, and had pretty much stopped paying attention to it until something struck her about the lives of a number of people who had been through her Hospice Center on their way here for treatment. When she reviewed the course of their lives prior to the incident that had sent them in for evaluation, and compared it to what happened to them afterwards, it didn’t match. Until the incident, their lives made a satisfying kind of shape, but then it changed. There was a discontinuity. If their lives had been stories, she’d wonder if one writer had begun the tale, and another one took it from there. Yet, because none of these people had been patients of hers, she had no direct observations. Nor did she have any legitimate way to pursue the matter. Lying in that MedCenter room for days, thinking about those people, and wondering about the weird discontinuity she had experienced in the crevasse, she eventually realized that they were really all the same. Regardless of what caused their internally directed lives to suddenly change course, the result was always the same. Something important to them soon failed. For some, fatally. What was important to her was uncovering the reason for it. And if a discontinuity in their lives presaged impending failure, she was determined not to allow the same thing to happen to her. For her, after all, it was different. She’d seen the pattern in their lives, and she’d seen the event itself in her own. That had to be the key. Of that much, she was certain. What she couldn’t figure out was how to get from there to whomever or whatever was behind it. The only other thing that was out of place here was the mysterious advisor that kept eluding her. And for that reason, she was forced to the conclusion that the answer to one mystery was the answer to the other. This advisor was somehow responsible for all of it. And the sky was already beginning to brighten. | 13,317 | 1 |
is an open source multimedia world building project that aims to create a collection of media based off a single short story (The Event) which you can read below. # The Event >**Semantic Satiation** is the psychological phenomenon in which repetition causes a word or phrase to temporarily lose meaning for the listener, who then perceives the speech as repeated meaningless sounds. It, that is what we called it. Who was It? Where did It come from? Was It friendly? Should we be worried about It? Can someone explain It to me? Was It a weapon? Was It Chinese? It was just someone's art piece or maybe a prank. It wasn't. I will tell you what It looked like. It looked like a pine cone and not a very big one at that. Not to say that the pine cones we have on earth are very big. It was a pine cone that came from space. A space pine cone if you would. Since the pinecone came from space it is appropriate we use the former form. Even though no one knew what It was everyone was an expert on It. Scientists said It was probably just some space junk, a hunk of metal from a comet, or perhaps an asteroid. Conspiracy theorists said it was a weapon or a spy satellite developed by their government or someone else's. Religious fanatics said it was Jesus or Muhammad returning to bring about the end of time. This one I thought was especially silly. If Jesus were to return he would be piloting a saucer in the shape of a . Muhammad would be flying a .jpg), not a pine cone. No religious texts that I've read have ever mentioned pine cones, so we could definitely rule that out. The pine cone entered into Earth's orbit around April and stayed there for eight months. By the second week mass hysteria had set in. With the open web it didn't take long for It to blow up. I mean that in the literal and the figurative sense. By the fourth week 17 different nations had tried to destroy It after it refused to comply with the United Nations joint order to leave the Earth's atmosphere. Every natural disaster at that time was blamed on It. If there was an earthquake in Malaysia or a wildfire in California it was the pine cone's fault. It really couldn't catch a break. During the election that year It even won 10% of the vote. Sometime in December It collided with an asteroid which sent it hurtling towards Earth. It landed on a Bedouin family's camp killing 3 children and their father. They would be the first victims of the event. The impact of the pine cone with the Earth's surface was enough to cause it to crack open, revealing the traveler inside. It was eight feet tall, gray, burly, and half machine. It was dead, in fact It had been dead for the last year according to the Jordanian government. It brought three gifts to the people of Earth. The first was the engine of the ship. A kind of fusion reactor that seemed to generate an unlimited supply of energy for the pine cone. The second was the ships main computer. A quantum thingamajig that had more processing power than all the devices on earth. Finally, the disease that was contracted by the Bedouin shepherds that had first discovered It. An inebriated man in a pine cone fell to the earth and seeded it with power, knowledge, and death. | 3,661 | 1 |
Yeah because you always hear about how situationships are easy. Said no one ever. I’ve seen them range anywhere from an intense two-night stand to an overdrawn one year “relationship”. And that’s the thing about situationships. They’re typically one-sided. One party is ALL IN (Person A), and the remaining party doesn’t want to commit (Person B). Person B is holding on to Person A as a fun enjoyable option - until the next best thing comes along. And Person B is doing it all under the guise that they want to “protect the others feelings”. What a load of baloney! Speaking as someone whose played both sides, the game is fun. ITS SO FUN! At first. And then someone gets hurt. And its not so fun anymore. But wait, it’s human nature to forget. After all, time heals all wounds. So, here you are. All healed from your situationship, ready to get back out there in the dating world. You meet someone. and they’re PERFECT! Not like anyone you’ve ever met before! They open the door for you, they like the same music, and oh. my. god. Are they goddamn gorgeous. It makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and open your heart to fully love again. They would never hurt you, they said they like you too much. You have a whirlwind fantasy of a romance and forget the rest of the world in your newfound bliss. Until one day. The inevitable happens. The texts start coming slower and slower. You check your phone, once, twice, three times in an hour.. Still no text? How could this be? You have so much in common with them, so much to talk about! At least, you thought you did.. “It’s nothing”, you reassure yourself. The next hour comes and passes. And then the next. And the next. Still no text. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. You get home from work, and you decide to give them a call. You’ve been talking to them for weeks now, and you feel it’s well within your bounds to give them a ring. You hesitate to press the call button, and finally your thumb impulsively jabs the screen. You hear the dial tone ring and ring again. Finally you hear the words “Hello?”, and you let out the biggest sigh of relief. You feel like you’ve been dying of thirst in the desert and someone just dumped a swimming pool over your head. “HEyyyYyy”, you respond. Trying your best to sound casual, and instead the sound comes out like a scratched disk on a broken record machine. “How has your day been?”, you ask. Covering up the real question you want to ask which is “Where the hell have you been all day??”. And it’s like they can read your mind. “Oh. Right, I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. Work was crazy today.” You think to yourself, *okay.. that’s a reasonable response*. “No worries!,” you tell them, squashing down the desperation in your voice the best you can. The rest of the conversation goes smoothly, reminding you of the conversations you used to have with them. By the time you hang up, all your fears have been reassured. *Man was I overthinking!* You go to bed happy, and your mind can’t help but daydream about the future you’ll have together with them. And then the whole cycle repeats itself the next day. It’s like a game of cat and mouse. You’re the cat and they’re the mouse. Just when you think you’ve got them in your grasp, they slip away again. You hate the elusiveness, but they give you *just* enough hope to hold onto. Your mind is filled with questions. *What’s going on? What happened? I thought they liked me. Well, they do like me,* you rationalize. *They have to like me.* And you know deep down that they do. But not enough. Not enough to want you permanently. The moment you realize, your heart sinks. In this moment, you find a hard pill to swallow. Not everyone you fall in love with is meant to be in your life forever. They’re meant to teach you something, to keep you company as you walk your path, to show you what it means to feel human. Your heart breaks a little. You can’t help it. The hurt chips through your tough girl exterior. You sit in silence, letting the feeling settle in and around you. The heavy feeling follows you throughout the next few days. Until one day.. you wake up. And you forget about them. You have an event you’re looking forward to that day, and it’s all you can think about. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. You still get pangs in your heart when you think about them. But you’re able to see more clearly. You can appreciate the moments you shared for what they were and how they shaped you. The songs, the movies, the laughs, the caresses… a beautiful distant memory. And you’re grateful. | 4,571 | 2 |
Pattyr awoke to the comforting and well-known sounds of a traveling carriage: the bumping of wheels on a grooved path, and the slight bellows of wind that sobered him awake. Quickly brushing a few sweat-stuck strands of straw from his finely dyed purple tunic, Pattyr rose amidst a jarring bump of the wheel. Spinning and gleefully leaning over the simple wooden rails of the hay-carrying carriage, he reveled in the wind while inspecting the departing boulder that had jolted him awake. Extending an arm against the flow of wind, Pattyr felt alive, he could feel and smell the sweet summer heat of the waking land. A strand of golden hair blurred his vision, so he shook it off with great force, dispersing the blur and shedding bits of hay that had disguised themselves as his golden locks. "Young Apprentice, do not waste our hay. We need to transport this cargo to the nearby village of Oottomook," scolded Pattyr's master, a man hidden beneath an overly large hat of mystic silk dyed a starry blue. "You would know this if you listened instead of daydreaming in fields of elves and spirits." "You're always encouraging me to interact with the creatures of the land and learn their magic. Yet, when I do, you lecture me on how to behave," Pattyr retorted, still enchanted by the passing winds and landscape. A sudden, sharp, and unpleasant and sharp whipping sound halted the carriage. A nervous and frantic Pattyr stumbled back to the hay stack, searching for his trusty apprenticeship wand with its blue sapphire tip and aged wooden handle, 'Bandits?' He wearily thought as he continued his search. His master's voice grew stern, "I've taught you to seek and learn magic in your free time. Yet, during business, I've emphasized the importance of listening. You rarely heed this lesson." Pattyr gulped, stood still, and with a hay hidden arm continued to search beneath the haystack for his wand. A exasperated sigh escaped his master. "If you're to learn the trade, you must show that you're listening. I've taught you mystic and secretive arts, yet you've shown little respect. Sometimes I fear you're a lost cause, squandering the gods gifts for you. Were it not for your magical prowess, I'd have left you at a village stop long ago." After his master's final words of despair, he waved a curling wooden stick in the air and whipped the two beasts leading the carriage forward. "We need to deliver this hay to a noble household. Please show great respect to our buyers. Otherwise, I fear I won't be able to talk my way out of your disrespectful behavior. You could lose your head before muttering a spell to save yourself." Following the silence that came Pattyr stirred himself away from the hay leaning back against the wooden railing confines ane mulling his masters words over while thumbing over his now found wand. The gleaming reflection of himself hued blue travelled Pattyr back to the past when he first met his Master a journeying spellsayer who broke old law by teaching common folk magic and happily apprenticed Pattyr after seeing his affinity for the craft. A few summer breezes jolted Pattyr away from his thoughts and shook him to speaking, "I'll listen more and help more as well" He said with a slimness of chiming gloom present, while the beasts trudged forward his Master spoke, "You're a great youngin Pattyr, with a high proficiency for magic, I'm sure you're to make a great spellsayer. I'm only stern with you because I know you've the potential for greatness" He spoke beneath a bit of toothless yet warmly coloured smile. | 3,566 | 1 |
Starpalace: The Souls Within By: Dylan Pemberton On a Friday evening Myles Mikilo was walking up to his house after coming back from Jago’s Diner when he saw a letter taped on the door from the video store that he works at. He opens the letter, and the first thing he sees is in big red letters “TERMINATED”. He takes the letter inside and sits down at his kitchen table “How am I pay my rent?” Myles asked “And it’s due soon!”. Myles decided to just go to bed and figure it out in the morning. The next morning Myles woke up and did his normal routine. He went to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, went to his closet, put on some clothes, and left his room. He thought about making breakfast but then realized that he didn’t have anything to make because he forgot to get groceries. So he grabbed his phone and keys, put on his jacket, and got in his car to head off to Jago’s Diner. When he arrived, he walked into Jago’s Diner, sat down, and ordered his usual, a Monte Cristo. As he was eating his sandwich he looked over and remembered that Jago’s had a community board where people would post jobs. “Oh, maybe there is a job that I could take!” Myles exclaimed. He went over to the board and started to read the jobs. Babysitting, Carpenter, Mechanic, “Oh, that’s one I could do” Myles stated. He had found a job listing for a recently closed, soon-reopening, arcade. The job was for an overnight general staff position. The poster read “Position at soon-reopening arcade, Starpalace Arcade! Responsibilities: make sure everything works, keep the place clean, and make sure no one breaks in. Dial 1-800-STAR.” Myles said to himself “I could do that, I mean how hard could it be?”. Then he took the flyer, ate his sandwich, and went home. When Myles got home he sat down at his kitchen table and looked at the poster. He took out his phone and dialed 1-800-STAR. The line rang for a while until finally, someone picked up. “Hello? Who is this?” the voice on the line asked “Hi, this is Myles Mikilo. I’m calling to see if the general staff position that you were offering was still available” Myles answered “Oh yes, it is” the voice replied. “Great, do I need to do an interview or?” Began Myles. “Can you keep people out” The voice questioned. “Yes?” told Myles. “Then you got the job,” said the voice. “Great! how soon can I start?” asked Myles. “Tonight” The voice offered. “Ok,” Myles agreed. “So here is some info on the place” informed the voice “They shut this place down a bit ago. The owners are planning to reopen soon so they need someone to make sure everything is working. Hey maybe if you do well enough they will still have you when they reopen. There is a key to the front gate in the mailbox off to the side of the place. Lights on the outside, cameras on the inside and outside. There is a security gate at the entry to almost every attraction and at the main entrance, though there is no lock on any of the gates so just pull the gate up. In the backstage, there should be a lever and a fuse box next to the desk. The power is off so turn those fuses on then flip the lever. The only thing that will turn on when you flip the lever is the sign out front. To turn on everything else you will have to flip the light switches, which are labeled, at the entryway of the employee hallway. In the attraction offices there are levers, pull those to turn on/off and restart the attractions. Well, that’s all, your shirt is in the locker in the break room, help yourself to anything in there and remember to take breaks. Well you should be golden see you later” Then the call ended. As Myles pulled up to the arcade he saw the sun in the distance, about to disappear, soon it would be pitch black. He walked over to the edge of the building to find a little black box. Myles opened it and low and behold there was a key. Myles walked back to the main entrance, as he did it seemed that the lightly wethered rainbow checker stripe that wrapped around and inside the building, seemed to invite him in. He approached the doors and looked up at the smiling pie-eyed cartoon mascot, Tyler the Tiger, who rested one arm on the words “Starpalace Arcade” and waved with the other. For a second Myles thought he saw Tyler staring at him, but just shook off the feeling. He walked over to the small sheltered area which was where the doors were. He opened the lock, freeing the two sides of the gate that were bound together with the lock. He shoved the two sides of the folding gate to the little area between the door and the small piler-like structure that the other side of them was connected to. As he went to open the door he again saw Tyler, this time as a decal stuck to the door welcoming guests. As he opened the glass door he heard the bells on the door ring as he entered the little lobby of the arcade. As he looked around the room he spotted a life-size cutout of Tyler once again welcoming guests. On the wall of the room, there were framed posters of all the attractions. Billy the banana’s snack counter, Polly’s ping-pong, Jhony Jhone’s shooter alley, Harry’s hoops, and Tyler’s mega gaming lounge. In one corner of the room, there was a door labeled staff only. Myles approached the door with caution afraid something might be living in there. He swung the door open ready to attack anything hiding inside, but instead just found an empty supply closet. He went back to the lobby and walked towards the big archway to the arcade. Above the archway, in big letters, it said “Welcome”. He walked in front of the entrance and pulled up the security gate that covered it. He walked through the entrance to the main arcade and pushed the swinging half door open at the little podium in front labeled “Cub Check”. The main arcade was split into three sections. The first section was a wall with three things, Tyler’s gaming lounge, Billy’s snack counter, and the prize counter. In the middle, there was Polly's ping pong table that was right under a gigantic hanging sign that said “Starpalace arcade”. Above that was a big dome skylight that had a covering and star cutouts on it so that sunlight looked like it was illuminating the stars. On each side of the ping pong table, there were three rows of arcade machines back to back. And in the third section, there were tables in front of the stage. The stage held the animatronic mascots which would perform while people ate. On either side of the showroom, there were two attractions, which were Jhony Jhones Shooter Alley and Harry’s Hoops. Right next to the shooter alley, there was a ball pit. On the left of the stage, there was a door that led to the backstage, the breakroom, and the office. Myles walked over to the door next to the stage and went into the backstage area. Once he was at the fuse box he opened the box and flipped on the fuses. Then he flipped the lever next to the box from off to on. Outside the Starpalace sign started to light up. The neon stars around the sign started blinking, the words “Starpalace Arcade” lit up, and slowly the lights that illuminated Tyler struggled as they hummed to life, then finally they lit up all of him. Myles left the backstage and went into the break room. He flipped the light switch and the lights jumped to life. The breakroom was a small room with a table and some chairs. There was a counter with a fridge and a microwave, and on top, there were some cabinets. The room wasn’t much but it was manageable, around the room posters of the characters lined the walls. On one wall of the room, there were some lockers. Myles opened one and found a shirt with the logo of the arcade the mascot Tyler still smiling. On the back of the shirt, it said “Staff” to indicate to customers that the person wearing the shirt was staff. Myles put on the shirt and found there was a name tag with his name on it “Huh that's weird” Myles exclaimed “I just started today and I already have a name tag”. But after a few seconds of consideration, Myles decided that they must have just printed one out before he got there. Myles entered the security office and flipped the light switch. The lights buzzed on and the room revealed itself. It was a small room with some filing cabinets, shelves, a bulletin board a desk with some monitors on it, and some other random things. All around the room, there were posters for different characters and attractions from the arcade. Myles sat down at the desk and pushed the power button on the PC below the desk. The monitors faded into a white screen and then jumped to the security cameras of the place. The system was dated, the monitors were still CRT, and the computer was still running on Windows XP. The arcade itself was a bit outdated however it seemed to be built to be that way. Neon lights still lined the walls, the floor still had the classic ’80s arcade carpet, there were neon signs and symbols, and the walls had bright colors painted on them along with paintings of the characters. “I should take a little nap so I'm not dying later” declared Myles. So he set a timer on his watch for ten minutes, closed his eyes and before he knew it he was asleep. Myles woke up ten minutes later, but when he stopped his watch he realized that the cameras were all sorts of different colors with weird lines of code over them. Then two seconds later the PA system blared on, screeching for a second and then it started playing a song “Ah!” yelled Myles. Outside the room, everything in the arcade started the neon lights showed their true colors, arcade machines made all sorts of clicking noises, and in the middle of it all, the lights on the stage flashed and blinked as the animatronics moved their hands and mouths to the song to look like they were playing it. Myles ran out of the office and to the backstage with his hands covering his ears. The person in the song sang” Well I could see, you home with me, but you were with another man” with drums, guitars, and other instruments in the background. Myles ran over to the switch and just as he was about to flip the switch he looked at the monitor on the desk and saw the animatronics performing. He flipped the switch and every single thing in the arcade turned off, over the camera he saw the animatronics shut down then there were some sparks and then the monitor turned off. He flipped it back on and heard everything boot back up then it all turned on. He went to the doorway and flipped all the switches on. In a second the arcade erupted with noise. The arcade machines clinking and beeping, neon lights buzzing and music playing in the background. He went back into the backstage and realized there were more levers he flipped them up and heard each attraction boot up. He went over to the computer and clicked on a program then the screen said “Starting please wait”. “Oh, these must be programs for the robots!” exclaimed Myles. He ran back out to the showroom and a few seconds later the curtains opened and the characters started playing the song “Are You Gonna Be My Girl”. Myles watched as the characters played the song with glee on their faces. Once the song finished Myles went back to the office. He was sitting in the office watching the cameras because he knew this was the prime hour kids would try to sneak in and party. Suddenly there was a glitch in the cameras and then Myles heard a crash. He ran back out into the main arcade to see what happened only to find the curtain open and all the characters gone. “Am I going crazy?!” Myles questioned “No, there's a simple explanation for all of this. I just have to find those robots.” Just then Myles realized that Jhony Jhone’s Shooter Alley was shut down. He went to investigate when he heard barking Myles got in closer when he remembered that Jhony was a dog. He backed up as the giant robot showed itself. “Hahahaha” Boomed Jhony “This is gonna be fun” The machine approached Myles ready to swing its guitar. Myles ran back to the entrance of the attraction and saw the security gate. He jumped up and grabbed the bottom of the gate and pulled it down. “Ha take that!” yelled Myles. He relaxed for a moment until Jhony approached the gate that was just about to close, grabbed the bottom, and sent the gate flying back up. “Can’t get me that easy!” bellowed Jhony. Myles looked around and saw the others, though there was one missing. “Who is it?!” Myles wondered “Harry Horse, Tyler Tiger, Billy Banna, Polly…” Myles froze, as he remembered what animal Polly was, a parrot. He slowly looked up and low and behold, Polly was right above him. “Hello,” she said in a calm voice before swooping down and almost slashing Myles’ face with her talons. Myles made a run for the door but before he got to it Tyler jumped in front of him. “Where are you going” Tyler boomed. He slashed at Myles with his big claws, Myles barely missing them. Then he had a plan. Myles ran to the door next to the stage with the animatronics chasing behind. He ran into the backstage went to the desk and pressed the reboot program button on the computer. The next second he heard the footsteps of the animatronics leaving. He went back out and found all the animatronics back on the stage as well as Jhony Jhone’s shooter alley back online. “I’m speechless” admitted Myles. After all that Myles thought that he deserved a break. “Now let’s see if there are any drinks or snacks left” Myles questioned. He went over to the snack counter to see if there were any chips or snacks left over. He opened one of the cabinets and it was filled with snacks and chips. “Jackpot” Myles said in awe. Myles went back to the break room, grabbed a soda from the fridge, sat down, and started eating. There was a small TV in the break room so Myles decided to watch some TV. Just as he was about to start he saw a newspaper clipping that said “Families going missing recently. He thought nothing of it and started watching but then heard a song start playing from the showroom. He went out to the showroom and saw the lead singer Billy singing “Six Little Chickens at the end of the line. Six Little Chickens at the end of the line. One Happy Weasel says "It's Dinnertime!" Six Little Chickens gonna be just fine! Six Little Chickens in the Weasel's Den. Four Little Roosters & A Couple of Hens. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Six Little Chickens at the E N D of the line! Six Little Chickеns (Watch Out Now!) Six Little Chickens (Herе Comes The Weasel!) Six Little Chickens runnin' outta time W H O O P S!.....Five little chickens at the E N D of the line!” Just as the song ended he heard a noise come from the backroom of the prize counter. He approached the room with caution careful of anything that might jump out. He slowly opened the door and saw a horrifying sight. A mascot suit of Tyler standing on its own with its head off. Inside razor-sharp teeth lined the edges of the suit. It grabbed its head placed it on and let out an ear-piercing screech. Myles threw a nearby mop bucket full of water on it to slow it down and it seemed to hurt it. Just then Myles knew what he had to do. He ran out of the room the creature near behind. Myles slid over the counter of the snack counter and into the kitchen. He made sure he was lined up with the big sink as he stood in a face-off with the creature. The creature lunged at Myles and he slid out of the way sending the creature flying into the sink. Then Myles ran over and turned the sink on. The creature let out a small wheeze before turning into a normal wet mascot suit Myles checked to make sure there were no teeth inside. As he was leaving the kitchen he saw another clipping “Employees at Starpalace gone missing” “I'm sure they just quit,” Myles told himself. Myles went back to the office and checked the cameras non-stop. “Nothing is going to happen” assured Myles. As he was checking the cameras he noticed that the camera facing the ball pit was offline. So once again Myles made his way out and to the ball pit. “Nothing will happen, everything is fine” reassured Myles. As he approached the ball pit he saw something rustling at the bottom. He got in closer to see what it was when a huge creature made of ball pit balls burst out of the pit. Myles stammered back as the monster moved forward. It went the slam its hand down and Myles rolled out of the way. When its hand hit the floor it burst into ball-pit balls. “Ha! Take that!” Myles yelled but as he spoke the balls reformed into its hand. Myles made a run for the office while the monster followed behind. Myles ran in and grabbed a lighter from the desk. The monster closed in and Myles held out the light in defence. But then he realized that the balls were melting Myles moved in and the creature returned to its pit and fell apart. Myles went back to the office and noticed a clipping on the bulletin board. “5 families found dead” Myles was horrified. “Well, at least it wasn't here” Myles stuttered. 10 minutes later Myles heard a thud on the roof. He went out to the main arcade to make sure no one was breaking in. As he was there he started to hear cracking in the ceiling. The music distorted slightly, and he started to see cracks in the ceiling. It looked like something really big was walking up there. Myles started to smell a foul smell coming from the vents. Then the big glass dome above the Starpalace sign started to crack. Myles backed away. The cracks sounded bigger and they grew larger. Then it happened, the dome caved in a big flesh monster fell down hitting the Starpalace sign and leaving it hanging by one wire. The ping-pong table flew out of the way, the music distorted, the robots glitched. One arcade machine blared ”JACKPOT” and the creature hit the machine until its parts fell out. The creature let out a booming roar and Myles retreated to the back. “Oh god, oh god, oh god” whispered Myles “How am I going to kill that?” Just then Myles spotted a box of fireworks the arcade used for holiday events. “That’s how” Myles answered. Out in the main arcade, the creature searched for a target when suddenly the curtain opened, and the band started playing “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” The creature stopped and watched, it was distracted, this was his chance. Myles ran lit a firework and sent it flying. “Take that!” yelled Myles. The creature noticed him and charged. He sent two more fireworks and another, and another, until the creature fell and opened its mouth. He fired one last firework into its mouth and the creature wailed. He ran for the exit but then the creature smacked the wall and sent the gate flying down. Myles tried to pull it back up but it was jammed. There was only one other exit and that was the loading dock. As he ran to the prize counter he looked back and saw the arcade machines they said “Thank you” and then Myles realized what the monster was. It was the pain, agony, and bodies of the families that died, and Myles had freed them. “Your welcome” Myles whispered. Myles slid over the prize counter ran into the backroom and went into the loading dock. There was a little rack with some keys and next to it was the company van. Myles grabbed the keys off the rack and got in the driver's seat. He put the key in turned it and, the engine stalled out, the second time, stalled out, and the third time…it turned over! The car rumbled, the headlights turned on, and the radio turned on to none other than “Are You Gonna Be My Girl”. Myles pushed the button on the garage door opener and the bay door opened. Myles stepped on the gas and headed home. When he got home the sun had just barely risen. He was about to tell them what happened but decided to just make up a story. “Hey, uh I don’t think this is the right job for me, by the way, while I was there the dome collapsed so I don’t think it was the most stable might want to get that checked out. So I will drop off the van later” told Myles. “All right see you later man” the voice answered. The next morning Myles was sitting at Jago’s. “Well there goes another job,” Myles said solemnly. Myles looked at the menu and realized that Jago’s was hiring. “Hey, I could get a job here!” exclaimed Myles. And that was just what he did and he kept a steady job at Jago’s for years. As for Starpalace, it got a remodel fixing the structure and reopened a few years later. The end? Extras Starpalace Arcade theme song Here we go, were leaving the world behind right now, to gather by the arcade lights , and sing this song. Starpalace! Hanging out with someone new and falling into the ball pit too. What's that smell? It's some food! Starpalace! This is our home away from, home away from, home away from home. | 20,875 | 1 |
`[HEADS UP: Bad Language]` `||||||||||` “Hate me all you want, but there’s not a chance in *hell* I’m letting you do this alone,” says the nerdy June as he stands on the front porch of his mortal enemy, resident mean girl, Abigail. With the added weight of his overstuffed backpack, he barges past the pajama-clad Abigail and into her home. “Now, where can I put my—" Before June walks any farther, Abigail grabs him by the backpack and throws him outside onto the lawn. “I don’t know how you found out where I live, how you got into my neighborhood to begin with, or why you think I need your help,” says Abigail, “but let me make this as clear as possible for you. **Fuck**. **Off!**” Abigail slams the door behind her as she walks back inside. “Fine, whatever,” says June. “Guess I’ll just head home, mess around on the computer a bit, maybe even send out a massive group message with some photos my *sister* showed me!” The front door swings open, and Abigail stares daggers at June. “She wouldn’t,” says Abigail. “You’re right. I broke into her computer. It was super easy,” says June, “and let me just say, you are *far* from camera shy.” Abigail takes a deep breath while pulling her phone from her pocket. “Well, what can I say?” says Abigail. “Your sister has an amazing eye for photography. *My favorite* has to be from your 21st birthday. I bet Mom and Dad would love to see that.” June’s eyes twitch while Abigail waves her phone around. “Ready to go?” “Not until I fix your mess, *Gabbi*,” says June. Abigail's face turns bright red before aggressively unlocking her phone with one hand. June quickly unlocks his. The two scroll through their phones while also keeping an eye on one another. They move a series of photos into their messaging apps and hover over the “*send*” button. “Walk away, June,” says Abigail. “Not a chance,” says June. “You fucked up, and now I’m stuck dealing with the fallout. So, either *I* fix your mess, or we’re both suffering.” The area’s dead quiet as Abigail and June stare each other down. A bead of sweat slides down June’s face while Abigail struggles not to bite her lower lip. “Here’s the deal,” says Abigail. “Figured you’d see it my way,” June interrupts. Abigail jerks her finger closer to her phone, and June does the same. “*Don’t* tempt me,” barks Abigail. “Here’s the deal: phones stay at the front door until this is over and done with, and you stay in the kitchen until you leave.” “As long as you stay out of my way,” says June. ////////// The two continue to stare each other down as June walks inside, and together, they leave their phones on a small table beside the door. June looks around, stunned by Abigail’s house. Expensive art lines the walls, exotic furniture, and human marble statues as pillars. “Jeez, you got a golden toilet too?” mocks June. “Yeah,” says Abigail, “and I wipe my ass with more money in a day than your parents—” Abigail winces, cutting herself off. “Just shut up.” The two walk through an archway into a restaurant-style kitchen. “Alright,” says June. He lobs his backpack onto the counter. The latch breaks, and cooking ingredients, Tupperware containers, and utensils flood out. “You allergic to any foods?” “No,” answers Abigail. “Great,” says June. “Then get out.” “I thought you were going to help me?” asks Abigail. “I am,” says June, “by keeping you out of my way while I cook. Just focus on looking pretty or whatever, and I’ll take care of the rest. Probably should start by taking a shower. You smell guilt and sadness. “Excuse me?!” asks Abigail. “You’re excused,” says June as he makes a shooing motion with his hands. Abigail aggressively storms out of the kitchen while June chuckles to himself as he pulls a stain-covered apron from his backpack. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Deep in the cooking process, June hears the \**clack*\* of footsteps heading toward the kitchen. He looks up to see Abigail in a slim red dress with matching heels, her hair tied back into an elegantly curled ponytail, and a pearl necklace hanging just above her chest. June stares at Abigail, flabbergasted. “What?” asks Abigail. “What the hell’s all that?!” asks June, waving a sauce-covered spoon at June. “My outfit,” answers Abigail. “I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the Gucci logo on my way in,” says June. “Go change!" “Oh, what? Now you're an expert on fashion?” asks Abigail. “You ask for pretty, you get pretty!” “Well, that may work on planet fashionista,” says June, “but here on Earth, most of the population doesn’t have a walk-in closet that could act like a master bedroom.” “Well then, what do you—" says Abigail as she steps toward June. “*Ah ah ah*,” June interrupts. “Clothes like those don’t belong in a kitchen. Go back and try again.” Abigail flips June off and heads back to her room. ////////// June throws a wrapped tin pan in the oven and sets a timer. Flinging off his crab mittens, he then goes into the nearby fridge and pulls out a large bottle of water with a glistening gold label. June shrugs as he starts drinking straight from the bottle. “What do you think you’re doing?!” yells Abigail. June peaks behind the fridge to see Abigail in a baggie, black and white stripped sweater, a knee-length red circle skirt, white leggings, and matching red boots and beret. “Pourquoi bonjor, madame. Vous voyez, pour cuisner, j’ai besoin de cette chose appelee “feu”… says June. >**In English:** *"Why hello, ma'am. You see, to cook, I need this thing called "fire"..."* “Get out of the…wait, you speak *French*?” asks Abigail. “Nope,” answers June as he hip-checks the fridge door close. “Now go dress like you actually live in this country.” “Is that my Nile River Water!?” asks Abigail. “You. Change. Or no food. Go!” orders June. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Abigail returns, still in the sweater but now with skinny jeans and red sneakers, to an empty kitchen save for a foldable plastic basket full of Tupperware containers on the counter, her phone on top, and a note attached... "Be honest & don’t fuck it up, or I’ll burn both our worlds down." Abigail scoffs as she checks her phone, takes the basket, and leaves. ////////// Abigail walks up a massive grassy hill overlooking several buildings. At the top of the hill, a woman sits on a bench facing the setting sun. She’s a lanky woman wearing an army green hoodie, brown overalls, and dirty boots. Abigail hides the basket behind her back, takes a deep breath, and walks toward the woman. “Dana?” asks Abigail. The woman shouts a high-pitched “*Eep!*” as she jumps in her seat. Dana quickly wipes her face as she stands up to face Abigail. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” “It’s fine, it’s fine,” says Dana. I was just…in my own world again.” Abigail’s shoulders slump as she frowns at the comment. She also notices dark bags under Dana’s eyes. Feeling Abigail’s gaze on her, Dana looks back out toward the orange sky, pulling a small digital camera from her pocket. “I can \**sniff*\* really see why you wanted to shoot here. The sun setting over the town is gonna make a great backdrop.” Dana walks further from Abigail as she starts taking pictures of the sunset. Abigail looks down at the basket in her hand and then back at Dana. She then puts the basket on the ground next to the bench. Abigail hugs Dana from behind, causing Dana’s camera to slip through her hands. “You are the *best* photographer I’ve ever worked with,” says Abigail, “you’re patient, dedicated, and beyond creative. Your view of the world, even at its worst, is so vibrant and hopeful.” “Gabbi, it’s—" says Dana, trying to escape Abigail’s grip without crying and failing on both fronts. “You’re unbearably kind,” Abigail continues, “and gentle and sweet. You go out of your way to make people feel comfortable and safe. The world is lucky to have someone like you in it.” Dana tries shaking Abigail off, but Abigail digs her feet into the ground and tightens her grip. “I wish I could take it all back! I wish I didn’t know how to hurt you! I wish you were lucky enough to have never met me!” “Well, I *don’t*!” says Dana. She manages to turn around within Abigail’s grasp and hugs her. Abigail tries to escape but can’t. “You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything, even now. So, shut up and let me hug you!” After another few seconds of trying to escape, Abigail relents and returns the hug while quietly crying into Dana’s hoodie. “Are you ready to talk now?” asks Dana. She feels Abigail nod “yes” against her, and the two separate. “Gabbi, you knew about my feelings for you and used them purely to hurt me, and…I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for that. But I was coming into this with the idea you would give some “*I’m sorry you felt that way*” style apology. This—” Dana motions to Abigail. “I don’t know how to feel about this.” Abigail takes Dana’s hands into her own. “Dana, from the bottom of my heart,” says Abigail, “I am sorry for everything I’ve done to you, and I’m sorry that it took so long for me to apologize. You don’t have to forgive me, not today, not ever. I was awful to you, and you deserve better.” “But I want to forgive you. I want to still be your friend,” says Dana, gripping Abigail’s hands before pulling free. I just…need some time to figure out how to do that.” Abigail looks down at her feet until she’s gently hugged again by Dana. “But helps to know that I matter this much to you.” Abigail hugs back as the two are silhouetted by the setting sun. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Dana walks into her dorm room, where June is lying on the couch watching TV. “Hey, how’d the picnic go?” asked June. “Better than I thought it would,” answers Dana. “Turns out Gabbi needed this as much as I did.” “Guess you really can buy a conscience,” says June. Dana walks over to June and hugs him. “Seriously, thanks for everything,” says Dana, “I know you’re not Abigail’s biggest fan.” “Anything to keep you from mopping up the place,” says June. “Maybe now people will actually take my advice beforehand.” Dana rolls her eyes as she walks to her room, stopping in the doorway. “I gotta say,” says Dana, “the chicken was really dry, though. Any advice for that?” June silently scowls at the TV. “I thought so.” `||||||||||` `.` `.` `.` `.` `.` `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 CONSTRUCTION (or COMICAL)). Also, if you you liked this story, head over to` r/ToonTales `for more like it.` `Stay safe, drink plenty of water, and be kind to yourself and others.` `ToonMan, AWAY!` `||||||||||` `PROMPT: "Hate me all you want, but there's not a chance in Hell I'm letting you do this alone. | 10,989 | 1 |
THE SUN ELIXIR Henry N. Silva NOTE: The following story is set in a pre-existing universe of mine. That said, I did my best to structure this story in a way where it can be read without needing to also read the material that precedes it. Kane Solaris faces the blue sunsrise… In times of stress, the sun of his home-world usually manages to put him at ease. He cherishes that blue sun, against the reddish-gray sky, the two colors meshing perfectly together, across the world of Deltax… But everyone knows that Kane doesn’t just admire the sun for its beauty. He needs that sun, more than any ordinary human ever could… He remembers hearing the bedtime stories from his parents, over and over, when he was just a little boy. Night after night, they told him of the time, centuries ago, when humanity first came to Deltax, and how some of those very first settlers became blessed by the blue sun. These chosen few soon found themselves with heightened strength and intelligence. They were humans no more… They and their descendants became known as the Sunchildren, and together, they formed the everlasting Sunrise Order. And you’re a Sunchild too! Kane remembers his mother first saying to him, so long ago… The young man continues to gaze at the sunset, feeling his mind clearing with each passing second. Back when he was a child, hearing the stories about his ancestors for the first time, he dreamt endlessly of the many ways he would use his “gifts” to bring peace to the people of Deltax. Now, as a young adult, he does his best to realize those dreams… Kane stands beside his airship, having just landed in a docking bay, in the metropolitan land of The North, a far cry of the small towns that rest upon the ice and snow of The South. He feels himself beginning to sweat beneath his golden travel robes, but dares not expose his black Sunchild armor, accentuated with patches of silver, the color of The South… As he waits for those he has come to see, Kane passes some time by people-watching. He notices a handful of Northern Sunchildren, their armor accentuated with patches of green, sprinkled amongst the ordinary citizens… Soon enough, a pair of older men make their way towards him. A Senator in a dark-blue formal suit, and a Chemist in a white lab coat. An ear-to-ear grin sweeps across The Senator’s face, “Greetings, Mr. Solaris!” The Chemist smiles faintly, “Wonderful to meet you.” Kane smiles faintly in return, “Thank you for taking my call and seeing me here on such short notice, gentlemen.” “Of course!” The Senator continues to grin, “Anything for the man who stopped the Bloodchildren from destroying the world… I always wanted to be a Sunchild too, you know.” Kane turns his attention towards The Chemist, “Do you have the prototype?” “A copy of it, yes.” The Chemist withdraws a small, glass tube of golden liquid, from beneath his coat, “We call it the sun elixir. Still a work in progress, but once the formula is perfected, it can be mass-produced.” “I was placed in charge of the program,” The Senator chimes in, “so I will secure the funding for mass-production once it’s ready… Amazing, isn’t it? One injunction of this, and anyone will be able to become a Sunchild for the rest of their lives, without even needing to be anywhere near our sun!” Kane winces, “That’s exactly what I came to discuss… I understand this may be difficult to believe, but recently, with the help of a device, I was able to harness the full power of the sun, to briefly expand my intellect to its fullest potential (points to scar). In this short amount of time, I was able to make an accurate calculation of the future, and determined that this very elixir would be invented. Then, when I heard about this program, I knew I needed to reach out to the two of you.” The pair of Northerners briefly exchange awkward looks with one another, before turning their attention back towards their Sunchild visitor. The Chemist clears his throat, “So when you, umm, looked into the future, what did you see?” The Sunchild takes a deep breath, as he begins to answer, “Unfortunately, our regions will always be in conflict with one another, on again and off again, no matter what. If this elixir is completed and mass-produced, nearly everyone on Deltax will become a Sunchild, and therefore, the violence between the regions will get even worse.” “I see,” The Senator responds, his expression blank. Kane continues, “That said, when in that same future, people within each region will be able to help one another even more than they already do.” The Senator raises an eyebrow, “Interesting! So less internal crime, but more bloodshed on regional lines.” “Precisely,” Kane nods in agreement. “Higher highs, but lower lows.” The Chemist tilts his head in confusion, “So why tell us all this, then?” “I am not here to stop you two from completing this program.” Kane explains, “I merely hear to provide you with as much information as possible, so that you can make a fully-educated decision. And now, you have a choice to make… And I must go.” With that, the Sunchild returns to his ship, taking off into the skies above… The Chemist turns back towards his superior, “So now what do we do?” The Senator remains silent for a few tense moments, before finally delivering an answer, “We proceed as planned.” The Chemist recoils, “But you heard him! He said-” “I know what he said. Higher highs, but lower lows… I say we should focus on those higher highs, should we not?” Under his breath, he repeats his words to Kane from earlier, “I always wanted to be a Sunchild too. | 5,671 | 1 |
"I demand that garbage be picked up on Wednesday." A little old lady stood in the front office of the Department of Environment, Health, Waste and Other Matters. The woman had not bothered to schedule an appointment or check to see if they were occupied. This demand was dear to her heart, and she wouldn't rest until it was resolved. Bureaucracy moved slow, but little old ladies had the power to grease the wheels. Another old woman, Dorothy, sat behind the desk asleep. Franklin and Dorothy were hired full time a few days ago as Henrietta decided to give them something to do. Dorothy took the receptionist role to alienate anyone who came in with a request to improve the city. She claimed it saved them work, but it didn't. Often, the people scared off would run to city hall and complain there. Dungan would listen and call Jacob to tell them to handle it. Dungan wished that Dorothy was replaced at the front desk, but he knew better not to ask. "The garbage will be picked up when it gets picked up." Dorothy sucked in her mouth and stared at the other woman with disappointment in her eyes that can only be acquired from raising a child. "We don't have a garbage collection system, and it's disgusting." The old woman returned the glare with a look of anger that was also acquired by raising children. Parenthood lead to many developing steely gazes. The two women stood firm neither budging for talking was a sign of weakness. Dorothy considered raising a hand and counting down from five, but that would be showing her cards too soon. Maternal battles were won by displaying the strength in the face of overwhelming stubbornness. "What's going on out here?" Jacob walked out of the backroom. Dorothy briefly looked at him with horror. She re-hardened her face quickly, but it was too late. The other old woman smelled blood in the water. She hunched her back to look innocent and walked to Jacob with a smile on her face. After gently talking his right hand into hers, she cupped it and gently shook it. "Hello, my name is Susan. I'm so lucky to have such a handsome young man service me." Susan shot Dorothy a mocking expression. "Thank you. How can I help you?" Jacob sweat; he knew that old woman called everyone handsome. He had yet to develop an immunity to the charm. "It is my sincere belief that garbage should be picked up on Wednesday," Susan said. "That's nice, but I don't think we have a garbage collection program in place," Jacob replied. "Well, create one. Then, do it on Wednesday." Susan smiled and began to crush Jacob's hand. "This is a bit above my paygrade," Jacob said. "I already talked to Dungan. He said to talk to you. I'll be happy to speak to everyone in the city if I have to," Susan said. "There's no need for that." "Then, handle it." Susan let go of Jacob's hand and walked out of the department with a smile on her face. Dorothy shook her head. "What have you done? You only generated more work for us." "I mean that's what were being paid for. Also, I am usually the only person here who does the paper work," Jacob replied. "Yes, but I'm the one that will have to save you when you are in danger." "Setting up a garbage system won't cause danger." Jacob moved to the back. "I just have to make a few calls." The backroom of the office used to be a large room that was mostly empty except for a few filing cabinets and a desk. Now, it was a large room that was mostly empty except for a few filing cabinets, a desk, and a small table. The small table was where Franklin worked. Franklin spent his time organizing the files which consisted of taking papers out and shoving them back in randomly. Was there a method to his madness? No. Was it as efficient as normal filing systems? Yes. "Do we have a new adventure?" Franklin smiled and set the papers down. "No, just bureaucracy." Jacob picked up the phone and called Dungan as Franklin continued filing with a frown on his face. Dungan answered the phone after a few rings. "Let me guess. Susan talked to you already," Dungan said. "Yep, she's efficient. I think having a trash collection system is a good idea, but I don't know if there's room for it in the budget," Jacob said. "It's already in the budget. It's been there for the past few decades." "Then why don't we have a garbage system? Also, what was the money used for?" Jacob asked. "Do you think the doors at city hall are nice?" "I suppose so." "Every year, they were replaced with money that should've been used on trash collection." "How did the city get away with such blatant corruption?" Jacob asked. "The money had to be spent on something. Besides, we had a facility and landfill in place. Mutant sludge took it over back two decades ago," Dungan said. "Mutant sludge." When Jacob said those words, Franklin perked up. Dorothy tilted her head into the room and shot Jacob an "I told you so" look. "Yep, it's really nasty. If you want to get rid of it, be my guest," Dungan said. "No, I think new doors is good. Have a good day." Jacob hung up the phone. "Alright, how am I going to tell Susan we can't take out her trash." There was a knock on the window. Jacob poked his head out to see Susan standing there with a smile on her face and waving. She was mouthing one sentence repeatedly. "You promised." Jacob sighed, "Well, I guess it's time to take out the mutant sludge. | 5,606 | 1 |
I have so many memories of him; it almost feels like they were all a figment of my imagination. It seems too good to be true. I can't grasp the fact that someone loved me so deeply. He loved me more than anything else in the world, without a hint of negativity, never getting angry or tired. It feels almost impossible. It wasn't normal; I've never seen two people so close, so brimming with love. The way I describe him... you would think he would never hurt me, right? Well, no one has ever hurt me as deeply as he did. He loved me too intensely, too perfectly, like no one else ever had—a love even a mother might envy for her child. Then, it ended. For so long, I felt like a fish out of water, like I was born with six hands and had grown accustomed to using them all, only to have them taken away, leaving me with just two. I felt betrayed. At first, I tried just being myself, thinking surely someone would love me like that again. It happened once; it should happen again. But no. I tried being better, acting better, doing everything everyone wanted, striving to be a golden child. Still, no. Yes, people loved me, but not like that. It's like if someone gave you chocolate every day and then suddenly switched to plain biscuits. You'd still be grateful for something to eat, but you'd forever miss and yearn for the days of chocolate. It was like that. I tasted the heights of love for far too long to feel content in mediocrity. but he gave me a purpose. He taught me about love, and though I've thirsted for it ever since, I've come to realize it's already within me. He gave it to me, and it hasn't ceased. I've inherited that love. I had an epiphany the other day while gazing at his son. The boy, lost in thought, bore such a striking resemblance to him. In that moment, I felt it once more—the same overwhelming love. I know he felt this way when he looked at me too, and now here I was, looking at his son with that same depth of emotion. I could cry simply from the sheer intensity of positive and powerful feelings within me—the instinct to protect and live solely to love him. And though I know there's virtually no chance you're reading this, I hope somehow you feel it as I ponder these thoughts. Your son holds me in such high regard, just as I did you. He looks up to me, trusts me. When he errs, when he stumbles, he seeks solace in me. He doesn't turn to his mom for advice; he turns to me. He seeks my counsel, my wisdom, my affection—just as I did. Just as I once declared, "I don't want my mom, I want you." I bought him a drawing kit, the same one you bought me at his age. He's also taken up piano; I know how much you admired the instrument. I didn't even prompt him; one day, he simply expressed a desire for piano lessons. His mom urged him towards basketball, but no, piano it had to be. Twice a week, he asks me about you, randomly inquiring if his dad would have liked this or that. And I always seize the opportunity to tell him about you. It tears me apart to witness how deeply he longs to understand you, to love you. He adores you. He never laid eyes on you, yet his love for you runs profound. I'll never replace you, but I vow that for as long as I live, your love lives on through me. Thank you for imparting upon me the greatest lesson of all, brother. | 3,301 | 1 |
He stepped out of the store, smiling down at the bag he now carried in his hand. The antiquarian had been quite odd about the whole experience, asking him multiple times if he was sure this was what he wanted. It seemed a little absurd to him, but the man was quite weird in his appearance and behavior, so he decided there was something wrong about the man, and not the object he had purchased. He had always been into purchasing antiques, mostly for decorating his own home, but sometimes for gifting to friends and family. He prided himself on finding rare objects that worked well for his home, and this set of bookends would work marvelously for the shelf on top of his TV, as soon as he unwound the weird rope tied tightly around them. He was excited to show his wife. She was always so into seeing his purchases, and knew she would love this. This was his first time ever seeing this antique store. He didn’t frequent the area very often, but had to drive an hour away from home for a doctor’s appointment, and couldn’t help but shop around. The store itself seemed to pop out of nowhere, so different from the broken down street around it. It was colorful on the outside, and had a charm to it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The inside was filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of gadgets and goodies he’d never seen before. It was like stepping into another planet. He knew he would be back again another day to shop once more. He was shocked he was able to resist buying even more. For now, the bookends were enough. He was beyond excited when he arrived home. He wanted to set it up immediately, and make sure it was in fact perfect for the space. He tried fishing it out of the bag, but stopped when he realized there was a piece of paper inside, which he hadn’t noticed the seller put in when he was purchasing the item. He pulled it out, and saw a thicker piece of paper with printed words on both sides. The top read “Quick Start Guide” in a papyrus font, and he chuckled to himself at once. It was a set of bookends! Why would it need a Quick Start Guide?! He set the bag on the table, and sat on the couch to read the piece of paper. The text itself was pretty ominous, and read, “The two parts don’t like to stay close, that’s why they are tied together. Keep them this way for your own safety.” He burst out laughing. This must’ve been a way for the antiquarian to add some humor to his goods. He wondered if he also had funny jokes about the other things he sold. It definitely added to the mystique of him asking multiple times about whether or not he really wanted to purchase the product. He set the piece of paper down and finally pulled out the bookends. It was a set of black obsidian blocks, perfectly shaped so that the curves of both sides would fit together. Half of the blocks were made out of a thick maple, and it was clear the maker of the bookends was quite skilled in his craft, as he was able to match the curve of the wood perfectly to the obsidian itself. There was a thick piece of coarse rope wrapped around it, which in his opinion really ruined the smooth curving of the pieces. He set the pieces down onto his dining room table, and proceeded to cut the rope open with a pair of scissors. He tried grinding against the thick rope, but it seemed the scissors were not sharp enough for something so thick. Disgruntled, he walked to his kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife he could, and walked back to slice the rope. It went quickly this time, so quickly that he could barely fathom everything that happened within the next few seconds. The two parts of the bookends were suddenly a meter away from each other. It must’ve happened instantly, so quickly his eyes weren’t able to see it, though he could feel them push his hands apart. Not only that, his table was also larger, like it was stretched apart in the room. He couldn’t believe it. He blinked a few times, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. Maybe it was time to read the rest of the manual. He flipped the piece of paper on its back, with the words “FULL MANUAL” on the top, also in papyrus. “If not tied together, the two parts will try to increase their distance from each other by stretching the very fabric of space. The first stretch will be small, but the second will be brutal - a distance so large that space itself will not be able to contain it.” He dropped the guide, shaking a little. But it was too late. The two pieces had already moved even further from one another. He could only see one end of the sculpture now. It was on the table, sitting inconspicuously, like it wasn’t some sort of magical artifact. The table itself stretched so far he couldn’t see the end of it. He didn’t even know if there was an end. In fact, he couldn’t see the other end of the room he was in. He knew at once he should’ve listened to the salesman. He didn’t know if he would be able to get out of the room. The door itself was nowhere to be found. He would have to drive right back to the antique store and give the owner a piece of his mind! And maybe see if they had other magical artifacts that he could play with… Well, his wife had always complained about their dining room table being too small for hosting Thanksgivings. | 5,503 | 2 |
1 ​ My name is Brian Hindren and I came to the town of Riverdale after I had gotten an email from my friend that had newspaper stories of the strange disappearances of people there over the years; and a strange black ghost horse with glowing smokey green eyes that was somehow related. This is what I did for a living: going to strange and haunted places and writing about them. I had been to many places: haunted hotel rooms, strange wooded areas, abandoned mines, and I had lived in a haunted house as a kid. And I have been to Point Pleasant, Salem, New Jersey, Bray Road, and many other places. When I had arrived, the town was huge, with buildings on either side of the highway that seemed to go on forever. I booked a hotel room for a few days and walked to a local restaurant called the Riverside Inn, and I had the best burger and fries that I have had in a long time. The TV was on and the news reporter was covering a missing persons case, but the expression on most of the people's faces in the place showed that they knew what really happened. I then walked outside and looked around. There were buildings of all different kinds. There was a bookstore, video store, and all kinds of places. I walked back to my hotel room and thought about the case. I opened my laptop and looked at the email again. The first report was in 1913 when a man in his twenties was walking across the street as motor cars and horses went by. He had gotten to the sidewalk when the witness said that the black horse had appeared. The man had been walking with his head down and it was right across from him. He had walked almost right into it when they had both disappeared. Two weeks later, the witness had disappeared, too. The next case was when a farmer had been crossing his filed to go to his barn. The witness had been walking on the road nearby and had seen the black horse with smokey green eyes appear next to the barn, and that the farmer walked almost right into it when they had both disappeared. The witness had also disappeared two weeks later. The reports went up all the way to the present day. I tried to find a connection, but couldn't. Why was the black horse here? Where was it talking them? Was it intelligent? Did it have a purpose? I couldn't think of anything. 2 That night, I had a nightmare. In it, I had woken up and had stood up and walked to the bathroom. I stood there and looked into the mirror for a moment, looking at my face. There was a black figure in the background. I focused on it. My vision had cleared and I saw it. There was the black horse, with green eyes and green smoke rising from them. It was only a few feet behind me, and it was staring at me. Then I woke up with a scream. 3 Later that day, I decided to walk on the nature trail and think about the case. I did so as the soft wind brushed the trees on the sides of the road. I wondered how many people had disappeared. I wondered how the horse was related. I also wondered what it was. It didn't seem like it had taken long before the sky had gotten dark and the wind had slightly kicked up. My mind resumed to thinking again. What was the horse? Why was it taking them? Was it actually taking them? No, surely it was. What was— I felt something that felt like thick hair brush my arm. I was frozen in fear and a warm chill rose up my spine. I couldn't move. I looked down after a few seconds and didn't see anything, except that the trees were moving more violently, and the night was approaching faster. I then walked backed to my hotel room as fast as I could. Later, I sat in my room in the night as a thunderstorm came in and thought about everything. The next day, I decided that I would take a little break from the case. I thought about my life. I remember that I had a lot of anger and rage in me for many years because I got things in life later than most people. I wasn't able to drive until I was twenty-four, I had lost my virginity late, it was really hard to get a job, and I fought hard to get my wife. I got everything, though, but sometimes it seemed bittersweet. The anger and the rage would come back every now and then, but it would go away and I was able to live life. I had gone through a lot of jobs before being able to write full time, but it worked out. I remember my wife. She was thin, had blond hair, perfect tits, and a perfect ass. I fucked her many times. I remember her laughing and turning her head toward me, her short blonde hair moving in the wind. Those were good times. Then there was my best friend who always helped. Him and I have been through thick and thin and were friends for life. I used to have a very bad fear of driving from a car accident that I was in when I had hit something, which had bothered me for much of my life, until he introduced me to marijuana. Smoking that took away most of my phobia, and I hammered out the rest through exposure therapy. It beat drinking myself stupid on nights when it had gotten to me, among other things. He had also went with me to haunted places. My wife liked what I did and I met a good friend who became my publishing agent. I smoked a tobacco pipe, and cigars, too. I took out my weed pipe, packed it, and smoked as the thunderstorm went on. 4 Smoking had definitely helped calm my nerves. I hadn't been that scared since I was a little kid. I remember that at the time, my parents were still together, and I was standing in the hallway that lead to the upstairs bedroom. I was standing closer to the living room and I was too afraid to go to bed that night. I remember that I had turned toward the living room and I saw something. It was a figure of a man. It looked like an old man that was naked with rotting flesh that hung from his body in pieces. I remember that he was moving in pain and walking toward me, and moaning. I had been frozen in fear. But after a few long, agonizing seconds, I ran down the hallway and up the stairs towards my parents' bedroom. I had pounded on the door and screamed, “Mom! Mom!,” as the man got closer. I saw him walking slowly up them towards me, then he seemed to slow down and faded out of existence. That had been way back then. I had not felt that level of fear again until that day when I was on the walking trail. I had been to many places and had seen many thing. But that horse. That was something else. 5 The next day, I was walking on the main road and my mind drifted. Images and movies of life experiences popped into my mind. Then memories of the nightmare had appeared. Those eyes of glowing green smoke in the mirror. The green— Suddenly, my phone rang. I looked at the ID. It was my friend Jack. “Hello?” I asked. “Hey, Brian. Are you okay?” he asked. “Yeah, I'm okay.” “Good. You forgot to call me last night. Did you get lost in thought, or something?” “Yeah. This case is a bit different,” I said, the image of the horse still fresh in my mind. “Different how?” he asked, concerned. “It feels different. Like I'm getting into something. I don't know what, but something,” I said. “As long as you are back to write the book.” “Oh, yeah. I'll be able to write the book,” I said. “Okay, good. Hey, that band is coming. Don't miss the concert,” he said, enthusiastically. “I won't miss that,” I said. “Cool,” he said. “Yeah. I got to go. I'm still doing research on the case.” “Okay. Talk to you later. Bye.” “Bye,” I said, and hung up the phone. I next called my wife. “I'm glad you're okay,” she said after she had picked up. “Yeah, I'm fine. No monsters got me.” She laughed. “So when are you coming back?” “I'll be back in a few days,” I said. I thought that it might take longer, but I didn't want to mention it to her. I thought about her. The curly blonde hair, and her thin body. I wanted to be with her and fuck her right then. We talked for a little bit, then I hung up the phone and kept walking in the brisk hot day. Later that day, I went to the local library and used a microfilm reader to look at the old newspaper stories in the town about the disappearances of people. I found the same story of the man in 1913, that was the earliest. Then there was a case in 1930 of a man that had been walking home at night after hanging out with some friends. He had crossed one of the streets and had looked up at something he saw. It was also a black horse, the witness had said, with glowing green eyes. There was also the story of a man who had been driving drunk from a party at night, and he had ran headfirst into something else with glowing green eyes. Both the man in 1930 and the driver had disappeared. I also looked up other stories that were not related. The town had been founded in 1801. There was a story of a man named Crawford Newman in 1813 who had burned his house down after accidentally knocking a candle over and had run out of the house from some unseen phantom. There were the usual news stories. Good times and bad times, and the occasional mention of ghosts. I tried to find more modern accounts of the black horse. I found one in the 1950s of a man who had been at a party in the daytime who was driving home and had also ran headfirst into it as well. I had also found a case about a man in the 80s who had seen the horse and survived. His name was Jack Borun and he had been living in a small house on the outskirts of town. He had written about it in his private journal that he had apparently left at his house in a panic to get out of town. In it, he had described walking at night and seeing the horse, at the end of a stop light. He had stood there frozen for a second, then ran back home. He had seen the horse next when he had been in traffic on one particular hot day. In another account, he had glazed over to his left when he was at a stoplight, and he seen the being crossing the empty street nearby. And he had seen it another time standing on a neighbor's lawn, staring at him while he was at a friend's house. The last time he had seen it, he was at a red light at night when he saw it in his rear-view mirror standing just behind his truck. The entry said that he had floored his truck all the way to his house and then had made the last entry in the journal before leaving town, although the last page was missing. I thought that was rather interesting because the horse apparently picked some and left others. Maybe it was apparently observing the man. There were also some people that were alive today who had seen the being. I had to ask them some questions. 6 “Hey, that concert for Third Eye is coming up,” said my agent. He had a high pitched, enthusiastic voice. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Everyone is going,” I replied. Jack, me, Jake and Racheal were all going. It was good to get my mind off work sometimes. “I wish I could take my girl with me, she don't like psychedelic rock bands, though.” Jack's wife didn't either. “What about the alcohol?” “I got that all planned out, too. Me and Jake are gonna get that,” I said. “Good. Don't drink too much. Remember what happened last time?” he asked. “Oh yeah. I won't. I haven't done that in years.” I remembered that. I had gotten so drunk that I had been stumbling around a Walmart parking lot, doing circles. I was always a lightweight. I could never drink a lot. The last time I did that, I had gotten alcohol poisoning. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I got to go. I'll talk to you later,” I said. “Oh, okay. Bye.” “Bye,” I said and hung up the phone. I thought of life. The fun times my best friend and I had. The parties, great movies, and other things. I thought about my wife again. I imagined her turning her head at me and smiling, her short blonde hair blowing in the wind, again. I thought about how we met and how we fucked many times and had made love long ago. She was a great woman. 7 I went over to interview some of the witnesses on Friday. The first man I had talked to had been a man in his late forties who had lived with his wife in a trailer on the outskirts of town. We sat in the living room and drank coffee as I asked him some questions. “You said that you seen the horse?” I asked rhetorically. “Oh, yeah. That was a few years ago,” he said, then took a drink of his coffee. “Tell me about it,” I said. “It was the most terrifying experience that I have had in my life,” he said. “One night, I was sitting here watching TV. It was about nine: eleven at night. After a while of sitting here, I saw something in the corner of my eye out the window. I looked around and saw that it was a pair glowing green eyes. They looked like they were floating in the air, looking right at me,” he said. “Really?” I interjected. “Yeah. I turned the TV off, then looked back over at it. I then saw that it was a black horse with these glowing green eyes. And it was standing in my front yard, staring at me.” “Really.” “Yeah. After some seconds. It just disappeared. It was the most terrifying experience in my entire life,” he said, looking down in thought. “Did you see it anymore after that?” I asked. “No. But I will never forget those eyes,” he said. After finishing up the conversation, I went to another witness. It was a pastor of a local Baptist church in the town. He was an older bald man with gray stubble on his face. “You said that you seen the horse?” I asked. “Yes, what do you want to know about it?” he asked curiously. “I'm in town and I'm investigating the case surrounding it,” I said. “Oh. Well, it was after a service was over. It was around seven something. People had been leaving the church and after everyone was gone, I was going to lock up the church. I went to the front door and I saw something black right in front of me. I looked out and saw something. It looked like a black horse. It had there strange eyes. They... were glowing. It looked right at me. More like right through. I don't know what it was,” he said, trembling a little bit. “What happened then?” I asked. “It just disappeared.” After that, I interviewed a middle aged woman at her home in the middle of town. “I remember going to the kitchen to get something to drink. After that, I looked out the window. It was right outside. I saw something in the far left corner of the window. It looked like a black shadow. I leaned over. That's when I saw what looked like a black horse's head looking at me from around the other side of the house. I dropped my cup and just stood there,” she said, having a puzzled look. She had long, raggedy blonde hair and a worn out face. After interviewing those three witnesses, I went back to my hotel room and got out my notebook. I always wrote longhand. I paused for a second, my pen in hand, then I wrote it all down. 8 I looked at my manuscript as I sat in my chair, the coffee next to me steaming. It must have been twelve O' clock. The manuscript had gone well. I hardly ever had gotten writer's block because of the sheer amount of experiences that I have had. The only thing the horse had compared to was the Mothman of Point Pleasant, but even that was way different. I remember going there. It was eight years ago. In those cases, the Mothman had been seen by multiple witnesses and traumatized some, and had caused some disasters, but the black horse of Riverdale had actually taken people. The Mothman was survivable. The horse could show up anywhere, anytime, and could take a person somewhere. It was intelligent to a higher degree and it picked and chose. I drank my coffee and wrote some more. Then after that, I sat there in the light of the lamp. 9 The next day had been a moderately hot one. It must of been around eighty-five degrees Fehrenhight. I had drove to the theater in town and had watched some action movie. I was on my way back to the hotel and I was sitting at a stop light. I had sat there with the air conditioning running in the heat for a while, then I saw it. The black horse had suddenly appeared in front of me about seven feet from my car. It looked like an outline of a horse at first as it appeared to bend the light, then it suddenly appeared in full black form. It stood there looking at me with those smokey green eyes for about eight seconds. I felt a warm chill go up my spine and I felt myself straiten out a little, and I was frozen in place. Then it disappeared the same way that it had appeared. I was then able to move, but my heart was pounding and I was sweating. The light turned green and I drove back. The next day, I was on a walk around the town because the heat had been in the seventies. I had been walking on the sidewalk of the same road that I had seen the horse on. I pressed on the beaten path to cross the street and stood there for a moment. The car next to me sped up and went down to the end of the street. My gaze looked down at the crossing and I saw something on the sidewalk. It looked like thick hair. I looked around. No cars were coming. I walked over to it and knelled down to get a better look. It was thick hair that looked like horse hair, but it looked different. I saw it move. It was moving. I looked at it for a second. It wasn't hair. It looked like a small, tiny tentacle of some kind. It left evidence! I thought to myself. Tentacles. 10 The next night, I was at my desk writing away. I tried to write as much as I could before finally stopping. I then poured myself a drink. The night before, I couldn't because I had been on edge for a while after seeing what I had saw. I called my wife and told her what happened. She said that she was worried about me and wanted me to come home. That only happened twice before. It happened when I was investigating the Hellhound of Bralieton Cemetery, and Bray Road. Those were the times when I was in real danger from whatever they were. I never left then and I wasn't going to leave now either. 11 The next day, I had been walking and not really thinking of anything. I just walked forward on a road with my head slightly down and my hands in my pockets. I had been about halfway down the road when I saw a black shape appear in front of me. I looked up and saw the horse. It stood there, looking right at me, the green smoke slowly rising. Then something happened. I saw an explosion of dark green color appear slightly behind it, then it expanded and there seemed to appear a glowing green fog behind it, then it expanded and engulfed my vision. I saw a tunnel of green with dark green light with dark green in the middle. I moved forward slowly for a second or two, then I was shot down the tunnel with great speed. My vision blacked out. When I came to, I saw that I was in a different place. The sky was a dark green with even darker clouds, and the land was nothing but desert and ruins. I heard people screaming and yelling. It was some kind of hellscape. I also saw the horse not far from me ahead in the distance to my left, standing on top of some kind of hill in the distance, watching over the landscape and the people. It was another world. This was the place that the horse was taking people to. I was aware of the presence of something else. Some Other. Some higher monstrous being. The horse was doing it's bidding. I frantically looked around for any kind of escape. Behind me, there as a shimmering white light in the distance. I ran for it and stumbled across the way and the screaming people in agony. When I had gotten within a foot of it, I leaped toward it. Suddenly, there was a a bright flash of light and the next thing I knew, I was back in Riverdale on a bright sunny day. I looked around and all seemed like it was back to normal. I didn't bother to think about it. I ran to the hotel, packed my things, and raced back home as fast as I could. | 19,786 | 1 |
An impatient stalemate enveloped the bedroom’s closed box as the only thing in the atmosphere convincing the room of its own existence was the consistent and unflinching movement from the hands of the wall’s hanging clock. The clock delivered the only disturbance of the room’s stasis through its distinct ticking noise every second. The traveling waves of the sound were the only thing able to cut through the tense air, bringing with them an anticipation of change and a nervous eagerness. Throughout the room was a bed, a desk, a shelf of half-read books, and an amalgamation of dirty laundry erupting from it’s basket across the gray-beige carpet, but all that existed in this moment was the clock on the wall, the insignificant mechanism acting as the chief executive of all events to take place. As the hands brought fate closer, the room morphed as eyes traveled from the clock to the heap of clothes coating the ground, summoning the chore back into existence. The eyes continued to move, shooting between the excessed pile and the barren closet, with a tightening of muscles and a shallow intake of breath stressing the urgency of the task that needed to be done. However, the hands of the clock had decided it was not yet the time. The eyes traveled from the clock to the desk, with the wall between the two ceasing to exist through the decay and wear brought on by the many gazes of its time. On top of the desk sat a multitude of cluttered belongings, but chiefly in the middle was a laptop. Upon its opening, the computer released a slight hum as light began to emanate from the screen and the user began tapping the keyboard, the only sound accompanying the ticking of the clock. After a few more taps of the keyboard and clicks of the mouse, an email page appeared. There were no new messages. There was one more tap of the refresh key, but nothing new appeared. A sigh was pushed into the air as the user’s teeth were forced into the grooves of their bottom lip. A squeak from the chair announced their standing up as they began pacing between the sides of the small room. Each foot continued to patter against the floor, sometimes catching on to one of the stray articles of clothing on the ground. Despite the annoyance, they refused to acknowledge the existence of the ground’s chore, keeping their eyes perfectly level to the wall. The feet met the ground again and again, increasing in frequency until the sound of the footsteps began to compete with the pace of the arching hands of the clock. The room faded from view as all that was perceived was the cyclical movement of remedial pacing brought on by a world full of thoughts that quickly overshadowed the room’s physical features. Thunder clapped every moment the feet made contact with the ground as the storm that had begun to take place grew more and more apparent through the involuntary seizures of every muscle on the face, until the eyes slammed shut and the room completely disappeared. Boom. Boom! The thunder reigned on as the clock’s ticks morphed into crashing attacks, gutting the mind and forcing it into the dark and inclement space. The tremors raged on as the booms and claps and wicked ticks shook the ground, until the eyes shot open to see the room once again, immediately dashing back to the desk. They slammed their finger into the refresh key, leaving the page white for a long moment before returning to view. No new messages. The storm collapsed into itself, becoming an uncomfortable silence as they took two steps back and heaped themselves onto the bed in a collapsed state. They smothered their face into the pillow, grabbing a second pillow to hug deeply against their chest, blurring the line between the two objects. Their legs folded up as they brought their knees close to their stomach and up towards the chest, clenching the body into the most tightly wound shape it could make. A whimpered attempt at a shout reverberated out of the gaps in the pillow, followed by harsh exhales pushed out from the crevices just to be pulled right back in. As the deep breaths continued and the body acclimated to its new state, a familiar sound crept back into the mind. The ticks of the clock continued to chime throughout the room, always arriving right on schedule. For a moment, it seemed as if the heart had crafted a room insulated enough to reject the penetrations of the clock’s digging movements, but this could only be an illusion. A persistent idea overcame them as they tried to close their ears: if they got far enough away, they could escape the ingraining oscillations of time’s hands. At least, the further they were from here, the longer the ticks would take to catch up to them. Getting away sounded like a nice idea. There are no clocks to be heard out in the mountains, or underneath the water, or in the uncharted empty fields only seen from the downward gazes of airplane windows. Anywhere that wasn’t here seemed like a viable option, anywhere to get away from the civilization plagued by concrete and petrol and conversations about nothing. The dream of escaping time seemed possible somewhere, but all of the ideas failed as the imagination’s arguments against time continued to be objected to by the constant ticking of the omniscient hands on the wall. Pulling their legs against their stomach, a memory of a feeling foreign to the mind of a developed brain presented itself. A memory existed in the mind where the constant march of time seemed to not be as debilitatingly piercing. Looking back at the experience of youth seemed more like looking at a stranger. To the mind of a child, there is nothing but the present moment, living every second for what it was instead of what it would become in the future. Living in the moment as a child, the feeling of joy was attainable, a feeling of unadulterated happiness untainted by the tumultuous cycle of life’s burdens. The smile-filled days actually seemed to grind against the world’s turn for a moment, allowing the timeless feeling that one could remember as joy. Today, the present moment is always fleeting, and with it flies the feeling of joy. There is still enjoyment to be had in the modern day: laughter, good news, and moments of peace that have not quite been eradicated from life’s cycle, but it can never be the joy of a child. Every moment of laughter is followed by the limp back to a straight face, every piece of good news is followed by the new responsibilities accompanying it, and every good day is conjoined with the unstoppable moving forward of the clock’s hands and their ticks. But, that joy did exist somewhere in the past, and if something happened before, it must be possible for it to happen again. If one can actualize the person they want to be and really live in a moment, that true joy must be obtainable. Maybe, if today turns out right, this could be it. Today arrives the news on if all of the work put in over the last four years has paid off, and, if it has, that must ignite something. Maybe, beating the clock is possible. Maybe, beating the clock is possible today. An eye crept out from under the pillow as the world of introspection slowly faded away, with the room taking its place. Forcing together the energy to move from the comforting position did not happen quickly, but eventually the time came, as it always ended up doing. Their legs lowered to their standard orientation as they loosened their grip on the pillow, drawing up the might to push themselves up and off of the bed. They looked back up at the clock, still ticking as always, and then at the trail of laundry stringing itself along the room, then again back at the clock. Three hearty steps led back to the desk. Their finger uneasily levitated above the refresh key, but did not come down to touch it. Despite the newfound stirring of affirmed hope and clarity, the storm was still brewing inside, as it usually does. Every pore in the hand moistened as a ball of discomfort rolled through the stomach and the heart. The lungs expanded and contracted with heavy deliberation as the hand trembled above the keyboard. Thumps surfaced through the left breast of their shirt as the river of pumping blood could be heard traveling up past their ears. Overbearing all of the other noises, however, was the ticking of the clock. The two constants in life that usually sat on the sidelines were booted to the forefront of their perception, as every moment was accompanied by two thuds and a tick. Thud, thud. Tick. Thud, thud. The hand shakily moved closer. Thud, thud. Tick. The eyes shut in anticipation and fear of what would be projected upon them. Tick. Thud, thud. With closed eyes, they tried to seek a more comfortable reality, but the same storm dropped thuds and ticks and thunder upon them. Thud, thud. Tick. Thud, thud. Tick. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Tick. Tap! An electric swarm coursed through every inch of the body as the storm reigned the finger down against the keyboard, with the light touch being enhanced to a deafening blare. The eyes opened, and a new message appeared, with the sender labeled as “Office of Admissions” accompanied by “We have news about your enrollment status” as the title. A gasp leapt out of the mouth, as their hand bolted to the mouse, and, after only a moment of hesitation, tapped down. Click. The edges of the mouth creeped up their cheeks as a bewildered laugh propelled the mouth open. Their hands smacked together as they released a relieved sigh. “Yes!” they half-whispered and half-shouted. The smile beamed across the face as the eyes twinkled with fulfillment, until they realized they heard something. The clock continued to tick. The smile faltered slightly as their eyebrows pushed down with a hint of confusion. The hands of the clock continued to announce and parade their every movement, right on schedule. The noise did not stop for a moment. With the heart still racing, their eyes darted between the delightful light from the computer and the imposing face of the clock, and then to the laundry on the floor. It was still the same room, with the books on the shelf still only being half-read, and the walls still looking barren. The empty walls seemed to have always been beckoning for furnishing, longing for posters and decorations, and that had not changed. They were still unfulfilled, as were many things on the inside and outside of the room. The laundry was still on the floor, and the clock was still ticking, even though something wonderful had happened. The years of work led to one click, and it had passed, leaving only the illuminated message on the computer. The only sound to hear now was the ticking of the clock. They stood out of the chair and stepped away from the screen. Bending over, they heaped all the clothes they could carry on top of the laundry basket, and walked to the door. The rest of the world finally became visible again as the door creaked out of its place. They picked up the basket and walked out of the door. The hands of the clock could still be heard ticking in the hallway, but now their ears chose to hear the intent persistence of the sound, and they continued walking. | 11,172 | 1 |
\[CW: violence, reference to self harm and suicide\] **I** A brightly colored vista glazed itself upon my vision as I watched the glowing, orange beam of plasma light extend itself across the screen of my idle work computer’s monitor. I wished that I could step inside and experience its warmth. Until it was time. 11:00. Time to grab my things and get up off of this chair, to extend myself above the cubicle walls. The rest of the office entered my vision and the time came for me to walk out, but I could not make it a second without “Hey, you have a good rest of your night, Stew!” piercing into my ear like shards of a windshield after a high-velocity collision. Craig is a nice guy, and it's nice of him to wish me a good night, but I pretended I didn’t hear him anyway. I just can’t. My eyes kept straight ahead of me and, nearly holding my breath, I made the brisk walk to the door. Just a few feet away from the exit another bullet came my way. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stew. Have a good one!” Carla said to me with a smile. To this I did turn around and gave my best attempt at what could be considered a smile and uttered a “Bye” that was more breath than word. My head shot back towards the door, and I was gone, but not before I winced as my brain flashed me a quick “fucking idiot” as reparations for my ineptitude. Carla is my friend, but I’m worried I’m not her friend. She talks with me every day, or at least is okay with talking and letting me listen, and I appreciate it more than my demeanor might put off. But, she talks to everybody in the office. I don’t get it. I don’t know how. She just starts off these conversations like it's nothing. Good ones, too. That’s not something I’ve ever been built for. Maybe I’m just another bobbing head in the office to her, though. She probably has a lot of people she talks to outside of this place, and that’s another thing I’ve never been built for. No matter. It was time for my favorite part of the day. One thing I’m able to love about working at this shitty server maintenance office is the walk home. The building is on the side of Hedge street, which is a sensory nightmare on my morning walk. Tons of steel hurdle past in fleets just waiting for pedestrians to get a little too close and end up in the meat grinder. The noise, the smell, the motion, a Hallmark card of our glorious capitalist society I’m reminded of every morning as I watch the bustling traffic. But I get off of work late, and the night tells a different story, as it often does. This behemoth of cracked up asphalt lays alone. Three lanes going either way with a turning lane in the middle, all unused. It’s quiet, and it’s just for me. In the only act of free will I’m still able to expend I depart from the sidewalk and let the cool air push me as I walk through the middle of the turning lane. You don’t have to feel out of place when there’s nobody there to see you. Circular cones of illumination come and go as I walk the path and I am reminded of my night time excursions of adolescence. I would sneak out of my house every night as a teenager, but I wasn’t getting into any boozy adventures that one might expect of a something-teen year old out at night. I would just walk. It was the one time I could exist in the world without eyes pressing themselves against me, pushing me to the ground. I felt like I was myself on those walks, not like the walking prison cell that carried me through the fiery hell of living amongst peers and parents. That’s not to say I didn’t wish I would be leaving the house for more than night time walks. Dreams of meeting people who could understand me and getting into wild excursions on these walks would cloud my mind constantly, but it was always just me walking those roads. You can’t be a teenager sneaking out forever, so walking home from work will have to do. After a few blocks down Hedge Street, it was time to make a turn. Doll Street. More of an alley than a street. Barely wide enough for a car to go one way laid a mountainous wreck of a road, with only one streetlight that flickered on and off at uneven intervals and the fenced off lot of a warehouse that had to be abandoned. It goes without saying that this street is creepy, but something about it invigorated me. Sometimes, in those dreaming periods when I walked as a teenager I could imagine getting into some sort of bad situation that I had to get out of. Nothing in particular, I just wanted stakes, something to fight for. I wanted to run. To run to something or run away. I wanted to run for my life. I’ve never had an experience like that, but I swear this exact place was where I would imagine a situation like that going down. Past Doll Street I went left on Grace Street, and from there it was just a few blocks before I could climb up the stairs to my apartment. There I made my way to the bathroom, but before I could relieve myself I caught a glimpse of the mirror. I caught a glimpse of my face. *My fucking face. With that fucking mole. And that hair that goes this way and that way and any direction that isn’t the good looking way. And that hilly ridge on that nose.* My reflection held my attention for a long time, as it often did. Eventually I forced myself to my room, climbed into the bed and put on some movie, anything to try to break the silence, landing on John Wick, a frequent pick. John’s bludgeoning and stabbing and shooting did an average job of not allowing my head to spiral, but when the credits began to roll there was nothing left to shut my brain off then to close my eyes and hope upon hope I would lose consciousness soon. **II** Incessant clammors of adrenal-pumping alarms forced me back into the world for another day. *God, don’t make me leave.* But there was no choice, I had to go to work. I forced myself to brave through the dread of opening the door to the unforgiving world with the sounds of people and their cars seeming to scream at me how unwelcome I was to be so bold as to exist in their perfect world. A sty in their engagement. My tired body slumped down Grace Street, through Doll Street, which was still harrowing even under daylight, and onto the massacre parade of Hedge Street, where the constant honks of cars seemed like they must have been directed towards me. Pushing through, I made it into work where my closed off cubicle welcomed me. It was not five minutes into my work until I had an interruption, but at least it was Carla. “Good morning, Stew!” I smiled, which she knew at this point was my only way to say, “Good morning, Carla! How are you doing?” “So, you know how I just moved into that new apartment?” she began, “Well, we’ve finally gotten settled and I was thinking this Friday we could have a little housewarming party. You have to come, it’s gonna be great. Most of everyone in the office should be coming and a bunch of my roommate and I’s friends.” *That is a lot of people.* “It’s gonna be so cool, you’re gonna love the new place. But you have to come! Please, please!” *What? An invitation to a normal thing?* “Uhh…” I started, with a stale breath and a pumping heart. “Yeah.” She smiled at my acceptance, and was about to continue, but my *stupid fucking self* panicked. “Well, I’ll let you know. I might have plans Friday. I don’t know. I’ll let you know.” *Fucking moron. What are you doing?* She quickly turned to a frown. “Um, well, that’s okay, but, like seriously, you should come. I really, really think you should come, Stew. Let me know if those plans don’t work out. I’d really like to see you outside of this hellhole,” She said. All I could say was, “Yeah, I’ll let you know.” I am very aware that I am an *idiot*. I am also very aware that I will not have plans Friday. I dream of getting invited to things, to go and have fun like a normal person would. So, why? *I just can’t.* I recoil at the thought of handling myself in a party. I can’t just talk like other people do. It’s just that I’m a *fucking idiot.* I don’t know. *Fucking god damn stupid son of a bitch what the fuck.* *You are absolutely hopeless.* I clenched the nail of my thumb into the red recess of my index finger that had existed since middle school. I wish it still hurt as bad as it did back then. I barely got any work done in the entire day. My brain still couldn’t handle this request. *Why is this so fucking hard for you? Completely normal shit, good shit, and you just let it consume you.* It was time to go, and the razor-edged fog in my head made sure I walked straight out of there. I couldn’t be around people for another second. *If only I could dig my fingers up through my eye sockets and start mangling and clenching and stabbing until I couldn’t be taking up the space in this room anymore. I would prefer that.* I walked straight out, I couldn’t even say if Craig or even Carla said anything to me. I was numb, but at least I could go out into the street and think without their invasive eyes. *Today is Wednesday. That means the party is the day after tomorrow. I wish I could say I was going, but I just can’t imagine a world where that goes right. I’ll just end up no-showing if I tell her I’ll be there. This is it for me. I’m hopeless after this. My one friend will hate me, and I will have no shot at another if I can’t do something as simple as this. But, I just can’t.* My palm was on fire from the way my four nails were now pounding into it. *This is not fucking good. I need to get away from this.* The situation in my head was reaching a spiraling darkness, but my attention managed to be diverted when I got to Doll Street. Everything seemed normal, as normal as such a terrifying street can be, anyway. Until, I heard thuds and yelling. I walked up to the fenced off lot and saw three men wearing gray hoodies mercilessly bludgeoning a man on the ground with their boots. Again and again, the thick rubber soles that the street light’s flickering glistened gooey blood off of would pound down on this man causing his defenseless body to recoil and flounder like a fish being held against dry ground. I was stunned, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood, until they saw me. At once, the three stopped and looked at me, their hoods keeping a plane of darkness over their faces, where the only thing I could see in their shaded looks were eyes directly on me. I couldn’t move. Then, one of them leapt up and bolstered himself above the chain link fence. There was nothing I could do before he was upon me, lifting his right arm before it flew down against my left cheekbone. It felt like he had pushed my skull inward on itself, and a tender sting developed across my left cheek, until I was finally met with the instinct to run. I turned and bolted. For three seconds, I had my running for my life moment. I ran to freedom, to the end of the street, but his calloused hands yanked me back and wrapped themselves around my throat as he shoved me into the ground. The rear of my skull that encased my brain could feel where the rough terrain had not been repaved in several years. He clenched my esophagus until I could feel the sides of my throat meeting in the middle. My ability to breathe was a luxury I had taken for granted for so long. The push to breathe just exasperated the deathly pain in my throat as the slots between his clenched fingers pinched down on my neck’s soft skin to the point where I thought my head must already have been severed from my body. When I could feel myself fading out, he finally released his grip. I was so eager to breathe in again, but with that deep breath came a burning pain across the dry and inflamed glands of my throat. I coughed and tried to breathe again and coughed and wondered if I was already gone. Then came the storm. His fist came down, and down, and down, and down, and I could see the blood that was once shelved behind my skin rising upward with his fist, which was becoming a quickly blackening red. He pounded and pounded and I was sure that my face had been replaced by a red terrain even rockier than the unkept road I laid on. One punch in particular landed directly in the middle of my face, and I could feel the shattering of every bone in my nose, feeling it being replaced by an empty balloon filled with broken glasses sitting atop my face. My mouth was filling with the blood that seeped from every pore, with some of the metallic fluid being forced down my throat, making my urge to cough even stronger. At last, he relented. The man walked off and my failing body was left to rot. I could not be bothered to look where he went. When the realization that he was gone came, by the miracle of one last desperate hope to live I forced myself up and stumbled out onto Grace Street as fast as I could. I hobbled and lurched forward, making the mistake of trying to wipe my face which just worsened the pain and revealed an excessive amount of blood across my hand. I looked down and thought how my red work shirt was a clean, white one five minutes before. The body that was attached to this clump of a face made a miraculous pace forward out of sheer adrenaline. Home was in sight, but one last glimmer of curiosity took hold. I needed to look back. I have always been very aware of eyes on me, and I knew something was watching. There, on top of the abandoned warehouse stood another figure, one with a blacker hoodie. He was watching me struggle. I looked back, confused and bewildered. I wanted to look more, but my situation was dire. I forced myself around and trudged up the stairs to my apartment. From there I went straight to my bed. I know I should have called an ambulance or gotten help, but I was in a severe state and I couldn’t take being conscious for another second. I collapsed, immediately staining my white sheets as I finally succumbed to my wounds. My last thought before my mind drifted was that I may not wake up. It didn’t change anything. The thought meant nothing to me. **III** A beam of golden light laid itself against the white backdrop. The light danced and glimmered and illuminated the space in beauty. I watched this beautiful light, and followed its body towards the source: my window, where a more piercing light met me. I stretched out my body as I pushed myself up from the sheets. My perfectly clean, white sheets. *What the fuck?* I shot out of my bed with the remembrance of my very real mortality, running to the bathroom where I saw a familiar figure in the mirror. It was the same me, with the same mole and the same hair and the same nose, and it was unharmed. There was no blood, no bruising, all perfectly intact. *How? Was that a dream? But, it was so real. No, it was real. But, it can’t be. What the fuck?* I had never been so happy to see the face I hated in the mirror. It was still a face that deeply upset me, but at least there was still a face attached to my body at all. Deafening confusion rattled through me, but I still knew I had to go to work. It was at that moment that my alarm went off next to my bed. *When do I ever wake up before my alarm? I’m not even tired.* I wasn’t tired at all. In fact, I felt a feeling that was unnatural and foreign to me. Good. I felt good. The dark circles under my eyes felt less pronounced, and I felt more capable than ever of getting up to leave. Of course, this would have made for the great start of a day if it weren’t for the fact that I knew I should have died the night before. Resolving to think this over outside, I began my walk to work. *You are crazy. You are insane. You’ve lost your marbles. You’ve gone bananas.* There was no other explanation, but I was reluctant to accept that. *It was a very vivid dream. No it fucking wasn’t, but, just, let’s just say… It was a very vivid dream. A stress-induced nightmare. That’s it. Besides, I’m well rested now, and it's over. No use in it causing me any pain now.* But then I looked up to see it was time for me to walk up Doll Street. *It’s the same street as always. You’ve walked it a hundred times, and you’ve never seen another soul there. Not even last night. Especially not last night. It’s fine. Go.* With the most courageous face I could muster I began a rather fast stride up the block. I looked down to see the place where I vividly remember the ground protruding into my occipital lobe, but there was no blood. No signs of struggle. I looked behind the fence to see no remains of any form of beating. It was a regular street. Nothing to think about, just *go, go, go, go, go–* Shit! My urge to quickly leave the street at any cost consumed me to the point where I came about six inches away from walking straight in front of a Honda CR-V going fifty miles an hour, six inches away from where my body would have become a pinata stuffed with melty red candy at the birthday party of the world’s strongest kid. Avoiding my brush with death I arrived at work and avoided any “Good morning”s that might get thrown at me on my way to my cubicle. I just needed to be able to sit and think. But then, a familiar voice attacked me with a “Hey, Stew. Good morning. So, you think you’re gonna be able to come tomorrow?” *Fuck me. Throw me back in with that guy from last night. I want him to punch me harder. I don’t want him to stop and let me run. I want him to pick me up and throw me atop that rusty chain link fence and then use the newly created laceration from its razor edges to pull my body in two.* “Oh…” I tried to begin as the blood ran rampant through my body. I felt like I was going to throw up. *I can’t fucking be here right now. I just need to be alone. I need to. I– You fucking idiot! What the fuck is wrong with you? No wonder that guy did that to you. You should learn from it and be a man and do it yourself, without leaving room to breathe. You deserve it for being an absolute useless piece of shit human being.* This was not the state of mind I could be in to get into a confrontation right now. I needed to oblige. “Yeah… yeah. I’ll be there, yeah.” “Really? Yes! Yes, oh my God I would’ve been so disappointed if you couldn’t make it. I’m really glad you’ll be there, it’s gonna be a blast. So, we’ll get off at like 7:00 on Friday, thank God, so we’ll just get it started around then, so I’ll-” It hurt me, but I had to interrupt. I couldn’t have anybody looking at me any longer. “Yeah, yeah, I really have to get to work, so just let me know tomorrow what the plan is.” *You stupid fucker.* “Oh, yeah, okay, I’ll let you get to it. Really glad you’re coming, Stew. I’ll talk to you later.” I didn’t get any work done that day. The sound of my keyboard just reminded me that people could hear me. I don’t want to be comprehended by other people. I can’t stand it, being in the same room as all of these people. I just sat there, hunching my head down trying to forget, waiting for the clock’s hands to turn faster as I used my sharpest pencil to prick down a minefield of little holes up and down both of my arms. Anything to feel something other than this dread. Finally, the time came. Luckily I brought my hoodie that day, which I threw up over my head before I stood up to block out as much of my peripheral as I could and get those damn eyes off of my skin. I began to walk out but Carla, being the kind person she is, wanted to say goodbye. “Hey, have a nice night, Stew. I’m really excited for tomorrow. It’ll be a lot of fun to get to see you outside of this place.” I tried to smile through my defunct state and said, “Yeah. It’ll be good. Good night.” *You won’t be there tomorrow, will you?* *Not a chance.* The walk down Hedge Street gave me very minimal comfort as my total social ineptitude made itself clear. I wouldn’t be there the next night. I would never be anywhere. Every night, for the rest of my life, I knew I would just be going home. It will never change. *I wish I could have friends. Tomorrow sounds like a fun time. I want to go there and have fun, but… No. You’re too fucking stupid to be capable. What in God’s name is wrong with you? You just don’t fit in this world. You are not a real person. You are an idea of a person, an idea that just can not fit in with any other person in this world. You are alone. You’re fucking alone. What is a person if they’re nothing to any other person? Just nothing. Fucking nothing. You might as well just die.* That was a fitting final thought when I arrived at Doll Street. I could have easily gone a few blocks further and taken a short detour, but no. *Fuck it. Let them kill me.* I walked down the alley with a new found determination. Going home is nothing. This was something. I approached the fenced lot ready for my assault, but there was nobody there. I wasn’t gonna take that for an answer. “I’m here!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I’m here, come out and fucking kill me! Get out here and fucking kill me!” But there were no hooded forces to take me. “Where the fuck are you?” I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I grabbed the most stable part of the broken down fence and thrust myself up and over, marching to the door. It opened with ease. Inside, I continued, “I’m here! I know you’re here and I’m coming to find you! I’m fucking coming for you!” My requests were answered. The three men from the night before opened a side door and ran for me. They were quick to grab me and lift me up, easily pulling me into the room they came from. *Shit. I might really die here.* This revelation led me to start up at least something of a struggle, but it met no avail. I was immediately restrained and they carried me to a chair in the middle of the room, sat next to a table of neatly organized tools of all orders: hammers, knives, wrenches, a blowtorch, a power drill, and all kinds of other devices I couldn’t even name. I was slammed into the chair where any squirm I could try and make was quickly halted by the two men pinning me against my metal, chair-shaped deathbed as the third man tied my arms and legs to the seat. *Oh fuck.* One of the men grabbed the hammer from the table. “Hey, hey, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the-” My shouts were halted as the steel drum of the hammer came down on my right hand. I felt each bone splinter into powder as I watched the place where I would always clench my nails become flattened into a limp amalgamation of red flesh. Looking down at my hand reminded me of the remains of a combusted rat I had seen that met its end on the edge of Hedge Street just a few days before. I screamed. God, the pain was horrific. And, the fear. The shock. I wailed and shouted and wailed and shouted, but when I looked up he was now holding the knife. The room’s lights flashed across the piercing edge, and I had no time to shout my protests before it came down on my left hand. In just one instant, I had lost all of my remaining fingers aside from my left thumb. My fingers I had taken so much for granted rolled onto the floor making light taps on the ground, and I looked to see my one good hand be halted by four stumps where fingers should be as an ungodly amount of blood streamed out. There were no more words to say, I just sobbed and screamed, thrashing in my chair without budging at all. The instruments I had used to interact with the world were all gone, and I was left defenseless. It was over. There was nothing left they could take from me. Except for the one thing I still had. The man behind me tilted my head and held it so I had no choice but to look straight at my oppressor. He was now holding the drill. *No. No! Fuck me, no.* The man pulled on the drill’s trigger as it whirred up to make a sound that ingrained itself in my brain. It was like the drill spindle was already barreling through my ears. I could do nothing but sob in fear as he moved it closer and closer, aiming directly for my forehead. As he was just seconds away from stripping me of my essence, I looked up to see an upper landing in the room, where the figure in the dark hoodie from the night before was watching. I still couldn’t see his face, but his eyes. His eyes just gazed on at me as this was happening. I saw the intent in them. He was the orchestrator. He wanted this to happen. But there was no time to dwell on this mysterious figure in this final moment. The drill enveloped more and more of my vision until I clenched my face in preparation for impact. The drill made contact and I could feel blood immediately whisking around from the speed of the rotation, quickly splattering across the rest of my face and torso, but then the point drove further forward, and it was all over. Just like my brain. It was all over. **IV** An orange beam crept and uncurled itself, dancing for me, reveling in its own beauty as it flaunted itself through a growing stream that expanded across everything I could see. I once again chose to follow this light to where it was born. The beauty of the after is one that is indescribable, a place filled with truth and spirit that causes a euphoric wonder in the way it displays itself. But I was not dead. The light came from the window, just as it had the night before. I shot my hand up to search for the crater in my skull, waiting to find the entrance to the cavern of my frontal bones, but there was no hold to be found. And, my hand. It was still there. Both of them were, complete with five fingers each and the same indent on my right index that had always been there. I was intact. No hammers or knives or drills had been used on me. *Could I really have the same dream two nights in a row? The same dream, complete with all of its debilitating ferocity and violence, projected so easily through the lens of complete vividness to a point that is indistinguishable from the world existing outside of my resting realm? Can the perception of reality experienced through the brain really be construed and played with, like malleable clumps of clay, in a way that is plugged so easily into one's continuous consciousness in such an undistinguishable manner?* The answer was no, and I knew that, but how can one just accept…that. I didn’t even make it home the night before, but I was home nonetheless. I knew that. Worse than that, I had one finger total and a brain that was intruded and mangled the night before, but I woke up with a perfectly intact body. I knew that. There was no choice but to take up the rational choice: I had a nightmare two nights in a row. It wasn’t true, and I knew that, but I told myself I didn’t. *Everything is completely normal.* That was the narrative. It had to be. I got up, got dressed, and got ready for work. Like a normal person who had a very normal night. I didn’t want to go to work, but that would mean showing that something is wrong. Nobody could know. Nobody could know just how wrong things were. This dream was something nobody could ever know about. Nobody could understand. This had to be my cross to bear, forever. *Put on a nice, happy face and go to work. Just like normal. Nobody will know about that pain. It was just a dream.* *You know it wasn’t. You know that pain was real.* *I need to go to work.* I made my way outside, walking the street, making sure to match my stride with how every other, normal person walked. Just a man heading to a day at the office, I walked and walked, until it was time to go up Doll Street. That was when I had the urge to take another route. Just a few blocks down from the way I came there was another place I could turn that would bring me to Hedge Street with no issue. But, there were cars going by. *I can’t just turn around with all of these people looking at me. They’ll think I’m an idiot going the wrong way, or some weirdo just wandering with no direction. Or worse, they’ll think I’m hiding something. No.* I walked up Doll Street. *Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, don’t look around, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk,* and I was at Hedge Street, greeted by the bustling metropolis of barreling steel. I made my way down the street and got into the office, comfortably making it to my seat. My outside illusion of being just another contributor to the workforce was working beautifully, until Carla came over. “Hey, Stew!” The words barreled themselves into me worse than any drill ever could. Her erosion of every vessel the words traveled through caused more delirious pain and blood spray than anything like I had experienced before. It was a bullet, launched into my ear that propelled itself with ease through every membrane of the internal housing of my head, slaughtering all it came across, debilitating me until it launched out of the other ear. I was dead. The facade was broken. “No,” I shot out, as I felt the sudden urge to get up out of my chair to frantically try and breathe. This was worse than any strangulation; this withheld all of my faculties. The room encapsulated me and my vision went blurry as I tried, tried so desperately to breathe. After a moment, I couldn’t see anything. I just had to shout with all of the breath that was still able to be retained in my inhospitable body. “No. No, Carla, I won’t be there. I’m sorry. I can’t. No.” I need to leave. “I need to leave.” I followed my own directions and ran from the room, not looking back to see her reaction. *God, just breathe, I can’t fucking breathe.* The world collapsed in on me and I couldn’t see any salvation, any rest from this nightmare of the real world. *God, just breathe, breathe, breathe, I need to breathe. I can’t. I can’t–* A roar launched itself through the building as the floor collapsed from under me, with the ceiling following suit as I and the entire building came crashing down as gravity did what it pleased. In an instant, I was forced to the collapsing floor beneath me as the crushing force of the ceiling pinned me down into the pile of dilapidated insulation and concrete. I came to, after a moment, and looked down to see a mass of boulders and metal crushing my leg. It had paved itself into my body as it held me down against the cold stone. My arms, face, and torso were covered in lacerations from the shattered sprawling of rock and glass and iron that had been flung throughout the space during the collapse. The pain in my leg was unbearable. A full portion of the fatty mass of skin on my ankle had been crushed, muscle and veins and arteries alike all smushed from existence in an instant. Luckily, there was just enough leeway for me to excruciatingly wiggle my leg out of the space, tearing more flesh out from it in the process. I clammored my way up and saw the world that I had become so complacent in reduced to an apocalypse. Everything flattened and destroyed, with no other person to be seen. “Hello! Help! Anybody! Hello?” There was nobody to hear my desperate calls. I was alone. I managed to push myself up to the point where I was able to carefully descend the combusted mass that was once my office, onto the street. “Hello! Hello?” I tried again, to no avail. Frantically, I began looking in every direction, for any sign of life, until I saw one other person. The man in the black hoodie from the past two nights, who quickly turned to walk down Doll Street as soon as I saw him. There was no use calling out to him. *He won’t listen.* But I needed to go after him. My body pushed itself through a harrowing limp as I marched on towards the dreaded street, or what remained of a street after such a leveling. Painfully, I marched and marched until I was there. And there he was, at the end of the road, again swiftly turning to walk down Grace Street as soon as I saw him. I hobbled my way through Doll Street towards him. There was nothing to fear about this alley anymore; it was indistinguishable from the rest of the collapsed structures that surrounded it. I marched and marched until I made it to Grace Street, but I didn’t see him. It didn’t matter. At this point, I understood him, and I knew where he was. I continued my familiar walk, my leg throbbing and excruciatingly begging me to stop, but I couldn’t. I walked and walked until I saw him, exactly where I knew he would be. My home. Miraculously the house, while looking more disheveled than usual, actually remained upright amongst this mess, and right in front of the stairway up he stood. This time he didn’t run. He was waiting for me. I pushed forward and forward until I met him, just ten feet apart from each other now. I still felt no need to engage verbally with him. I wouldn’t get anything out of him. We just stood, until he reached into his hoodie’s pocket, out of which he revealed a handgun that he began to point at me. I just stood, waiting. My stomach was struck with an unfathomable force as I crumbled to the ground, looking down to see a pool of deep red, almost black, filtering through my shirt. The pain was unbearable. I felt the need to detach the rest of my body from this infected pit he had unleashed on me to sever myself from this God-awful horrendous pain. But, more than that, it was so warm. This alien and transcendent warmth just incessantly beamed around the wound. I laid, coiled on the ground, fixed on my coming doom that emanated from my body’s newest hole, until I looked back at the man and saw him walking up the stairs and pulling out the key, my key, to the house and inviting himself in. *No. Fuck you.* Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Certain it would be the last thing I ever did, I clammored my body up to begin pulling myself up by the railing of the stairs, debilitatingly pushing my body to its physical limits until I actually made it up the flight and into the house. There he was, just standing in front of my bed, and it became clear to me. All of this pain I had experienced, that pain that had built up and pulled at me from the inside, I needed to externalize it. That’s what would free me. He’s gonna feel this pain. I launched myself upon him and slammed him into the bed before I started wailing on him. Down and down I threw my fist, feeling my hand imprinting into his face deeper and deeper. The same way I saw it from the opposite perspective, I saw his blood launching up into the air as I pulled my fist up, just to unrelentingly bring it down upon him again. I hammered and hammered and banged and banged. I watched as his blood splattered and trickled down onto the bed sheets until the spot beneath us was soaked. I was unstoppable. Eventually, I realized something. The pain in my stomach was becoming less and less pronounced the more I punched. It was all going to him. This is how I unleashed it, all of it, I transferred this pain into the agonizing wounds that were spreading and tearing across his face. I felt in control of the pain, after all of this time. I felt powerful. This made me go further, launching at him over and over and over again, watching the purple and red spread across his face. His face. His face. My face. It was me. That bruised and bloodied face that I had just put all of that pain onto. I massacred him. I massacred myself. I just wanted him to hurt. I just wanted him to feel what I was feeling. And now, he did. I looked at the splatters and pools of blood on the sheets. I looked closer and closer at this essence of myself I had so carelessly mauled, until I could see. The drops continued to make wet marks on the bed, but it wasn’t blood anymore. It was tears. My tears. Just mine. He was gone, and there I was, perfectly physically intact, crying into my bed sheets, alone. I looked out the window, and there had been no great quake that wrecked the city. Everything was normal, except for me, sitting here sobbing myself to death in my bed. I sat there for a long while, and I realized. I realized what I was doing with all of that pain. Eventually, I got up. I needed to go outside. Out there, I watched the sky turn into a brilliant orange and purple hue as the atmosphere had once again shown me the result of pushing all of that horribleness in until it needed to make itself real. *I get it. This time, I’ll listen.* I pulled out my phone and called Carla. “Stew! Hi. I’m surprised you called. How are you doing?” “No, I… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about today, and I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” “No, Stew, it’s fine. It’s really fine. I’m not even at the party. I am sitting outside alone now just trying to enjoy this sunset. I really wanted you to be there because, well, parties are a lot. It’s hard, being around all of these people. This pressure to speak, these constant eyes on you, I just… I just can’t handle it, and I knew that, and I shouldn’t have even tried, because now I’m here very much alone, but I guess it’s better that way, for me… Do you ever have panic attacks?” I was taken aback. “Well, I, I mean… Do you?” She laughed. “I think we should talk more, Stew. Clearly there’s more to me you haven’t seen. And, I bet there’s more to you, too. I wanna see that. Well, why did you call?” “Actually, kind of for that same reason. To talk. Carla, I… I have so much… pain. And, I, it’s just been in there, for so long, and I… Now, it’s coming out. I’m… making it real, just to deal with all of it that’s been in there so long, and I, just… I need to let it out in a different way. I need to… say it. Does that make sense?” “Yes, Stew. It does. Talk to me. You know, I’m here watching this gorgeous sunset, and God knows I have to stay out here until that wretched party is over, so you should come here, and, just you and I, you can talk to me. Can you do that?” “Yeah… Yeah. I’ll come over. I’ll come over and we can talk. | 37,536 | 0 |
(Mild trigger warning for an emotionally intense scene with a lot of trauma responses you might accidentally relate to.) Ryn’s impossibly long black hair seemed to sway gently as if by a breeze, but there was no wind. She ever so slightly moved the stray strands of hair that diverged this and that way-streaked across and dangled above and across her face-pausing in the silence of a moment which carried emotions so dense they feigned palpable to the touch. Regaining her freedom of movement from the grasp of the crippling moment of time, she tucked a portion of her tresses behind her right ear. A faint streak of dry blood could be seen below her ear, trailing down her neck and out of sight beneath the crisscrossed collar of her hanfu. She sat still now on the fireplace, her eyes glued to the empty cream colored wall in front of her. The gentle warrior, Que, placed a firm yet reassuring hand on her shoulder. “There is more for you to see of this life if we would simply pass to the country beyond. I am willing to follow you home for the sake of your own safely for the time being. I am willing to act as your advocate if you so choose to reunite with your great teacher once again. I sense that you fear to return home, so let me be your shelter” he said before removing a fan from the wall and using the back edge to remove the tress of hair that she had recently tucked behind her ear. It flowed under the pressure of the fan’s handle, and then neatly riled downwards as it covered her ear, concealing the appearance of blood stain. “You would be all the more radiant on sight if your heart was whole” he finished, letting his gaze trail towards the cream colored wall on which she focused. Ryn finally raised her head upwards as she closed her eyes and spoke. “My grave is the world”, she said softly, but suddenly let out a small “Eep!” as she found herself brisky swooped upwards off the fireplace princess style in the arms of the warrior. “Yet you are willing to live and die for your master for the possibility of achieving a greater purpose than a natural death in this world” he replied, now blowing gently across her face as her hair seemed to recoil in feigned fright; revealing again her blood stained ear and neck. Despite the surprise, Ryn’s eyes remained closed. Que chucked a bit, “and at present, you lie in the arms of a stranger who is the master of your enemy, and that with your eyes completely closed”. When he said this, she suddenly shot her eyes wide open, but then quickly softened her expression. “Then…what would you have?” She asked in a whisper. “If you stay this calm I should simply carry you back to your father without delay” He replied with a smile, emphasizing the word ‘father.’ his grip on her shoulder and leg was beginning to tighten so she squirmed a bit, causing him to set her down on her feet. She didn’t look back in his direction. “ did you know I tried to kill you yesterday?” she asked flatly. “Yes” he smiled. she paused for a moment. “Promise that you won’t kill anyone pertaining to his household” She finally looked over in his direction. He continued to smile,but there was no reply. He simply looked in her direction naturally. She silently drew in a breath as anger began to build up inside her chest, and she reached out as she pressed her fingernails suddenly into his wrist as hard as she could, leaving deep red marks. “ATCH CH CH CH. R-Ryn…have mercy on me.” he said as his feet darted back-and-forth and he tried to pry loose her grip. “ how about we stop hurting each other”, he said with a pained expression. “ You will never understand my story!” She yelled, but he covered her mouth suddenly with his sleeve, although not applying any pressure. “I don’t want to hurt you again. I’ve never been the aggressor. I’m asking you to let me save you…but you act like I am the enemy” he said sadly, lowering his arm and gaze. “I have no intention of killing…don’t you know that, Ryn?” He asked plaintively. She nodded vaguely and looked away. Que smiled in satisfaction. “Since you’re not a fan of me, I will go have my weapon inspected by the great teacher on my own.” Ryn’s mouth dropped open in horror for a brief moment, but then she manually closed her jaw with the heel of her, left hand and promptly lay down on the fireplace, closing her eyes. Que dropped his eyes to the floor before removing his outer robe and covering her with it. “You’ve been hurt a lot. But I won’t let you bare every wave of abuse anymore…and I know that scares you…that you’re scared to be free.” Tears streamed down her face but she couldn’t seem to move or respond. It fell like a horror on her ears. She couldn’t bear to be the cause of creating enemies for the master teacher that she loved. (This excerpt is an unedited and unrevised part of a lengthy work. The subject matter is quite heavy. | 4,867 | 1 |
Jake was far from pleased when he again got in trouble for attempted picketing and egging of one of New Zealand's top schools. His high school was clearly better, but no; Mr. Hallstead, the principal, wouldn't even take any insults defending his school against others. Suspended for three days, with no rugby or video games, Jake had reached the end of his line. And it was all thanks to the work of a group of prominent friends at the school: Danny William, originally from California and a geology and astrophysics prodigy; his more prominent and sporty British friend, Rupert; Joseph, who was also from the U.S.A. and quite bright like his friends, and Matthew, their Asian comedic companion. But it was always Danny William who would tell on others for any sins they committed against their overlords. Jake had a distaste for Danny William, who always oversaw Jake's previous antics with contempt, a stance the teachers always agreed with. "I've had enough," Jake thought to himself. "I think Danny William deserves a taste of his own medicine." The teachers held significant respect for Danny William and Rupert's gang, something Jake feared he'd never get. However, Jake felt he knew the ultimate way he could get even with Danny William. After going through some of his friends' social media posts, he came across a video of Danny William dancing to "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred in only his boxer shorts and kissing a photograph of Kim Kardashian, completely unaware he was being spied on. If Danny William did one more thing that exposed his own way of life, at least Jake knew what to do. "Well at least they're not coming to my birthday party," he said. What Jake did not know was that Mr. Hallstead had secretly made a pact with Danny William, Rupert, Joseph, and Matthew, to infiltrate Jake's birthday party so that Jake could be properly disciplined for his past actions. They reluctantly complied. Eventually, the day came. Jake lived in a house in the rural north of Auckland, some distance away from large towns and cities. However, while he was not looking, Danny William and his friends had already arrived. They acted casually but hid themselves in the bushes, trying their best not to foil Mr. Hallstead's plans. "Why are we doing this?" Joseph said to Danny William. "Every good student does what their teachers tell them," he replied. "Well, ok. Back when I was in Maryland, the students weren't even as badly behaved as the ones we have here." "Same for L.A. Anyway, Rupert, you have the firework cracker?" "Yes, and Matthew has the "antivirus" engineered by the computers teacher, so we're all set." Jake warmly welcomed his close friends who came to celebrate his turning seventeen. They kicked off celebrations by going to his swimming pool, where they would get drunk (illegally) and take selfies with middle fingers. Jake's parents were supervising them; no one was at the front of the house. Looking into the empty room, Matthew realized this was his chance. "I think I should slip the "antivirus" into the gift pile now." "Good idea, Matthew," replied Danny William. Trying to be as quiet and subtle as possible, Matthew slipped a cartridge wrapped in gift paper into the pile of gifts left for Jake. He signed it off as being from an "anonymous friend". It was software engineered by the school's computer teacher to masquerade as an "antivirus", but would, in reality, destroy his computer, ensuring Jake would not play gaming or social media and start taking study and school seriously. After finishing his part, he went to his friends standing behind the bushes. "I dropped the antivirus in. I'd like to go, though, my parents want me to be back by five." "That's OK. Bye, Matthew, and thanks for helping us." Now it was just Danny William, Joseph, and Rupert. The three walked into Jake's house, and, after confirming no one was inside it, hid tenderly in the rooms. Rupert walked into his brother's bedroom and placed a firecracker. He placed a magnifying glass close to the window, knowing that as the Sun strolled through the sky, it would soon pass concentrated heat through the glass and on the fuse of the firecracker. He then hid in the closest of that room, while Danny William and Joseph hid in Jake's bedroom. Eventually, Jake and his friends entered the house and started having fun and debauchery within the house. The moment they heard their sounds increase in decibels, Rupert, Danny William, and Joseph knew it was time to take this operation seriously. They had to hide and be careful in leaving if they didn't want to be in trouble with Jake. Firstly, it was time for Jake to open his birthday presents. Eventually, he came across the "antivirus" and asked Trevor, one of his naughty acquaintances, to install it on Jake's desktop computer. Joseph and Danny William, peering through the gaps of the closest door, tried not to get pleased or anything with what was going on, bearing in mind this was a serious operation, but were able to work out that something was going on. Trevor and Jake were eager the "antivirus" would work while looking at the installation progress on Jake's desktop, but, when it hit 100%, the computer began overheating rapidly. Ten seconds later, it exploded, sending Trevor to the floor and knocking Jake back. Fortunately, the fire was extinguished within a minute. That's when Jake exclaimed: "I will NOT let my birthday be ruined!" Rupert heard it as well and began peering through the doors of the closest in the other bedroom. He noticed that the beam of sunlight had ignited the firecracker's fuse. Eventually, it began to fizz in all directions. He noticed an adult, presumably one of Jake's parents or a family friend, walk past the hallway towards Jake's bedroom, carrying a birthday cake. Passing by the bedroom Rupert was in, he noticed the firecracker. Shocked, he dropped the cake, which splattered spectacularly on the floor. Rupert didn't laugh, but he understood Jake had to be punished. Jake's stomach dropped upon seeing his destroyed computer and birthday cake. His birthday was on the verge of being ruined. Trevor, seeing his friend distraught, tried to comfort him and assure him he would get his way. Eventually, Jake and Trevor decided they would carry on, convinced there were only the guests he invited—and no one else—in his house. After all, they didn't see anyone else yet and just dismissed the incidents as coincidences or something. Hearing this, Danny William felt jubilated. Remembering to keep quiet, he whispered into Joseph's ear, sitting next to him. "Just wait until they're back to the pool again and then I'll go text Rupert and we three can leave." Jake and Trevor were about to leave the bedroom when suddenly, Joseph farted. "Jake, did you fart?" Trevor asked. "I didn't." "No... I think it came from near my closet. And clothes don't fart." "And it smells! Something here has smelly farts, and it's not either of us." Hearing this, Danny William's stomach collapsed into a black hole. His cover had been blown. Trying not to gag, he whispered harshly into his friend's ear. "Dang it, Joseph! Did you have to do that?" "I'm sorry, I couldn't hold it in anymore!" "Now we're gonna be in so much tro—" The closet doors opened. Jake screamed. "Aha! Look which scoundrels decided to infiltrate my birthday party! Those two Americans, Danny William Pelobello and Joseph Craig S—" "How do you know my middle name?" Ten minutes later, Danny William, Joseph, and Rupert were sent home after explaining to Jake's parents the purpose and initiator of their mission. Jake's parents understood and directed their anger towards their "class clown" son. A week later, Danny William and his friends were at a school assembly when Mr. Hallstead gave a special announcement. "Now, one of the boys came to me and told me they videoed one of our students doing an amazing song performance. They confirmed we can play this for our assembly, to show how amazing our students can manifest their hidden talents." A few seconds after he stopped, the video came on. Words could not describe the redness of Danny William's face when it turned out to be the video of him dancing to I'm Too Sexy in his underwear and kissing Kim Kardashian photographs. Trevor had received the video on Jake's behalf for revenge, who would then lie to Mr. Hallstead about it to try and make it look more suitable to show to the school. Embarrassed, Danny William sat in his seat and said nothing, while all his other friends, including Rupert, Joseph, and Matthew, laughed uncontrollably. Needless to say, Danny William and his friends tried not to criticize Jake's naughtiness again. | 8,729 | 1 |
“Deadly Attractor” (TOC) by P. Orin Zack [2003] Chapter Two … Friday: 2262 … Sometimes, a flow of words induces a state of flow. Story, pacing and imagery envelop you with the writer’s vision. You don’t notice it happening, or the passage of time once it does. Not until something snaps you out of it. Frank Sanroya had entered that state earlier in the day. He’d settled onto the uncomfortable bench outside the L.A. courtroom he’d been summoned to and tapped the temple of his glasses. The novel floating in his field of view soon vanished from his awareness as he fell into flow and the process of converting text into adventure drained from consciousness. A bolt of heat suddenly ricocheted though his body. He sat upright on the hard bench and stared through the floating book image for a few ragged breaths. The unfocussed words floating before him stained the foreground as he searched for a clock. It was nearly four o’clock. He struggled to raise his right arm against the cacophony of pain echoing like church bells through his body. Lowering his head, he flicked the expensive glasses he’d just bought to the floor. Dexterity would come later. While he watched it, the unit’s laser searched uselessly for a retinal pattern and then turned itself off. Frank’s pain would have been easier to deal with if it at least made sense. After all, pain is the most common of ailments, and practitioners of all stripes have been offering treatments for thousands of years. As a symptom, pain is amazingly useful. It can draw attention to the site of an injury, even if there are no visible signs. Even non-localized chronic pain provides a clue to its source. Frank’s pain, unfortunately, didn’t even do that much. His problem was with the pain-reporting system itself. Nobody yet knew the root cause, and so far, there was no solution. Frank was a Healer, which meant that he was licensed under MexAmerican law to diagnose and treat a proscribed range of health issues using holistic and psychic techniques. MedCenter physicians handled a larger range of ailments, but the intrusive technology, genetic therapies and pharmaceuticals employed by their methods, from Frank’s perspective, often served the cause of health at the expense of the patient’s well being. Frank had been passing time in the cavernous halls of the courthouse where he was called to provide services as an expert witness. Pre-trial activities were still in progress, and the role he’d been asked to play was usually the last to be filled. The waiting area wasn’t exactly comfortable, but then neither was the job they wanted him for. He’d been at the courthouse since it opened that morning. After being IDed, he was asked to wait until called for an interview with the jury. Should they choose not to use him, they could either interview another Healer on Monday, or conduct the case without one. If this weren’t such an important case, the jury wouldn’t have been given a choice. They’d have been stuck with whoever was randomly selected. This wasn’t Frank’s first attack, or his worst. One moment, he might be fully involved in psychic diagnosis, his virtual senses assessing the flow of energy through a patient’s meridians, and the next stricken with a barrage of random pains of his own. When that happened, he really had no choice but to end the session. To do otherwise would not only compromise his judgment, it would also violate the Healer’s Oath to respect the patient’s privacy, integrity and dignity. Here, though, it could be even more dangerous, because the fate of an important case hung in the balance. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late to invoke one of the energy patterns that he’d practiced with his own healer. Once his nervous system had time to establish a self-reinforcing biological attractor pattern, it was nearly impossible for him to break the cycle on his own. That was the situation he found himself in shortly before the door to his right opened and a bailiff appeared. Frank had been so engrossed in the story he was reading that he hadn’t noticed the subtle dance of disorganized pain. Localized pain was palpable; it brought your attention to something specific. Generalized pain enveloped you in a cloak of discomfort; it triggered a useless escape reaction. This was like neither. Instead, it was as if someone were conducting a pain orchestra in a delicate but unstoppable rendition of Ravel’s Bolero that invoked performances from every sort of instrument imaginable. It could be hypnotic, and that was its biggest danger. “Are you okay?” said a nearby voice. The sound echoed hollowly. Frank had closed his eyes and was struggling to control both his mind and his breathing. The chaotic flux of pain reports ricocheted through his body like a biological demonstration of Boyle’s Law: the harder he struggled against the pain, the stronger it got. It was a perfect demonstration of why the most difficult person to treat is yourself, and why contemplatives throughout the millennia urged calm as the beginning of enlightenment. “No,” he said shakily. The sounds of the courthouse abruptly vanished, and he found himself surrounded by blank enveloping warmth. Respite from the storm of pain reports he was being deluged with was one of the few ways to escape psychological doom on the rocks of that deadly attractor. He could thank his benefactor later; right now he needed to take advantage of the situation and subdue the chaos that threatened to destroy him. This moment of calm enabled him to see enough of the pattern to set up a countering resonance in his personal energy field. Like an active noise canceling unit, the resonance shattered the energy building at the nodal points in the pattern, and transformed the virtual orchestra into an uncoordinated caterwaul of pain. Then he could silence each instrument in turn. “Healer Sanroya?” said a different voice. Frank opened his eyes to a uniformed bailiff towering over him, and quickly glanced around. “Was someone just here?” The bailiff shrugged. “There’s nobody here but you, sir.” He nodded towards the open door. “You’ve been summoned. The jury wants to meet you.” “Thanks.” Frank took a slow breath as he watched the bailiff step back through the doorway. The cacophony of pain signals was now at least simply annoying, but he’d have to get much better control over it if he was to perform the service the court expected of him. In the meanwhile, he’d need time and some of his attention to deal with the problem, which meant that the interview was going to be a challenge. He grabbed his things and stiffly followed the bailiff. There are many kinds of sacred spaces. Most people associate the concept with religious observances, but they fill our lives more than we know. Any time there’s a need to focus people’s attention in a specific way, or to encourage a certain state of mind or behavior, things are done to the space to denote it. That’s why public spaces, like a courtroom, feel different than business offices, and why people visibly change when entering them. Usually, the architectural and design differences are dramatic, but the same thing can be accomplished with more subtle means. For people in some cultures, sacred spaces can only be purpose-built physical structures. For others, it is a state of mind, one that can be created at will, anywhere. The courtroom Frank entered spoke silently of its sacredness. Its formal arrangement encouraged those in the space to adhere to the roles they were asked to play. Frank walked down the central aisle, past rows of empty spectator seats, past the flanking tables for defense and prosecution, and stopped in the open area before the judge. “Good afternoon, Healer Sanroya,” she said. “I’m Judge Bennigan. The ladies and gentlemen to your right are the jury that will hear the case you’ve been called about. If they agree to make use of your services, you will be working for them.” He nodded to the judge, and then turned to face the jury. “Thank you for inviting me. I hope I can be of service to you.” Frank’s world had a third kind of sacred space: a person’s selfness. That was partly due to his training as a Healer, and partly due to his upbringing. He had studied the judge while approaching the bench, and concluded that her belief in the sacredness of the role she played was reflected in her bearing and in her aura. Frank’s formality was partly in reflection of this, and partly to buy some time. He was still busy dealing with spurious pain signals, and needed a bit longer before he could concentrate fully on the matters at hand. Judge Bennigan invited him to take the witness seat between her and the jury, and waited for everyone to settle down. “For those jurors not familiar with this aspect of testimory,” she said, “I’ll explain it briefly. Then you may ask whatever questions you may have. “One of the long-standing problems with witness testimony has always been that the court has had to accept the word of witnesses at face value, with only their oath and the penalty of perjury to ensure honesty. Since the twentieth century, various technological methods have been used to establish the truth of statements made by witnesses, but each time people found ways to undermine their value. Early methods used physiological measurements to expose a witness’ nervousness; later ones used a variety of technologies to expose the thought processes involved. But because it was always possible to fool the measurements, they were eventually ruled inadmissible in court. “Recently, a new method arose. Trained Healers can establish a psychic link with the witness, and use it to monitor the memories recalled during testimony. By doing this, they are able to determine whether the witness is reporting a memory, a suspicion, or a fabrication. Employing a Healer for this purpose, however, does not free you from the obligation to assess all testimony yourselves. Instead, it provides another opinion to assist you in making your decision. Does the jury have any questions?” When Frank turned to face the jury, he found that one member, an athletic-looking man dressed in the formal powder blue of a professional juror, was calmly engaged in establishing serious eye contact with him. This would be the foreman of the group. From what he’d heard, pros were a breed apart. They had a reputation for ethical behavior even more stringent than what was expected of Healers. Now he’d have the chance to find out firsthand. Frank acknowledged this contact with a subtle nod, and then slid his gaze across the other members of the jury. “Healer Sanroya.” The first to speak was an older woman seated at the far end of the jury. She wore a powder blue ID, which meant that she was in the professional juror apprenticeship. Frank met her eyes for a moment before speaking. “Yes?” “Forgive me for asking, but why did you become a Healer?” He thought for a moment. “Well,” he said, “several members of my extended family have been in similar fields. It was only natural that —” She cleared her throat. “I meant instead of a shaman. In order to be certified, you had to work abroad, rather than in your homeland. You could easily have practiced whatever specialty you wanted there, and wouldn’t have had to confront the legal issues at the heart of this case. So why be a Healer, specifically?” “One moment,” the judge said. “I want you all to remember that the job that Healer Sanroya has been asked to fill does not permit him to comment on the case itself, but only on the accuracy of the testimony presented by witnesses. What is the intent of your question?” “To determine predisposition, your honor,” the juror said quietly. “If his reason for being a Healer was to confront the conflict, to become involved in it, then I would not want to place him in this role. It would offer a conflict of interest that might cloud his reports. May he answer?” “Yes. Please proceed.” Frank turned back towards his questioner. “You’re close, but I think you may misunderstand. I am interested in the jurisdictional conflict, but only to find ways that it can be mended. Healers refer patients to MedCenters for treatment quite frequently. The Healer’s Oath is very specific about honoring the patient’s needs above our own. Because of this, many of us practice a wide variety of holistic and non-intrusive techniques, and refer patients to others who can better help them, regardless of what manner of care that might be.” The exchange distracted Frank’s attention from the meaningless pain signals he’d been quelling, and that gave the pattern a chance to re-establish itself. His breath had become a bit ragged. He quickly set off a countering pattern before continuing. “This is not the case for MedCenter physicians, unfortunately. They are far more likely to attempt the treatments they know, and to refer patients only to practitioners within their theory of medicine, rather than referring them to what they consider to be ‘alternative’ modes of treatment. My objective is to develop working relationships with MedCenter physicians, and to educate them about how we can provide more complete care if we work together for the benefit of our patients. So far, however, I have not made much progress. Will this disqualify me?” The juror shook her head and sat back. One of the others raised a finger. “I’m not familiar with how you accomplish the magic we’re hiring you to perform. Could you explain it for me?” “Certainly. There are a number of techniques used by Healers that require both innate psychic ability and special training. One of these is a form of direct contact that enables the Healer to experience sensations along with the patient. It’s a diagnostic tool that eliminates the problem of how a symptom is expressed, but also makes it possible for Healers to work with patients who are unable to communicate.” Another of the jurors raised a hand. “How a symptom is expressed?” “That’s right. Auditory problems are a good example. Say you have difficulty in understanding people’s voices. There might be a number of reasons for this, some of which are physical and can be detected with a series of conventional tests. But it could also reveal a problem in how the brain processes the signals reported by your ears. This technique enables the Healer to experience the symptoms directly. By comparing the Healer’s own experience of the sound to the patient’s it becomes possible to isolate the problem, and in some cases to treat it as well.” The first juror spoke again. “How does this enable you to assess testimony?” Frank took a deep breath. During the pause he’d created, he stifled some more of the pain signals. “When you recall a memory, part of your mind re-experiences it. If you fabricate a story, a different part of your mind fleshes it out for you, making it real in a sense. The difference between these activities can be shown using several kinds of scanning technology, and is also reflected by eye motions. Once a fabrication has been embedded in your memory, however, this distinction fades. But there is still a difference between them that can be recognized by a Healer using the linkage technique. In a way, you could describe this difference as being similar to the subtle ways that an analog picture, such as is captured with chemical emulsion on film, is different from a digital image. Most people won’t notice a difference, but it’s still there.” The jury was quiet for a time, and then the foreman spoke again. “Your job, then, is to tell us whether a given bit of testimony strikes you as film or video? One, meaning that it’s a real memory, and the other, that it’s a lie?” Frank smiled at the characterization. “Essentially, but there is a middle ground as well. That’s where things get very tricky. If a witness embellishes their actual memory, or replaces a bit of reality with a fabrication, what I’d experience could be described as a mixed-media presentation: a hologram, for example, with a flat image pasted into it, or maybe an intercut sequence containing real and fabricated elements. These kinds of memories are very difficult to work with in a court of law unless the jury has a way to know that part of what has been reported is suspect, while other parts are not.” The apprentice juror shook her head. “Please help me here, then. I think I see a parallel that may be useful to the others. Just as professional jurors, which is what I am training to become, are better equipped to ask questions than citizen jurors, a Healer in this capacity is better equipped to recognize subtleties in witness testimony. Working together, citizen and professional jurors create a more complete understanding of the case being heard. The observations provided by the Healer gives us all a clearer understanding of the details submitted. Is that how you see it?” He nodded in agreement, and then glanced back at the judge. “Am I hired?” She shrugged. “That’s up to the jury. Ask them.” A juror who had been quiet until now spoke up. “Before we agree, I have a question. Healer Sanroya, how do we know that your reports are honest? Couldn’t you be complicit in some scheme by one of the sides to this dispute? If you were, how could we know?” “Like Judge Bennigan said at the outset,” Frank said evenly, “you still have to make the final judgment. I’m simply a perceptual tool, if you like. I swear to report what I observe completely and accurately, without withholding or altering it. If you’re dissatisfied with my services, you can fire me and call in another Healer, or complete the case without one if you prefer. My reputation and my honor are all I have to offer as a guarantee.” Judge Bennigan waited for a response from the jurors. “What is your decision, then?” After a brief conference, the jury quieted, and the foreman said, “We accept.” “Thank you all,” the judge said, and dropped her gavel. “We’re adjourned until Monday morning at ten o’clock.” Getting the job was one thing; surviving it could be quite another. It was pretty clear to Frank that having another attack like that during the case would not only disrupt the proceedings, but destroy any credibility he might have created through it as well. He’d seen how chance encounters could make and break careers, how improbable events could scramble the course of what had seemed a sure thing, and he didn’t want to give fate an edge it didn’t deserve. While descending the broad stairway to the lobby, he slipped his glasses back on and pressed the temple. The momentary glow of the eye-tracking laser gave him the comforting feeling of once again being connected. As he approached the exit, he thumbed the small unit clipped to his belt until the watermark in his field of view changed to comm. When raw sunlight struck the lenses, they darkened to his preferred setting, and engaged the glare and UV filters. The cabstop was a few minutes walk, so he thumbed through the unit’s directory for Kübler-Ross Hospice, where he worked, and selected it. As soon as the translucent image area appeared, he raised his hand and waved it over to the left so it wouldn’t block his view. The proximity sensor was well worth the extra cost, especially the way he used it. “Hi Frank,” the office manager said cheerily. “How’d it go?” “I got the job, Jen, but there’s a problem. Could you ask Jerry to wait for me? I need to talk with him about something before the case gets underway. It’s important.” She was silent for a moment. When Frank realized that she was struggling with something, his pace slackened, he glanced around to gauge foot traffic, and stepped over against the building for a moment. “What is it?” “It’s Jerry. He was called away unexpectedly on family business, and…” Frank waited several beats before speaking. “And what? Did something happen?” She nodded twice and left her head lowered. “There was a crash.” Crashes were supposed to be not only impossible, but also survivable, considering all the mandated safeties and automatics on everything. Frank reached up and moved her image front and center. “Is he okay?” Jen took a deep breath, but still didn’t raise her head. “He’s pretty bad, Frank. Emergency transported him to East-Side MedCenter for treatment, and from what they tell us, it’ll be a while before he’ll be able to walk again.” She looked up. “Is there somebody else I can get?” He scanned the ground-level traffic, and then looked up at the overhead routes of paying commercial and emergency services fliers. “Here’s the thing. Jerry was helping me with a recurring neural problem. We were developing a dynamic energy pattern to counter it, and if I can’t lick it, I could jeopardize both this case and my career. I don’t think—” “Wait, wait,” She said hurriedly. “I just noticed that there’s a new Healer on staff.” She looked over at something. “Carlita Gutiérez transferred in from Mexico City when Mt. Popo buried her neighborhood last week. Anyway, according to her brief, she’s worked on some cases that sound a lot like yours. Want to meet her? She hasn’t gone home yet, and I can ask her to wait for you.” Frank shrugged in resignation. “Sure. Okay. I’ll be there in a bit. Bye.” He tapped the virtual display back off and walked glumly towards the cabstop. Without Jerry’s assistance, he was pretty certain that the attacks would kill any chance he might have had to turn this court job into a sideline. There was already a line waiting for rides when he got to the cabstop, so he swiped his ID through the reader and waited. Robotic groundcars cruised L.A. waiting for requests, and then pulled up to cabstops like this to take on passengers. A few minutes later, he was on his way. After a few blocks, he turned the book back on to pass the time, but found he was too nervous to settle into flow, and resigned himself to simply watching the city slide by. The trip seemed to take forever. Kübler-Ross Hospice stood on the site of who knew how many different things in the long history of Los Angeles. Before the Global Directorate was created, about a hundred years earlier, a hospice was someplace people went before dying. Technological and holistic healthcare groups had gone through periods of cooperation and conflict over the centuries. For some reason, though, the birth of the world government in the mid-22nd century was paralleled by a precarious legal dogfight that ended in a jurisdictional stalemate. The two sides had fought to a standstill, and the politicians at the new GD headquarters in Australia mandated a solution built around declaring which patients should be treated by each camp. Implementation of that solution required the creation of a system of healthcare centers that paralleled the technologically heavy MedCenters that had been building their empire since before the US fragmented under the strain of climate emergencies early in the 21st century. That’s how Hospice Centers came to be where you’d go for treatment by any of a wide variety of holistic and psychic practitioners. That was also why Frank Sanroya worked there. The evening crew had come on duty by the time Frank arrived at KRH, so he flipped on his unit to scan for messages. Jen had left a brief apology for not staying until he arrived, and told him that Healer Gutiérez would be waiting for him in the staff lounge. To be on the safe side, she attached a still from Carlita’s file so he’d be sure to recognize her. As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary, since she was the only person there when he walked in. Frank helped himself to a latté, then casually walked over and asked if the seat across from her was occupied. When she just looked up at him silently, he sat down and took a sip. “You must be Frank Sanroya,” she said with a generous roll of the r’s. Regional dialect differences were not only pronounced in MexAmerica, they were pronounced as often as possible. Some people interpreted this as a way to stake out a kind of linguistic superiority over those who preferred the blander L.A. sound, but Frank enjoyed the variation for its own sake. After all, his own people had several different languages among them, and they used a collection of phonemes that were unfamiliar to people on both ends of MexAmerica. “And you must be Healer Gutiérez.” He extended a hand in greeting. “Thanks for waiting. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” She shrugged. “All evening, if you like. Have you eaten?” “Not yet. I’ll be joining my wife and daughter when we’re finished here. Would you like to join us?” She smiled. “Perhaps another time. You’re more polite than most of the people I’ve met in L.A. Does that mean you’re not from around here?” Frank closed his eyes in amusement. “Look, I enjoy the game, but there’s something very important I need your help with. Would you mind if we skipped over the small talk?” She nodded. “What is it?” He spread his palms on the table. “When I was at the courthouse earlier, I had a particularly nasty neural avalanche. Pain signals erupt chaotically and then get caught up in some kind of attractor pattern. It’s pretty disabling, and it sets off a very ugly reaction in my aural field.” Healer Gutiérez nodded slowly. “I’ve seen that before.” “So I was told. Anyway, I’ve been working with Jerry — one of the other Healers here — to develop a dynamic energy pattern to counter the aural effects and break the feedback loop, but so far it hasn’t been working very well. I just found out that Jerry’s in the MedCenter, yet I need a way to deal with this situation before a court case I’m involved in gets underway on Monday. Any ideas?” She considered the problem for a moment, and then wet her lips. “I do, but it could take a while. For now, go home and get some rest, then meet me here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Mara TreeSong LeBlanc was cooing to their baby daughter when Frank got home. She’d started a sabbatical from facilitating meetings of the Indigenous Peoples’ Coalition about a month before Pegwin was born, and planned to re-emerge into that world after the upcoming Aboriginal Nations Summit. About a month ago, she had resumed tracking the group’s activities, but it didn’t seem quite the same. Frank cuddled Pegwin for a few moments before looking into his wife’s dark brown eyes. “How’s she been today?” “Sleeping, mostly. I think she’s actually been calming me down for a change.” He stroked Peg’s cheek with a curled finger. “Is something bothering you?” “Mmmm-hmm. Being away from the group for so long, having a baby, has changed my perceptions a bit. I’m not really sure, but it’s like there’s been some kind of textural change to the flow we’d been developing.” She paused a few breaths. “Might be me. I don’t know.” Frank wasn’t entirely comfortable telling Mara about the incident at the courthouse before he walked in. Now, he was even more reluctant, and instead chose to pass it off until he’d had that session with Healer Gutiérez. “Well,” Mara said at last, “what happened at court?” “A lot of reading, mostly. I’m nearly finished with—” “The job,” she said quietly. “Did you get the job?” “Of course. Why wouldn’t they give me the job?” She took Pegwin back, and gently jostled her into laughter. “Language, for one thing. Someone in that position not only has to monitor witness’ accounts, but to interpret their experience of it as well.” She glanced down at the baby, and stopped moving her arms. “A Healer who thinks and speaks only GD-standard English wouldn’t have a conflict of interpretation to resolve. How are you going to report the validity of testimony when a witness knows that the dynamic behind the events he experienced is at odds with the events themselves? Or at least can be interpreted in other ways?” Well,” he said as he started towards the kitchen, “a native English-speaker — or someone who thinks only in any token-based language for that matter — wouldn’t even have that conflict unless they had a magical or quantum grounding as well. That, at least, would give them a way to understand the world as a process. But the court asks witnesses to report only overtly causal relationships, so they would be filtering their memories anyway.” She chuckled. “And if your witness is Aboriginal? If their experience of the world is as dynamic and verby as the language they think and speak in? What then?” Both of them enjoyed the interplay of ideas and perspectives that sparked when they were together. It was what had thrown them together initially, and what kept them together now. Frank knew that her insights were not to be ignored, even when she wasn’t entirely sure where they were leading. This was clearly a matter that would need a lot more exploration. “I see your point,” he said slowly. “A unilingual English-speaker with no magical grounding is probably the best fit for this kind of court, since the jury is expected to use token-based logic to understand and decide the case. In that world, events happen to objects. One with either magical grounding or a clear understanding of quantum physics would be equipped to understand the testimonial world of Aboriginal speakers, and then translate that into the worldview the jury is supposed to inhabit. But someone with a profoundly dynamic worldview, cultural background and language would first translate the witness’ experience into that context before rendering it into the nouny English form expected by the court. | 29,624 | 1 |
I'm the one who suggests the night away, but he's the one who suggests Edinburgh. I don't want to go to Edinburgh. Edinburgh is where you went with her. Your new girl. The one who I still think of as your ‘new girl’ despite the fact you've been with her longer than we were ever together. You posted pictures of your trip on social media, back before you were blocked. She wasn't in any of the pictures, but there's a couple that she took of you. You don't seem to be having as much fun as you used to with me - and I'm not just saying that. I have so many pictures of you still on my phone, where you're doing goofy things, making me laugh. You're not doing anything goofy on the pictures you posted of your trip with her though. They all look so serious. There’s a lyric in a Noah Kahan song *“I’m no longer funny, because I miss the way you laugh”*, and I wonder if that’s why you seem to have lost some of your silliness. Maybe you were only silly to make me smile, and now I’m not around you’ve lost your motivation and consequently lost that trait. Or maybe I'm reading too far into it - trying to make myself the leading lady of your story instead of just a footnote. I don't want to go to Edinburgh, but he seems enthusiastic and I don't want to burst his bubble by saying “well, actually, the love of my life took the girl he chose instead of me there and so I'd rather avoid it”. So, we go to Edinburgh. We don't really speak on the train there. He's hungover from a night in the pub with his friends, and I'm annoyed that he spent the night in the pub with his friends the day before our trip, so I look out of the window while he rests his head on the table. I think about when you and I got the train together. It only happened once and it was only a twenty minute trip. We were both hungover, but you continued to make jokes and make me smile. When we got off the train and went our separate ways, you hugged me and I clung to you in a way I don't cling to people who are just my friend. I couldn't help thinking that you don't hug your friends like that either. But neither of us said anything, both too afraid of destabilising the equilibrium we'd created. A lot of good that did us. The first place he and I go when we get to the city is to the castle. As I'm looking at the view, I recognise it. On one of the pictures you posted, you're standing right here. You're smiling in the picture, but your teeth aren't showing and your eyes look dull. In the pictures I took of you, you always had a wide smile illuminating your face, your teeth showing, creases by your eyes, and a light that could make even the darkest night seem bright. When I saw this picture of you, the one she took, I wanted to send you a comparison. I wanted to say\*, Look! You don't look as happy when she's the one behind the camera!\* I wanted to send it over as proof. But what good would that do? Here, with him, he steps away from the wall to move on to the next part of the castle. He doesn't take a picture of me or of the view, like he doesn't want to document this moment. You might not be as happy with her, but you must still must be happy. Something made you want to capture the moment. I step away from the wall without taking out my camera. We go to a pub in the evening. It's a really quaint, cosy place, with a sign saying it opened in the 1800s. I wonder if you came here with her and whether or not you liked it. I would have liked to have come here with you, to sit nestled in a corner, people-watching and talking about everything and nothing all at once. I get a drink but he doesn't. He says he still doesn't feel well with his hangover. He doesn't say much the whole evening. I keep rambling on about anything that comes to mind, trying to fill the silence, but he doesn't bite at any of the topics. His phone is on the table between us and keeps buzzing, he glances at it every time it does, and I feel my patience waning. You never used to look at your phone when we were together. You once said your friend had complained about it, *“you never reply when you're with her”*. I had felt bad, had assured you that you could still message people when you were with me. *“I know I can,*” you had said, *“I just kind of forget that other people exist when I'm with you.”* He doesn't seem to have that problem. As soon as I finish my sentence he picks up his phone, and I sigh and look around the room. I have given up trying to make conversation, have resigned myself to a quiet night. So, I people-watch alone while he scrolls on his phone. I think of things that I would have said to you. I think about what you and her talked about when you were here - I’ve somehow decided that you *did* come here, with no proof to back it up - and half an hour later I decide I’m bored. “We can just go back to the room,” I say. It’s early enough that a lot of people wouldn’t have even gone out yet, never mind be calling it a night. “I’m tired anyway.” It’s not quite a lie. On the walk back to the hotel, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve heat in the chilly northern wind. There was a night when you and I met up in a city in the middle of our hometowns. We stayed in the pub till it closed, then went to a club, then another club, and at 4am we stumbled back to our hotel (separate rooms, of course, we couldn’t disturb that equilibrium). We’d been together well over 12 hours and still hadn’t run out of things to say - we never did. We’d danced and danced in the clubs, having as much fun as we would have if all our friends were there. And as I shivered on the walk to the hotel, with warm cheeks and loose lips, you took off your jacket to wrap around me. “I love this jacket,” I’d said. “you’ve worn it since we met. It’s intrinsically linked to you in my mind.” “I’ve actually been thinking of getting a new one,” you’d said, and I gasped, outraged at the idea. “You can’t!” You laughed. “Change is good,” you said. “It means we’re growing.” I tugged the jacket tighter around myself, taking a deep breath so that your scent would reach my nose. I wish there was a way to capture other senses. You can take pictures of what you see, you can record what you hear, but how can you bottle the scent of your safe place, your home? “I don’t like change,” I said. “Sometimes things are just right and changing things ruins it.” You didn’t reply, and looking back, I wonder if you knew her then. Your new girl. I wonder if you’d just met her, the first person you could envision replacing me with. I wonder if our conversation wasn’t about your jacket, but about us. Because we were inextricably linked before she came along. I associated myself with you just as much as I associated that jacket with you. But maybe you knew, even then, that it was time to move on, time to grow. When we’d got back to the hotel, your room on the left and mine on the right, I’d almost pulled you in for a kiss. I’d been thinking about it all evening, but I hadn’t managed to pluck up the courage, hadn't been brave enough to mention the string that bound us together, that had bound us together since we’d met. Not even alcohol could make me brave enough to risk losing you. Life without you would be empty, I’d be lost, and tugging on the string that bound us wouldn’t help me find my way home. Who would lead me back to safety when I lost my way? In my hesitation, you smiled at me, “night.” You turned and walked to your room. But it was fine, it was all fine. I still had you in my life, you were still my person. I just couldn’t risk something bringing an end to that. Being greedy wasn’t worth it. There was too much at stake. Having you as my friend was enough. But I’m not there anymore. I’m in Edinburgh, with him. He’s asleep, and I slip out of bed and make my way to the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. What we had was a once in a lifetime thing. Some people aren’t lucky enough to experience it at all. *It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all*. Is it? Because this loss feels too deep, it feels like I’ll never feel whole again. No one is enough to fill the gap you left, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t to you what you were to me. I was replaceable. You filled the absence of me with her. But you left a void in me, a black hole that destroys everything that gets close. Everyone that gets near me gets sucked in, crushed till they're microscopic, and the void in me remains. It’s destroying me, tearing me apart bit by bit, making me an empty shell of who I once was. Isn't it ironic? What I really need right now is someone with eyes bright enough to light up even the darkest night, who can light up this black hole in me? What I need is the very person who did this to me in this first place. | 9,068 | 1 |
Windshield wipers lose the battle against heavy rain. Since the invention of the wiper, straight through to the invention of the heavy superconductor roadways and reciprocal magnetic pads used for personal and commercial vehicles in the year 2050, heavy rain has won the battle. One such battle is being lost to a cab driver in a layered city, about eight thirty p.m. The cab driver had finished a meal in a retro themed diner at eight, being annoyed by the crass conversation of an off world bird-man that had immigrated during the great galactic restructuring. The birdmen were one of the relatively few offworlders allowed to find refuge on earth, due in part to the dream inhabiting culture that developed along with their dream mapping technology. Incidentally the cab driver had stepped over two sleeping birdmen while leaving the diner, as they wore the jeweled bands that allowed their minds to float freely from sleeper to sleeper, being only noticed as shadowy feathered creatures on the fringes of the hosts dreamscape. Thin fingers on thin hands worked steering wheel and altitude lever of the hover cab. A man on the street below wearing an overcoat and holding an umbrella held his free hand up, as rain poured down the rubbery sleeve. The cab driver tipped the altitude lever forward and used his foot to engage the magnetic brakes, he thought of his seats, about to be soaked by the riders coat and umbrella. The rain poured and drowned out any noise from the hover cab as it came to a stop next to the man in the overcoat. The driver pushed a small button near the altitude lever and the rear passenger side door slowly opened. He frowned slightly as the rain increased and the passenger seemed to hesitate, allowing the rain to spatter his seats. The man in the overcoat slid into the backseat, pulled a small pistol from his pocket, pointed the barrel at the base of the driver's neck, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The cab driver sighed, then seemed to brighten. The man in the overcoat struggled to pull the trigger again, nothing happened again. In a few moments the cab driver had stepped out of the vehicle and walked around to the rear passenger door. His phone was in his hand and he had taken a picture of his would be killer. The man in the overcoat looked on the verge of tears. "How? How?" he said. The cab driver turned the phone around to reveal the photo of the passenger looking fearful, holding the illegal pistol. "Give me all your money and the pistol or I send this picture to the police, I'm automatically geo-tagged, and all my photos are backed up. If you get clear of the hover pads so the gun isn't cold welded to itself and shoot me they will find the picture anyways." The man in the overcoats mind was a pit, a cave of swooping tormented things and crawling worms. The cab driver twisted up his lip in a comical expression and snatched the gun away from him. He hauled him bodily from the seat. The man in the overcoat looked stunned, his mind now a serene prairie, full of wind and grass. The rain was letting up. The driver busied himself going through the mans pockets. He found a wallet full of cash and cards, different names imprinted on each. He produced a small squarish box with a slit in its side and started slipping the cards through it, tossing them away individually as he finished swiping them. After finishing the process he dropped the small box and stepped on it. He gently guided the man in the overcoat to the side walk. His mood had darkened again and the gentle prairie had been replaced by a blasted land of blowing sand. The hover cab driver dropped into the seat of his vehicle, took off quickly, and when he had travelled a few blocks and risen a few levels to an altitude of forty feet he found a dimly lit cove near a shopping structure. He expertly disassembled the pistol and found it had been loaded with stun pellets. He seemed unfazed but deep down he felt a bit of respect for the man that had tried to rob him. After counting the cash he contacted his dispatch and told them he would take the rest of the night off. He owned the cab outright and just relied on the dispatch for large fares requiring city to city travel. He checked his bank account and saw a few thousand dollars had been stripped from the credit cards he had taken from the man in the overcoat. Somewhere in a police station a screen flickered into life, it had registered an unauthorized bank transfer being performed by a credit brick, an illegal device that could scan and use stolen cards. | 4,664 | 1 |
Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. # Can we? Can we go hand in hand, walk in the woods together like we did all those years ago? We won't find some interesting bug, or leaf, like when we were kids. There'll be snow today, tomorrow, the next, forever maybe. It's like summer never comes anymore. Remember how I'd throw rocks at the ghosts, you'd climb the trees and scout for sounds of birds like small dragons to us? We won't find apples or pears or plums anymore. How many days did we live off the fruit in the trees of the orchard early in the morning before the moon disappeared into the sun? How many times did we sneak around at war with the world, sticks in fists, rocks in pockets? Hunting dragons, fish, and quiet shady spots in our minds behind trees. How we'd avoid the bigger kids and even bigger strangers, holding each other's hands. Now we hunt in the grocery aisle after working all week, tap tap tap on apples, twelve kinds, you say, picking out plantains for breakfast. Now we drive the avenues like we're in the apocalypse, our bags of groceries spilling on the seats, like we stole them. All the leaves and bugs are the same, just not here, not on these city streets up high in these apartments where we climb and occasionally glance out the window searching for dragons. Now all we see are birds, no dragons, cigarettes, no sticks, no rocks to scare off ghosts, just pennies and nickles now, rattling around in the can by the television. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow, can we walk hand in hand again, I ask, always tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next week. You say we should get out of the city soon, I always agree. It never comes. I say at some point we'll be too tired to play in the woods like we did when we were kids. We'll just walk down some well-beaten path like all the big people we avoided and talk about life and how much we missed while we were so busy living these lives. You wonder out loud did anyone take our place defending the world in the woods or did we conquer all the ghosts and dragons for good? Can we go look, go see? You and me? Tomorrow, you say. Like you did yesterday. Like every day. And then one day you pass away. You lay below a maple tree with out me. All the ghosts are here, I say, all the names on stones. Now your name's on your stone. I ask, can we walk today, but you don't answer me. I go into the woods, alone, today. For the first time you aren't here beside me. The path has a yellow line down the middle, kids with headphones on. I walk with my stick to lean on, in my nice shoes, and pocket of stones you would have thought were too pretty for the ground. I walk for the last time, too old to climb. Now all I want is a pleasant conversation with a dragon or two, all our battles were fought decades ago. I look for ghosts, but we scared them all away, I guess. I ask you if we did, but you don't answer me. You haven't answered me in so long. When the cancer comes, I ask, can we just walk one more time before I go? No one answers me. It scares me, to he honest. It seems no one heard me. Until you do. And you smile, and say duck too late, as a stone flies through us. We hear giggling, and watch the boy pull another rock from his pocket as the girl climbs the tree, searching for dragons. | 3,330 | 5 |
Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. # Lots of Little Things Remember all the jars? All the little jelly jars you got from gift packages or whatever else. I never liked the orange marmalade, it was always too sour for me. Then bigger jars from, well, probably jelly or jam too. Seemed like hundreds of jars all over the work bench each with lots of little things in them. The larger ones were old ball jars. You told me you can't reuse the covers once you canned something, so we just used them for the jars. There were nuts and bolts and screws and resistors and capacitors and switches and random little things in each jar, all clear so you could see what was in them without having to label everything. There were drawers of little jars too, all over the place. There were lots of little unmatched bureaus, like the kind you'd use if you put tiny clothes in them. You never said where you found them all, but my guess is you made most of them by hand. The cigar boxes had cables and cords and plug and little light bulbs or tube amplifiers. I came downstairs and you were working on a radio. You liked fixing them for no reason other than they happen to need fixing. Never took money for anything from anyone. It was just something you enjoyed. You taught me how to use a multi meter. I was five years old I think. I had just moved in upstairs. You always sort of talked while you worked with the soldering iron, explained the way electricity moves from one place to the next, how to know where it's going on a circuit board. They were simpler back then, easy to replace things. I never told you that I didn't like the basement. It smelled like mold and dirt. There was always random junk piled half-haphazardly toward the front of the basement. There were spider webs all over that pile. I wasn't scared, but it was just sort of gross. But the one thing that made it worth it was the workbench and the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. And you. A week after you died, I went downstairs before anyone could throw all that stuff away. I knew that was the plan. I hadn't been down there in almost a decade. Everything was covered in dust. I wanted to save something, try to find things I could maybe use on projects of my own. I found a broken radio. It was opened up and laid out, the screws neatly piled next to it. I sat at the bench for over an hour looking through it, testing all the points on the board. Everything seemed fine. I tried to find newer solder points, the kind you did, and eventually saw you replaced one of the capacitors and just never got around to putting it all back together. So I did. I plugged it in and got static out of the little speaker. I tuned the AM station until I heard a radio show with people talking about who knows what. Didn't matter. I shut it off. When I left that day, I knew it was the last time I'd ever see the little world you created for me to find and learn about one of your hobbies. I never went in the basement again, after they cleaned it out. Lots of little things were gone, and the memories were all I had of you. I guess I didn't want to spoil that with seeing it destroyed like that. | 3,218 | 1 |
Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. # Invincible You were crying the first time I came over your place. I remember back then I internalized everything. I assumed I had done something wrong. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. You were wearing nothing but a white towel and not a very large towel at that. I thought you looked beautiful, even with tears in your eyes. You wiped them away as I stepped onto the last step. I looked up into your eyes. You smiled as though nothing was wrong. Your hair was still wet, dripping onto your shoulders. I always loved that you were taller than me, even if only a few inches. Your dark brown cropped hair barely covered your shoulders. Everyone I knew thought you were the hottest women in our circle of friends. It gave me a sense of self-worth that someone as tall and beautiful would be interested in me. My confidence had recently been bolstered by depression and alcohol. I talked the talk but couldn't even crawl most days, but you told me I was beautiful that day. You changed everything. My hands held yours over your head while I kissed your face and neck. We made love under the front window on your little twin sized bed. It was more of a pallet than a bed, it was so close to the floor. The back window was open and the warm summer breeze blew through, caressing our bodies that shone with sweat. Every time I whispered in your ear all the things I was going to do to you, you would sigh, or moan, and hold me tighter. You became more and more vocal as the weeks progressed. That drove me crazy. You had invited me over and I had planned on taking you out for the afternoon, but seeing you in that towel, I simply dropped everything and kissed you instead. You seemed frantic to take my clothes off as your towel dropped, revealing your beautiful perfectly pale body. We'd only known each other a couple weeks and this was going to be our first actual date. You had other plans for some reason. I didn't argue. You led me into the shower you had just gotten out of. We bathed each other and made love to each other until night fall. I remember making plantains and curry with chicken. I wore a towel while you kissed my shoulders and neck, trying to distract me from cooking. For three days, if we left your bed, we put our towels on, at most. Otherwise we wore nothing but each other. I never really knew what it was you were crying about before I showed up that day. I realized much later that we weren't ever on a date that day, or any other day since. I realized much later that I was always the other guy. I knew long before you finally admitted it, but for some reason I didn't let it bother me. You were too beautiful, and I felt invincible. If I were to guess, you were crying because the person you were actually in love with, who wasn't me, the person you convinced that you were in love with, got off the phone with you just before I stepped across the threshold to your apartment. Whatever was said between you was enough to make you cry. To help you through it, you fucked me for hours that day, just a week before summer. We spent weeks like two lovers, and although I knew we weren't, I won't say I didn't enjoy what time we had. It was never real, and I know that, but for me, it was real enough. It was the first time I knowingly lived a lie with someone. You cried the last time I left your place. I was getting dressed, you were holding the comforter like a shield from the words you expected me to say that never came. We had been wrapped up in that blanket naked for the past few hours. The windows were hardly open, yet the autumn evening breeze cooled our bodies. You had just told me the truth about us, about him, for the first time since I met you. The end of summer was less than a week ago. The sunset was magnificent. It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did. I knew about him, but you never outright told me. When you did, I could have said something else, like that I knew, and that I was alright with it. But I couldn't. The lie became a truth I couldn't even lie about anymore. I don't know exactly what you ever needed from me. Was it knowing that someone could love you like I did? Was it being able to end things with me so easily? Having a body to hold and fuck and lay with all that time just to cure your own loneliness until I wasn't needed? You stood with the blanket barely covering you, clenched in both hands at your neck. You said my name. I looked at you with something in my eyes that stopped you from saying another word, and sitting back down on the bed while I slipped my shoes on. I stood at the top of the stairs opposite the apartment from where you sat, your breasts exposed, hands between your legs, palms up, like you were the one who was defeated and not me. Like you'd never seen your hands before. You looked up and I walked downstairs out to my car before you could say anything that might convince me to stay. Literally anything you said at that very moment would have convinced me to stay. Decades later I still remember you fondly. That summer gave me enough confidence to make me the man I am today. I think back to walking away from you that night, the most beautiful woman I had ever met in my life, still sticky with our sex, the smell of you all over me, never looking back. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. I can still smell you today, as if I never washed you off my skin. You don't remember me at all, and I can't seem to forget even the smallest thing. I didn't put them all here, there were so many details. Too many moments. I could write you for days and never come close to putting down everything I remember. If I could ever write anything longer than a stupid letter, maybe. But I'm no writer. I can't create worlds and personalities and universes with plots twisting and turning like the books I grew up with. I can only write a simple letter, if that. If this is all I can write, then I'm going to say that I became invincible that summer. I've never let anyone get as close to me as you did, and for that I don't know whether to hate you or thank you. | 6,217 | 1 |
Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. # You were the stubborn one. I came by that day to give you some of my time. What made it special to me, was that you appreciated my time above all else. I had so much to give that I would have given you all of it. I just wanted to show up more than anything. Showing up when someone needs it is just as important as showing up when someone wants it. Probably more important when it's needed. When you say you are going to show up, especially. When you were having bad days, I wanted to be there to give you something to smile about. That day, I brought a pain patch of all things. I knew your back hurt, so I drove the forty-three minutes to the pharmacy and picked up a box with some pain pills that you find over the counter anywhere. I drove the other seven or eight minutes to your work. We had just seen each other the day before. We spent the night together and the day before that together. And the night before that. Just you and I, exploring each other like we always did. In the beginning we spent hours exploring each other. I don't think we ever stopped that, did we? I still remember that moment in time. You said you missed me. I said we'd see each other before you know it. We had planned on meeting up in a couple days anyway, so I figured you'd take it that way. You had no idea I texted that as I pulled into the parking lot. A few minutes later, not knowing I was in the building, I asked if you were on break. You said you were just getting off break and were in the bathroom. I asked you where. You told me in your building. I could see your face trying to figure out why I was asking. I asked where again. You told me in the front of the building. I said I was there. You asked me what I was talking about. I repeated that I was there. I was giggling in the middle of the lighting aisle. I told you I brought you presents. Finally I saw you behind the desk where you work the most, your coworkers were smiling at me and your face lit up like it always does when you see me. I am sure my face lit up as I walked toward you. I wanted to dance with you in the aisle that day. I took your arm and we went to find a place to put the pain patch on your back. Then we walked around the store and looked at the tile and the molding and looked at some deck furniture. It wasn't what I would call a particularly interesting date, but it was amazing to see you so happy just because I surprised you at work. I drove home another forty-three minutes or so, stopping for gas on the way. When I got home I sat outside in the sun for an hour. It was a nice day. I notice I had a lot of nice days with you, even when we weren't together, because having you in my life seemed to make everything easier. I thought often about how I wanted to have you in my life, for the rest of my life. I thought how perfect that would be. We had known each other for such a short time, but I never questioned that I wanted that perfection in my life. That we both deserved that life together. Many happy years later, on the day your life changed, when you were unable to talk, or hold my hand, or do anything but look at me, I knew. I knew you were still in love with me as much as I was with you. We chose to spend the rest of our lives together, and at that moment, I realized that my life was still worth living so long as you could just see me. Moments before they took you in that room to fix whatever broke in your brain, I held you. I never prayed before, not even when I was a kid, but I begged the surgeon to bring you back to me as though she was a god. I suppose in a way she was. I held your hand as you cried. She told me she would do everything she could. I told her she was my best friend right now, and the most important person in the world to me- the first time anyone ever took that place in my life in years. I thanked her and told her the person I was holding was my person. My life. Please save this life. They took you away. I didn't want to let go, but I did. Something died in me that day when I let you go. Everything in my life changed that day. I was scared for the first time in years. I was numb, for the first time since before we met. I was trying to console our kids and grand kids. I wouldn't give anyone the chance to console me. I was the stoic one, you were the stubborn one. I was the one with the love of my life in that sterile room, alone with strangers, but I consoled everyone else. I never told you that. I knew you would have wanted me to allow people to console me. I'm glad I told you how much I loved you as often as I did. And I'm glad you took every moment to tell me you loved me that you could. At that moment, I knew we never wasted a moment of our lives together. | 4,817 | 1 |
The summer sun shone bright, casting its golden rays over the citrus tree that sat rooted in the backyard. Laura was sitting in the shade, allowing the breeze to brush her hair over her shoulder. Like a pesky mosquito, the small box of arsenic she’d recently bought was buzzing in her ear, refusing to leave her be. But, instead of squashing the pesky calling, she stood up from her chair and made for the citrus tree. She would have to be quick, as her husband would be home soon. She’d just gotten back from the local grocery store. Laura grabbed the necessities: milk, eggs, and a loaf of bread, but decided on a last-minute detour through the cleaning aisle. She’d hidden the small box in the trunk, treating it as if she were a squirrel. Laura hoisted herself onto her tip toes, gathering the sweet fruit from the tree. She had watched the lemons turn from green to yellow, memorizing the position of the ripe fruit on the branches. She plucked them one by one, resting the lemons in the pouch she created with her shirt. The old glass lemon juicer lived above the microwave in a small cupboard used for less frequented kitchen utensils. She reached for the juicer, her large stomach pressing against the oven. Her fingers grazed the detailed glass, and she pulled it down to herself. Various speckles plagued the thing, and it looked like it had contracted a nasty illness. It was her grandmother’s. The scalding summers of rural Alabama promised the sweet taste of fresh lemonade and was largely contributed to Laura’s motivation for such hard work on the farm. Her arms would house pink scratches from hay bales, and purple blemishes would kiss her smooth legs, but the glass juicer on the kitchen table rendered her hardships forgotten. She remembered her grandmother showing her the secrets of the utensil. “Cut the lemon in half,” she would say, “then turn the fruit on the juicer.” Laura pushed the knife into the yellow skin and listened for the delicate pop. The popping of the taught skin promised a sweet, ripe fruit for juicing. She placed the flat of the halved fruit onto the juicer and pushed down. Her grandmother had passed the heirloom onto her at the first sight of the citrus tree that resided in Laura’s backyard. For some reason, she thought that she might enjoy harming her husband in the same way. She would perhaps, like to feel the submission of his skin under a long, sharpened blade. She was curious of the skin’s resistance against the blade, wondering how much force it could take before splaying open. She wondered if his intestines would fall out of him like the seeds of a juiced lemon. Today was a rather ordinary day; nothing special at all. But something within Laura spoke to her, reached out and grabbed hold of her. She told herself that her husband was a good man, he’d just slipped up at times. After all, who hadn’t? Laura had been unable to escape the confines of the house due to the deep purple mark under her eye. But today, she was feeling better. The mark had disappeared, showing her an opportunity for a social outing once again. She decided that she would treat her husband when he came home, largely due to the day’s socialization that lifted her spirit. When she met the man she married, he had been quite striking and genuinely kind to her. Since she was a girl, she fantasized about a man that would open the door for her and save her a seat at the dinner table. Laura was young when she witnessed her grandfather punishing her grandmother and knew that she would never allow a man to lay a finger on her. But her husband had made her feel like a princess, so she declared that it was love, and she allowed him to slip a ring on her finger. She too, was punished shortly after their marriage. She hadn’t realized the excessive force she unfairly placed on the lemon until the skin tore through, stabbing the palm of her hand. She picked the stray pieces of the skin from the liquid, knowing what her grandmother would say. Her grandmother would’ve used a small strainer to remove the pulp, seeds, and other various parts of the lemon from the delicious juice, saying something about germs and dirty fingers. She began juicing the remaining lemons that sat in front of her, her arm tiring from the downward force. A cramp was forming in her hand, but a larger one had already formed in her jaw from gnashing her teeth against each other. A small bead of sweat formed on her hairline. She was six months pregnant, but she was barely showing. Her doctors told her that she was carrying a healthy baby boy, and she didn’t mind the three remaining months before birth. Some women don’t enjoy pregnancy, but she felt a sense of purpose and responsibility to her life again. She had always wanted to be a mother, but her husband felt different. Before they had married, they discussed children, and he knew that she wanted miniature copies of themselves. But, somewhere along the lines, his feelings toward children changed, and she knew her lifelong dream had boiled down to nothing. But some months ago, after her husband came home smelling of liquor, he held her down and gave her the child she had always wanted. She told herself that it was a blessing in disguise, refusing to acknowledge the horror of the circumstances of her motherhood. “Marriage can be tough,” her grandmother told her when she mentioned her marital hardships. Laura and her grandmother understood each other, quietly knowing their shared experiences, but never discussing them openly. Still, Laura felt guilty for sharing her husband’s mishaps, feeling as if she had done undesirable things in her lifetime as well. She decided against telling her grandmother about her grandchild. That night, she knew she would never allow her husband to touch her beloved son. Laura loved the unborn child with all of herself, but she was unwilling to share the human growing inside of her. She knew that a man that would beat his wife would surely beat his children, but she also knew that she wouldn’t give him the opportunity to lay a hand on him. “Give and take,” her grandmother said, looking down at the floor. “Marriage is a game of give and take.” “I know,” Laura said, kissing her the elderly woman on the cheek before returning home to the man she married. She dumped the juice from the small bowl into a larger pitcher. The best lemonade didn’t come from a recipe, but from a best guess and a knowing hand. Laura filled the pitcher halfway with tap water, pouring the concentrate in afterward. She plunged a large white spoon into the opaque liquid, stirring to create a whirlpool. Digging her fingers under the fabric of the trunk mat, she revealed the box of poison, and tucked it into her apron to conceal it. She was alone, but the possession of the small box made her feel like a high-grade criminal. Back inside, she lifted the bag of white sugar to the pitcher and tapped lightly on its backside. Delicate streams of sugar landed in the liquid, slowly drowning in the sea of yellow that surrounded it. She forced her thumb into the side of the cardboard box and sprinkled the poison into the juice. The spoon once again created a whirlpool in the liquid, and she snapped the red lid on the container, content with herself and her decision. \*\*\* Her husband strode through the door, dropping his weathered briefcase a few steps in. Removing his heavy jacket exposed his sweat-soaked oxford from the day’s heat. He loosened his tie and gave his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek, saying nothing. He pushed the coat into his unborn son and headed toward stairs for a shower. She took the briefcase to his office and tucked the jacket away to be cleaned. She assumed it had drunken in some of the sweat from the oversaturated oxford. She took the lemonade from the fridge, excited for the tasting of the sweet concoction. Laura grabbed for the house phone that sat in its cradle under the microwave and pushed her fingers into the buttons. She silently pleaded with it, tucking the cord under her arm. “Hunny?” her husband said, standing behind her. She felt her face turn ghastly, and the blood in her veins froze over. *Shit,* she thought to herself. Trying her best to remain nonchalant, she tucked the phone back into its cradle, praying that her husband didn’t catch her whispered conversation. “Yes?” she said with an adorable smile, a glass of lemonade in her hand. *Please, please, please, please,* she begged to herself. She couldn’t tell whether she’d been caught, but she knew that she would reap the consequences either way. She thought her pregnancy would save her from his lashings, but he punished her all the same. “Is that for me?” he asked her, forcing the glass from her hand. Her pink lips spread wide across her face. She hadn’t planned for this, but she would be happy with either outcome. The sweet smile remained on her face, and she suddenly hoped that he would tip the glass back, dumping poison down his gullet. But instead, he scoffed at it, forcing the liquid back at her and causing the spilled drink to dribble down her apron. “I don’t like lemonade, hunny. You know that,” he said with a smirk on his face, but a threatening edge to his voice. “Oh,” she managed, knowing well that he hated lemonade. “I just thought I’d make you something sweet after a long day of work.” “Thank you,” he said. “But I want you to drink it for me.” She gulped and felt the blood run from her face once more. *This is it*, she thought to herself. Drinking the liquid meant taking her life, but it had been part of her plan. If she drank the liquid, she would need emergency medical attention. If she drank the liquid, it would mean the end of her life. But, if she drank the liquid, her husband would never lay a finger on her son. “Drink it,” he snapped at her, some spittle landing on her cheek. His face had grown slightly red. She anticipated his familiar rough palms on her neck. His dirty fingernails would dig into the thin flesh of her neck, drawing blood, and leaving small pink microtears along her skin. Her skull would knock against the wall, and her breath would escape from her lips as it had many times before. She tipped the glass back, feeling the cold liquid resting in her mouth. A sense of freedom washed over her, and she felt lighter in her skin. The lemonade tasted like the yellow gold her grandmother produced on the farm when she was a child. It tasted smooth, the sugar and arsenic particles homogeneous in the liquid, no grit sticking to her teeth. She threw the glass back swiftly, allowing the remaining liquid to pour down her throat. Nervous, Laura poured another glass. She was still standing, not even a hint of a quiver in her legs. She cursed herself for not having a heavier hand while spiking the drink and feared that she made a fool of herself. She poured herself another glass, washing it down quicker than the last. Each gulp of the opaque liquid meant a sweet escape. Each glass meant that her son would be safe with her forever, and she tossed the liquid back, warm with the thought. She fell to the floor, feeling her body suddenly fail under her weight. She laid there, staring up at the man she’d hoped would love her forever. Staring into his eyes, she saw the panic that she’d waited so long to witness. Maybe he would care about her this time. The faint sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, and Laura knew her plan had worked. She felt the poison tearing through her body, destroying her life with each new organ the liquid contacted. With her last bit of strength, she reached for her son, rubbing her stomach while a small tear escaped her eye. She could hear the police banging at the door, threatening to bust it down. But they had been too late. Laura felt herself growing increasingly incoherent with each passing second. A small smile found her lips before she left her husband, content with a job well done. The briefcase remained on his desk, one of the buckles unlatched, begging to be investigated. She made sure the hardware was coated with the sticky yellow residue, but she was sure to leave signs of herself absent. Nestled gingerly inside the case was the box of arsenic. | 12,274 | 2 |
The man in the black suit and tie opened the front door of The New York News main building in Manhattan, New York and walked in. Mark was his name and he walked briskly through the building to his cubical. He passed by some of his coworkers as they typed away at their computers and talked back and forth, some with lower voices and some with high voices, and sipped coffee. He felt as if he didn't have time for small talk. He walked through the the building and into the office room and sat down at his cubical. They wanted him to write stories about mundane life, which he found to be boring. A few were on the attractions of New York, which he didn't mind writing. One was about a riot, which he didn't want to write about. This new story was about looters, and he didn't want to write about that either. Lately, he had been obsessed with a meadow that he had passed by a few times on his way to work, Raminton Meadow. As he had passed by it those few times, he felt as if he was being drawn to it. He planned on writing some more of the story that his boss had him write right now, then he would drive back over there. He typed on his computer as people typed on theirs. There was busy sounds of them hitting the keys, papers rustling, phones ringing, and people talking back and forth. His boss walked by, a middle aged man with short dark brown hair, a nice black shit and walking with a stride. “Make sure that story is done by tomorrow,” he said to Mark as he walked by. “Make sure I have you're story later this evening,” he said to another man as he pointed at him as he was walking. Mark typed away. There was a report about looters that had broken into a TV store with a brick and they had stolen two high end flatscreens. He wrote the story with interesting narration and typed as much of it as he could before his fingers seemed to hurt, then he got stuck. He sat there looking at the text on the screen, After a moment, he reclined back in his chair and thought for a moment. He looked around the room, then back at the screen. After that, he stood up and thought about taking a nice walk, but he couldn't do that,. He looked at the computer screen and checked the time. The day for him had just gotten started.. This was going to be a long day for him. When his work was over, he clocked out and got in his car and drove on that road again. It was later in the day, about 5:00 PM, and he drove down to the meadow again. When he had gotten to it and had seen the green grass and the rolling hills in the background, he slowed down and stopped his car and got out. Standing there, he looked at the green grass that seemed to sway in the soft wind, and the sky was blue and cloudy. He stood there and he felt drawn to it. He walked forward and into it. He had heard from some people around there that the meadow seemed creepy to some people. One older woman had said that. One older man had said that he had heard something rustling around there, and another woman had said that she had seen somekind of black shape move over there. He walked forward and let the blowing green grass caress him as he did so. He could hear the sound of the soft wind, the rustling of the trees, and the sway of the grass. It felt peaceful, but he knew that something was off. He felt the feeling of serene peacefulness, and at the same time of darkness. This place had something dark and evil in it. He looked around and saw that the meadow went for a far distance with its rolling hills. He had only advanced a short distance the first time that he was there, then a little further the next couple of times. He walked forward and thought about things. He thought about how beautiful the place was, and about his life. He thought about the nature trails that had had been to before, during the Fall season. Those places were good to go to and to take a walk there but they were not this place. That didn't draw you in like this place. He thought about his life. He thought about times when he had went to football games with his friends. He liked to see the Packers take on other teams. He remembered other times when they had went to the movies, and about past girlfriends that he had. No relationship that he was in had ever worked for him, but he had tried, that is what mattered. His mid shifted back to the meadow. He turned around and looked behind himself. He had traveled quite a distance. Surely he hadn't traveled that far, he thought to himself. He stood there a moment and thought. Surely he had had to walk a little further. He walked some more and he was aware that black clouds had rolled in. He thought that he had better get back to the car before it rains and so he did and drove home. The next day at work seemed to go by pretty fast. He was in a good, joyful mood for some reason. He typed away at his computer all day. That night, he had a nightmare. In it, he was walking somewhere in the moonlit night. He was walking through the meadow again. Infront of him was the bright full moon and the light shined down and reflected on the weeds as they swayed in the wind. He kept walking forward slowly. It seemed as if he was walking in slow motion. He was aware of something. In the dream, an old woman had told him about what was in that field. She had said that it had been something ancient, something evil. The wind blowed and he was aware of something. She had called it Absothoth. The Gatekeeper. He was aware of some presence. He didn't know how he knew, but he felt as if he just knew things about the place. The presence was there somewhere in the distance. He walked forward along the rolling hills. Something caught his eye. It looked like a shadow had blocked the moonlight for a moment. He looked up and there was nothing there. Then it looked like a shadow had blocked it again then again after that. He looked up and saw something. It looked black, pitch black. It was huge. It looked like a long arm coming down out of the sky, and it was attached to a skinny black body with other large limbs, and there was something arching out of its back. Whatever it was, this being was beyond evil. It meant to do evil to the Universe. He woke up in the night and he was covered in sweat. He was at work that day and he was kind of on edge for a while. He was trying to forget about the nightmare while he was working and typing up his story. He hated how the news company that he was working at didn't seem to care sometimes. He new that they cared of course. He shrugged off the memories of the dream while he drank his coffee and worked. He must of worked a little extra hard because he felt kind of tired after his shift was over. He drove home and opened the door. He looked at the living room when the light poured in from outside as the door slowly creaked opened. The place was dark and it felt empty, but the moonlight eliminated it. Mark stood there and still looked for a moment. He then walked in and turned the lights on and closed the door behind him and locked it. That night he laid there in bed and let the moonlight soak the room with its presence. He thought for a while about life. He had had a decent one. He had had only so many jobs in his life, and they were office jobs. He liked this one a lot, though. It felt as if it gave him more purpose. Past girlfriends were a mediocre experience for him. He had only been with a few really attractive ones but they had bitched way too much. Maybe he was better alone but maybe he wasn't. That meadow though, that was different. That gave him a different kind of feeling. He felt like he had to go back and go a little further, and a little further. There was something to it. There was something there. It was something ancient. It was something evil. He laid there in the night and thought a little while longer and then he went to sleep. The next day, he was at work and his boss was ordering people around and being a dick. He must of not been in a good mood. “Mark, I want those pages on my desk by three, you got ,me?” “Yeah. They will be,” Mark replied. He already had most of the article written and was just working on little here and there. Maybe the boss's wife had been bitchy earlier that day. Who knows what was going on. He worked a little more, then joked with one of his coworkers a little, and worked some more. Later that day, at around 6:00 PM, he went to the meadow again. It was foggy and overcast with gray clouds,. He walked forward a ways and looked ahead of him. The weeds swayed I the wind again as he walked. He had to get a little further down the meadow. He had to this time. He walked for a while up and down the soft hills and he might of gotten lost as he did. The sky seemed to get darker. That was strange. When he would go here, the sky seemed to get darker faster. He must of lost track of time or gotten lost because he seemed to lose track of things. He stopped for a moment and got his bearings. He had definitely traveled more in the meadow than the last times that he was here. The soft hills of it where he was at suggested that the meadow was larger than he had thought and it seemed to go into a large decline and extend into a wider area. He thought for a moment and walked further. He felt as if something had to be there. That was the place where the thing was. That was where the ancient evil was. Absothoth. The Gatekeeper. He advanced down the area and when he had gotten almost to the end, he saw that it extended further down into a large depressed area of the meadow. This was the central spot, untouched by man. When had had seen it, he thought that it had been untouched by man for countless centuries. Whatever beings were there had been there for millions of years. This had to be the place where Absothoth lived. Where the ancient evil lived. Mark didn't believe in the stories. He was an Atheist. There couldn't possibly be an ancient supernatural being here. They were were just stories that people had come up with because they had been spooked. The land gave off an eerie tone and a sinister nature, he noted, but he thought that that was just because it was unknown. He had that thought though, that uncertainty. That uncertainty in his belief that it was not supernatural. It made him think and question weather there was a supernatural momentarily sometimes. He walked forward a little more and he wanted to see more, to know more. He walked some more, but before he could go any further, he saw something that caught his eye. It was a shadow that seemed to block some of the light coming from the sky. He looked at where it might of come from. He saw it again. There a long black shadow tat looked almost like an arm. Then he saw it again. There was a huge long arm that came down out of the sky and it was attached to a body. He was frozen in fear. Whatever it was, it had a large body, long legs, and really long arms that touched the ground a long distance away from it. There was also something on its back. It looked bony, and it seemed to protrude out of creature's back in a long arch. The whole thing was black and hard to make out, and the faint light wrapped around it and shadows came off it in beams. Whatever it was, it was massive and it was here with a purpose.Mark seemed to get unstuck and he caught his breath and turned around and ran. A few days later after work, he had built up enough courage to go back to the meadow. He had to go back. He drove over there again and went throuigh all the hills and down into the depressed area, then into the huge open area at the bottom. He stood there and looked over the scene. This place had extended for quite a ways into a massive circle. He knew that it housed the ancient evil. He walked down into it a little ways and then stopped and looked down into it. There it was. The huge, massive black thing that stood many feet into the air. Absothoth. The Gatekeeper. The ancient evil. The black shadowy thing was moving forward towards him. Its black body that was enshrouded in shadow came into view. It had a huge body that was very dark and almost black and it was covering in writhing worms. He could almost hear them. The long, thin arms extended outwards and touched the ground a long distance ahead of it, and the legs were giant stilts. It was hard to make out if the face had eyes or not, but he believed that it did. The large spiny things coming out of its back extended out quite a ways from its body and stretched out and formed an arch. The thing walked toward him slowly, though it covered a long distance. He looked up and saw that the sky had turned into a dark cloudy purple in the direction of the thing, The whole scene looked beautiful but it felt bad. Mark stood there and was frozen in fear. Absothoth walked forward and he seemed to lean forward slightly and do something with the bony arch. The arch seemed to do something or activate something. The sky changed and a purplish portal opened up behind the creature and Mark could see into it. It was hard to make out. He didn't know what it was. It looked like the vastness of space and the stars among the purple of the sky. Then there were things that came through. They looked like giant insects with strange heads that looked like mushrooms, and they had bat wings. They came through the portal and into the meadow, and they came from the sky too. There were other beings that came through too. They looked almost human but they were very slender. They had no faces and horns on their heads and they had bat wings. They came out of the portal and down from the sky, too. He saw other things as well. They seemed to just appear, as if they had been just floating there in the air just behind our realm of perception. They looked like blue jellyfish, lots of them, just floating there slowly in the air. He couldn't process this. He felt very strange. Like he was losing his mind. He saw some other things as well. They looked like more flying insects. He turned around and kind of half screamed and ran. He ran away from the scene as fast as he could. | 14,110 | 1 |
“You don’t have to do this you know,” King Robert said as he was staring at Jake’s shield. To this, his brother Jake only smiled as he slid his sword into its scabbard. “And spend another few weeks rotting in this place so far from home? Be reasonable Rob if I’m going to die I’d rather it be with sword in hand than an arrow in the back”. Just weeks ago the idea of a duel being fought to decide the fate of a war seemed like insanity. But as the bodies began to pile up and the days dragged to weeks Jake’s proposal seemed the most logical kind. “Some men were just made to wield a sword,” Robert thought to himself as he studied his brother’s shield. “And men like me were made to wear a crown.” It was then that the tent door flapped open and Robert’s master of arms Sir Nathan stepped in. “They’ve raised the red banner, Your grace.” “Good” Jake answered for his brother as he took up his helm and slid it onto his head. “If they had us here waiting any longer I’d rather them change their banners from Staggs to chickens.” Robert studied his brother's shield for a moment longer. It was a black wolf painted on a red field. A coat of arms he picked for himself and while he wasn’t a fan of it, it certainly represented him. Jake then walked over to his brother and Robert thrusted the shield to him and nodded. “Strike hard and true then. The last thing I want to do is bury one more brother.” Jake nodded his head and strapped the shield to his arm. “Don’t worry Rob.. I’d never disappoint you like I did our old man”. Rob nodded back and the two men left the tent. The camp came to life at the sight of their King and Robert’s men began cheering as their banners danced in the wind. At the edge of the camp was a field dividing their realm from the bloody gates of the castle where many soldiers on both sides had fallen. Jake however paid no mind as he squared his shoulders and shouted at his enemies upon the ramparts. “Well, Cmon then! We haven’t got all day!” A roar of laughter ripped through Robert’s men but the King himself was unmoved. After a moment the gates opened and a behemoth of a man clad in chainmail with a set of antlers decorating his massive helmet stepped forth onto the field with greatsword in hand. The largest that Robert had ever seen. Robert leaned to his master at arms and whispered. “What do they call that monster anyway?” Sir Nathan whispered back. “His name is Arthur Godwin your Grace. But he’s known to many of our men as Bone breaker”. A queer smile appeared on Jake’s face as he looked the knight up and down. “Tell you what big man. If you and all of your lackeys bend the knee to my brother, I can convince him to get you a professional job giving my niece piggyback rides. Sound fair?” Bone breaker did not laugh however and gave the first blow when he cleaved his massive greatsword into Jake’s shield which forced him into the ground. Robert’s eyes followed his brother as he rolled on the ground to avoid his opponent's next blow and got up in turn and shouted. “Alright fair enough. Perhaps a more dignified job being my squire then? I’m going to need some help cleaning my armor when I put your entire garrison to the sword!” Again Bonebreaker hacked at him with his great sword and again Jake spun away unharmed. “He’s trying to fire him out”. Sir Nathan said with a smile on his lips. “He’s trying to tire him out before he commits to a real fight”. Robert paid his master at arms no mind and continued to stare at his brave but foolish brother. “Fair enough then. My final offer as a fellow knight is I’ll let you walk out of here. All you have to do is take only your sword”. Bone breaker lurched forward and metal struck metal as Jake deflected his blow and bashed him with a shield and forced him to the ground. Robert’s army once again cheered while the castle garrison remained silent as they stood with their bows upon the ramparts. Jake then began tossing his sword in the air to amuse his spectators and glanced straight at Robert and raised his sword once again as he walked towards his opponent. “Told ya I wouldn’t let you down!” It was just then Bone Breaker left his sword on the ground as he punched Jake’s shield. Jake hacked at his arm and blood splashed to the ground but to his horror Bone Breaker only howled and began to punch at his shield over and over again as Jake gave more ground to him until the shield broke and he fell to the ground with a thud. Robert lurched forward and shouted “Enough of this! The duel is over!” Robert tried to grab his sword but his master at arms stopped him. “You know the rules your Grace. It’s not over until a man dies”. Robert then looked back and saw Jake slashing at Bone Breaker's chest before he ripped his sword from him and tossed it into the mud. He then proceeded to sit on his chest and beat him severely with every blow splashing his fist with warm blood. But just as he raised his fist on the fourth time Jake drew a dagger from his side and slashed it into his neck and Bone Breaker’s massive corpse fell on top of him. Robert’s army then fell silent at the sight of their fallen champion until he shoved Bone Breaker’s massive corpse off of him and they came to life. Though badly bruised and beaten Jake grabbed his sword and raised it towards his brother “The castle is yours, your grace!” Robert couldn’t help but smile after seeing his baby brother alive and well. But his smile only lasted for a moment when an arrow slid into Jake’s back and blood dribbled to the ground and he fell like a rock. The following battle was bloody and quick. Robert enacted his revenge within an hour as every man from the garrison fell even after they raised the white flag. As for Robert himself it is written he won a great victory. And was dealt a horrible defeat. | 5,853 | 1 |
Hope you enjoy! Win The Tailor’s Coat He was a tailor in a world that didn’t want or particularly need tailors. Even worse, he had been a tailor for over forty years and remembered the time when people actually wanted a custom tailored suit of clothes. He would make suits for the business men. He made suits for kids graduating high school. These days, most of his work involved letting out pants for people who needed to go to a funeral but they had gotten fatter since the last time they wore them. He had sold his store; he would move to Florida and take it easy. He had found a place where they played canasta every Thursday night. He loved canasta. He would move there and plant a little garden and play canasta. He stopped at the store one last time. He had already handed the keys over to the new owners. He would make one last coat before leaving. He would make a fine and sturdy coat, maybe the best coat of his career. Maybe the most important coat of his career. The new owners were planning on gutting the place and putting in a Chipotle, they wouldn’t mind him using the store one last time. He got to work taking the dust covers off of the machines. He would need a sturdy fabric for his coat so, selecting from the inventory in the back room, he found a bolt of worsted tweed. That would make a good start. He searched further and found some nylon thread. He would need lots of different colors of the thread to match the tweed. He gathered up his materials and headed to the sewing room. He moved with the precision and deftness of an expert craftsman at the peak of his powers. He interwove the nylon into the tweed making a strong fabric even stronger. This was his mas-terpiece, it needed to be strong. He cut the pieces he would need of the wool and nylon raw material with surgeon like accuracy. He knew the dimensions by heart, this coat was to fit himself. He double and triple stitched the seams and reinforced where necessary and prudent. He would not give up on style and comfort, though, no good tailor would. The lining must come out easily he thought. He sewed in a zipper system to help with its re-moval. The lining was just as important as the rest, he knew. His masterpiece must be as close to perfect as he could get. It was the last coat he would make, it was the most important coat he would make. He worked late into the night cutting, stitching, reworking. Finally, he paused and considered his handiwork. It was good. He tried the coat on and looked at himself in the mirror. What he saw was a man of years with wrinkled skin, a wrinkle for every trial. He admired the coat, it was of exceptional construction. The coat fit his body like no store bought coat could ever do. The coat was stylish, it would not be out of place anywhere. He could wear this coat to Buckingham Palace he mused. He knew who would appreciate his creation. There were some folks downtown, he would visit them; they would appreciate the skill and craftsmanship. He buttoned his coat to guard against the winter chill outside and with one last long look at the store, he locked the door and left there forever. The trip downtown wasn’t long. This time of night most folks were warm and safe in their beds, traffic was light. He pulled up to his destination and seeing no obstacle parked his car at the head of the alley. He pulled the collar of the coat tight and walked in the cold night air to the hotel around the corner. The night clerk at the hotel was a short balding fat man. He wore a tired old t-shirt that was frayed at the arms and neck. The shirt looked and smelled like it had been awhile since it had been laundered. The man chewed an unlit cigar. He looked up from his cell phone when he heard him come in. “Hi Bub. Looking for a room?” The man had an eastern European accent. The old man considered his response and finally said. “That girl named Tabitha still here?” The cigar chewing clerk eyed the old man up and down. He was suspicious, he had never seen him before. “You cop?” The odious homunculus asked. The old man laughed. “No.” He would have to win over this turd on the shoe of life. “I’m willing to pay for what I want.” He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off a one hun-dred dollar bill and handed it to the man. “She have too much party. Very groggy.” The man took the money. He was unsure if the old guy would want it back after he said that. “That’s no problem.” He wanted this particular girl. “How much?” The man in the t-shirt rubbed his unshaven face and folding his hands outward said. “$300, one half hour.” “How much for one hour?” The old man started pulling bills from his roll. “For you bro, $500” The old man paid the man his money and the short fat man led him up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs a group of four men were playing cards and drinking. They were hunched over their cards not say-ing much. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over their heads. What they did say, they said in a foreign language he didn’t under-stand. It seemed congruent with the eastern European impression he got from his front desk clerk ‘friend’. They climbed a second staircase and walking down a nar-row hallway, scented in perfume and stale cigarette smoke, they arrived at their destination. The short fat man opened the door. He entered to find his purchase passed out on the bed. He nodded assent to the fat man and shut the door. The girl on the bed was much skinnier than the last time he had seen her. Her skin was pale and almost gray. He had heard that they hook the girls on drugs to lower their sense of morality and keep them incentivized to keep working for them. He as-sumed that was why she was sleeping. Her face was painted with too much makeup and her lipstick had smeared across her cheek. The old man fought back his emotions, he had work to do. He pulled a cover off of the bed and, folding it, placed it across the floor in front of the door. He didn’t want any unwanted attention to come from his activity. He took off his coat and un-zipped the lining. He placed the lining on the bed. He then lay the coat on the floor. Searching the coat he found the two threads he had left strategically dangling. He pulled the threads and when the threads had finally wormed their way out from the coat, his beautiful coat lay in rags on the floor. Quickly, he took the two ropes that had previously been the coat arms and tied them around the radiator sitting by the window. First opening the window, he then threw the rest of the coat out into the night air. What had previously been his beautiful coat now took shape as a tweed and nylon lad-der. He looked out of the window. It was long enough. He had worried it might not be. He turned his attention back to the lining. He had sewed a double harness into the lining. Working as fast as he could, he buckled the girl into one half of the harnesses. Lifting with all of his strength, he got the girl on his back and fastened his side of the harness. Now for the ladder. He slowly and methodically inched himself and his cargo over the window sill and onto the ersatz ladder. The going was slow, he would have had trouble doing this alone but having the extra weight of the girl made it excruciating. The motion of the ladder scraped his hands against the bricks that covered the build-ing, causing blood to flow. The viscosity of the blood did nothing to help him maintain his grip. He pressed on. Slowly and slowly, inch by inch, the old man descended from the hell with which the girl had been living. The cold night air was beginning to revive his sleeping baggage. She was moan-ing something he couldn’t make out. “Don’t worry tabby cat. Grandpa’s got you.” That seemed to quiet the girl. Down and down and finally they made the ground. He turned his attention to the alley now. There it was, his car. The two made their way there. He placed the girl on the back seat and wrapped her in a blanket he had stashed there. Climbing into the driver’s seat he fired the engine to life and made his way out of town. They had made reservations for the girl at a rehab hospital 18 hours away that would afford them anonymity from her cap-tors. She would have a new start there. He would drive all night and most of the day. He reached in the glove box for his phone. He dialed his daughter’s number. “She’s safe.” He knew the crying on the other end was a good thing. He could enjoy his retirement in peace now. He thought about what vegetables he would grow. Tomatoes for sure. He was excited to play the canasta. | 8,832 | 1 |
“Deadly Attractor” () by P. Orin Zack [2003] Chapter Three … Saturday … Frank arrived at the Kübler-Ross Hospice staff lounge before Healer Gutiérez the next morning, so he made himself a drink and got back to his book. A few pages later, he was interrupted by a quiet voice in his left ear. “Let me know when you reach a convenient break point.” He craned around for a look. Healer Gutiérez had an oddly androgynous appearance, even more so than in the still he’d seen. “Where do you want to do this? She shrugged. “We can start here, then see where we end up.” He motioned for her to take the seat opposite. “How shall we start?” “Tell me what you’ve been doing so far, and how it’s been working for you.” Frank sat back. “Well,” he said, “after the first few attacks, it was obvious that I couldn’t be a very effective Healer if I had to keep stopping in the midst of a session. I talked it over with Jerry, and we decided to see what we could learn about it.” She raised a finger. “How is he, by the way?” “Improving.” He nodded. “I dropped over to East-Side MedCenter last night for a visit. He’s stable. They’re reinforcing his immune system to counteract the agents used to clear out the poisons that got in through the wound. The nerves in his leg are responding to the knitting factor, and they loaded him up with nanobots to repair the bones that were shattered.” “Go on.” Frank rubbed his neck briefly. “Well, it seemed that there were similarities in the attacks I’d had until then, so we chose to focus on that to start. It had a tempo to it. Although the specific locations of the pain were different, it did tend to express itself in a repeatable way. I’d have an arpeggio of pain dancing in my right leg, for example. Then it would pause for an instant and do something similar in my left. The pattern was the same during each attack. It followed a complex sequence, then repeated at a higher intensity and greater speed.” She waited as he paused to take a drink. “Past a certain point, of course, I couldn’t resolve the components of the pattern any longer, and it just felt like a cloak of pulsating agony.” “Okay,” she said, “so what did you do then?” “Jerry shadowed me for a week. Some of my patients weren’t too happy with that. Fortunately, he had an opportunity to watch my energy field during an attack before we had to stop. As we’d suspected, my energy field was distorting as well. Since there’s a reciprocal balance of causality between physical and energy systems, we tried an experiment. We’d established the timing of the pattern by then, so we spent some time developing an energy pattern that would precisely offset the thing. The theory was that if we could cancel out the energy effects of the thing, it wouldn’t be able to reinforce itself, and would therefore fade out instead of getting stronger.” “An interesting approach,” she said after a while. “How did it work?” He shrugged. “At first, it seemed to do the trick. I went for a few months like that, but then the pattern began to mutate, and our counter pattern didn’t synch to it any longer.” Healer Gutiérez cocked her head for a moment. “Do you have any idea why it did that?” “Not really. In any case, we attempted to adjust the pattern, but all we succeeded in doing was to create a catalog of patterns, and I had to quickly pick the right one to use before it was too late. That brings us up to the incident at the courthouse.” She sat silently for several minutes, her eyes darting about in physical reflection of the leaps among associated memories and ideas as she thought. Frank was reluctant to interrupt. Finally, she blinked a few times and looked down at her drink. Frank spread his fingers on the table. “You said you had an idea?” “Yes. It’s something that I’ve used for another purpose, but I believe that it would be effective in this situation as well.” She moistened her lips. “You may not want to risk it, though.” He shook his head in confusion. “Why not? What is it?” “Call it an active thought-form. Take the solution that you’d crafted, and give it a rudimentary intelligence. Make it want to balance out the chaos of an attack, and set it loose.” Frank just stared at her. She visibly drooped. “What?” “You… you want to create an Elemental?” She shrugged. “There are lots of names for them. What you call it really depends on your culture. Most of the names come with a big helping of emotional and religious baggage, though. They’re neither good nor evil in and of themselves, of course. I’m just suggesting that there’s a healthy use for one, that’s all.” “And you’ve done this before?” “Sure. Look, if this is going to be a problem for you, we don’t have to—” Frank waved his hands in the air. “No, no. It’s not a problem. Just very surprising, that’s all. I’m curious, though. Have you had any trouble with these things after you created them? From what I know of them, they have a tendency to take on a life of their own after a while.” “So we’ll keep an eye on it. We can always destroy it if—” “Destroy it?” he countered. “Sure,” she said flatly. “Why not?” “Because once you create life, you must honor it. Like a baby. If your son misbehaved, would you kill him? Surely there’s another way.” “Such as?” she said. “Such as finding a new task for it. Such as helping it.” Healer Gutiérez was silent for moment. She crossed her arms and considered the situation. At length, she nodded in agreement. “All right. If the thought-form gets out of control, we abandon the effort, and you do whatever is appropriate. Will that work?” “Yes. How do we start?” The lounge had begun to fill up by this time, so they adjourned to Frank’s office area and arranged to not be disturbed for a while. Soon enough, they were settled into what passed for comfort in Kübler-Ross. Frank was stretched out on the cot he kept in a corner for emergencies, and Healer Gutiérez was facing him in the comfy chair. She dimmed the lights, told him to relax, and started to talk him into a light trance. “We’ll begin this much as you started the earlier process, Frank, by putting you into the moment when one of your attacks began. Cast back in your memory to an incident in which you were aware of what was happening from the very beginning. When you’ve found one, imagine that you have complete control over the passage of time, and pause the event just at the moment it begins. Now imagine that you also have complete control over the intensity of the experience, and turn it down so that you cannot be harmed by it. Let me know when you’re ready.” Frank’s breathing was slow and even at first. Soon, it caught for a moment, and resumed a bit shallower than it had been. He nodded subtly. “Okay,” Healer Gutiérez said quietly. “Now I want you to visualize your energy field as it appears when you are happy, healthy and well rested. This is the state that your new energy partner will want to achieve when it’s playing in your field, the state that you want it to return to when you’re having an attack.” While Frank silently worked on that, she opened her palms towards him and moved them slightly as she reached out with her psychic sensitivity and familiarized herself with the feel of the energy flowing through his aura as it surrounded his physical body. Doing this, she learned what his resting field felt like. For their strategy to succeed, however, his imagined aural state had to be substantially the same. The only way for her to know if that were so would be to link with him and experience his imagined field as well. Then she could compare the two, and guide his progress. She closed her eyes and took a few long, deep breaths. Focusing on the gentle psychic sensation of his energy field, she reached deeper and felt for the core of the interwoven pattern of consciousness. This was different for each person, and reflected the way they understood and interacted with the world. Frank would be doing a similar linkage with the witnesses in court, but they would be fully awake and distracted by the proceedings. Here, it would be possible for Frank to feel her presence as well. Frank felt as though he was floating in a warm enveloping cocoon of dream. His physical senses were muted by the trance, and his mind was focused on the moment before an incident, imagining what his normal healthy aural field was like. In this state, time had no meaning, and a part of him wondered if he could reach through to the DreamTime from here. Healer Gutiérez now adjusted her awareness slightly, so she could compare her experience of his cocoon with her direct psychic sensation of it. It was a difficult balance to maintain, one that could easily be used for other purposes in guided meditation, but without someone to help keep her poised on that balance, she had her figurative hands full. It seemed as though Frank’s visualization was distorted in a way, much like a person’s own recorded voice sounded different from the real thing, a bit tinny and weak, but substantially the same. Satisfied that they could begin, she withdrew from the link and resumed monitoring his actual field. “Okay, Frank,” she said quietly. “Now we can begin creating your new thought-form partner. Are you ready to continue?” When she saw him nod again, she smiled and took a long breath. “Imagine now that within your aura is a living energy being, a sprite that stays with you and wants to keep you healthy. It spreads throughout your entire field, and has the ability to affect how easily energy flows through you and around you. This sprite is a helper, a being whose happiness is dependent on your own. When your energy field is threatened, it acts like an energy version of your immune system and swings into action to make things right again. At the moment, your field is healthy, and the sprite is at rest. When you’re ready, we’ll show it how to help you.” Frank’s breath deepened again, and a gentle smile crossed his face. Then he nodded. “Good,” she said. “Now start playing back the incident we’ve queued up, and stop it once you have the first spray of pain.” While she watched, Frank’s field puckered down the outside of his right leg, then stopped changing. He’d entered the first stage of the attack in a safe and controlled way. Everything was going fine. “Okay, Frank,” she said. “Show the sprite where the problem is. You can do this by stroking it towards the area on your leg.” While she watched, a flow within his field began to gather over the affected area until the pucker was filled with the sprite. “Play the incident a bit further, and do the same thing again.” This time, a pucker appeared along the back of his left leg, then filled in. Frank repeated the process several more times before she suggested that he stop for a while. At her suggestion, he then restarted the sequence, and played through the same part of the attack in a single slow pass, but this time, with his pain control adjusted high enough to know how the sprite was affecting that as well. While she watched, his aura slowly ebbed and flowed as first the remembered attack and then the sprite affected each area in turn. When it was finished, she asked whether he’d felt pain. He shook his head. “No pain this time,” he whispered. With that aspect confirmed, they restarted the sequence yet again, but this time he let it run at normal speed. The sprite seemed to have learned its task. Satisfied, Healer Gutiérez brought Frank back out of his light trance state, and asked him to sit up. “I think it worked,” he said happily. “Maybe,” she cautioned. The real test is the next time you have an attack. … Monday … Publicity about the impending court case was hard to ignore that weekend. It had been a while since the last great public scandal, and such things had a way of creating their own social weather. You could almost see the clouds of controversy starting to obscure the sky as diverse topics got drawn towards the developing squall, and bits of the story soaked into the communal consciousness. Start a discussion of just about anything, and it would find a way to involve medical politics. Frank followed three others into the groundcar that left his residential cabstop that morning, and eavesdropped on them as he watched the city slide past. The first time their discussion found its way to the case he was reporting to, they all paused briefly before making an abrupt conversational left turn to escape its pull. The second time, they looked at one another anxiously, then shrugged and drove headlong into the storm. Not that there was anything new about the situation, of course. In the hundred or so years since the Global Directorate had reunited the world, interregional conflicts over randomized environmental assets had given way to managed transnational economies. It didn’t hurt that one of the first things this latest successor to the League of Nations had done was challenge the world to plant a colony beyond our own sun’s planets. Audacious goals, even before the first moon landing, had served to focus the public’s attention beyond their own immediate problems, and this one was no different. Lately, however, it seemed that the only things worthy of that sort of attention were contrived, but it wasn’t clear what that might mean. A crowd was already gathering outside the courthouse when Frank’s ride swung past on its autonomous way to the closest available cabstop. High-profile events, such as the class-action suit he’d been called about, usually drew a diverse following, in addition to those people who actually had a reason to attend. It wasn’t really necessary for the curious to travel to L.A., though, unless they wanted a chance to glimpse people they didn’t recognize on their way to explain things they weren’t interested in. More likely, they simply wanted a bit of chaos in their lives. Public gatherings never really got out of hand, but for some, even the possibility was enough. As Frank approached the courthouse steps, he watched the swarm of people milling about. There were knots here and there, some moving slowly towards the doors, some parting as an uninterested party to the case blundered past, and one stationary knot, a standing wave with a powder blue glow at its center, that seemed to be growing. This latter would be the professional juror leading the inquiry. When the GD unified the world’s justice systems, it also introduced some long-overdue changes to how trials were carried out. One of these was empowering the jury, which was expected to render a verdict, with the ability to ask questions. This made it necessary for at least some jurors to be specially trained, and that led to the establishment of a new profession. Since then, men and women wearing formal powder blue outfits had gained celebrity status, because they truly represented the interests of the public in trials like this. Curious to hear what was going on, Frank drifted towards this latter crowd, and stopped just close enough to make out the calm voice at its center. Unlike the people clustered about other parties to the case, this group was more interested in listening than in talking, and that made it easier to follow the conversation. “I’ve been asked,” the juror said over the murmur, “whether I’m permitted to raise questions posed by someone here. The simple answer is yes, but in order to get a useful response, it’s important to ask the right witness, at the right time, and in the right way.” “But how?” said a woman from the far side of the crowd. “How can you know that?” The juror smiled. “An excellent question, and one that gets to the heart of the problem. Each party’s representation attempts to frame the inquiry by their theory of causes and effects, their choice of meaning and interpretation. This is how they try to control what is or is not relevant to understanding the case. This is also our starting point as the jury. If we want to explore an area that has been protected by their presentation, we first have to establish grounds for posing the question. Doing so requires knowledge of more than just the law, but also quite a bit of psychology, logic, dynamics and several other fields as well. In a sense, a trial is a three-sided balance, with the jury seeking truth while the contending parties seek to validate their positions.” In the silence that followed, some members of the crowd drifted away, and were replaced by others. Frank looked around for an opening, and started towards the sparsely filled area to his left. He didn’t get more than two steps before someone grabbed his right arm from behind. Surprised, he started to pull it forward as he turned around to see who it was. Somehow, he found himself staring into the woman’s green eyes before taking notice of anything else about her. A moment later, he was sure they were brown, and wondered how he’d made such a perceptual error. Now that he’d had a chance to see her face, it was clear that she was the kind of person who was hard to describe. Nondescript. Ordinary. There weren’t any distinctive things to hook a memory onto. Her brown hair was short enough to be stylish, but it wasn’t done in any way he could describe. Even her clothes defied easy classification. Frank was about to ask her what she wanted, when the sight of an approaching L.A. Police officer sent her away into the crowd. Still puzzling over the incident, he worked his way around the juror’s crowd and walked up the steps to the courthouse. Inside, things were far more orderly. The entry area was scanned by security systems that identified people as they crossed the lobby, and the locator board showed you where to go if you looked at the virtual display’s laser target. Since Frank was wearing his own display system, directions and information about the case against HealthTech Resources and Tanguru ProbliMetrics were shown in a far more convenient way. Brushing the details to the side as he walked, he made his way to the jury room, which was opposite the main entrance to the courtroom. The apprentice juror, who was reading from a handheld unit at the time, looked up and smiled. “Good morning,” she said with what Frank now noticed was a French African accent, and indicated a nearby chair. “We have some time before they will call us in, so you might as well be comfortable.” “Thank you.” Frank took a closer look at her Apprentice Juror ID as he sat down. “This is my first case,” he said, a bit unsure of himself. “Your ID doesn’t have a name on it, only a number. How am I supposed to refer to you?” She flicked her book off and set it down. “That is probably the thing about my new profession that I like the least. When I was a researcher, I had a name and the objects of study had numbers. Now it is the other way about. During the case, it seems, I’m to be known simply as Juror #2.” Frank chuckled. “I guess that makes the foreman Juror #1, then. He was taking questions outside when I arrived.” “Yes,” she said, leaving the end of her word suspended, as if there was more to the answer. Habits of language were important to Frank. They revealed a great deal of what went on inside, far more than most people realized. “Would you mind a personal question?” he said after waiting for the spoken ellipsis to fade. When she nodded, Frank leaned forward a bit. “During the interview, you asked why I chose to work abroad as a Healer. I got the sense that you’d done something similar. Was I right?” Juror #2 closed her eyes for a moment. To Frank, it was signal of a person’s attention to how things were said, a momentary inner focus, outwardly expressed. It also gave him a moment to look over the way her inner spirit had expressed itself in flesh, and how that form had in turn expressed itself in dress. Her intensely dark skin was set off by a carefully constructed sculpture of finely textured hair, and she wore a formal robe with a bold design done in colors associated by many peoples with earth, life and light. “I have led several lives, you might say. Before this one, I performed research in Lambarene, above the western coast of the Central African Union. It was both fulfilling and sterile. I valued the rigor, the search for hidden truths, but not the solitude. There was no community in the process.” Frank understood completely. He’d left First Nation for reasons that were similar, in an odd way. His sense of completeness had made him uncomfortable with any single method of approaching a problem, even if it was the traditional one practiced by generations of shamans in his family and tribe. They had long made use of western and eastern practices, but what Frank wanted to do was to develop a new synthesis of methods and philosophies. It wasn’t exactly a popular opinion, especially among his family, but it was the direction in which his personal truth lay, and that they could understand. So he had left to pursue his goal, and the path brought him to Los Angeles. He did not know why he was drawn here, but it had the feeling of rightness to it, so he became a Healer and joined the Hospice. That was several years ago. He was still awaiting the next bend on his journey when the request from the court had arrived. Two other jurors walked in, greeted Frank and #2 briefly, and then settled down at the far end of the room to continue a discussion that had apparently started some time earlier. That made five, if you included #1, who was probably still carrying forth outside. Three jurors remained. Refocusing from his memories to the moment, Frank glanced back at the door for a second before continuing. “And yet, even here, as a juror, you’re still somewhat isolated from the case you’re considering. Being known as a number instead of by your name must bother you.” She smiled, and nodded slowly. “Yes, it does. But I find that it enables me to avoid the reluctance I might otherwise feel about probing into someone else’s truths.” She glanced down into her opened hands, relaxed them, and then studied Frank for a moment. “You moved here as well. Have you found what you were seeking?” “That may be something I’ll only know in hindsight.” Juror #1’s now-familiar voice preceded him into the jury room. He was still trailing a crowd when he entered, but only the two people that were part of the jury entered with him. That left one more to make their full complement of seven. Nevertheless, he closed the door behind him and suggested that those who were present take their seats around the conference table. One of the two jurors who had entered after Frank tentatively raised a finger. “Shouldn’t we wait until everyone’s here?” Number 1 shook his head. “He can catch up if he misses anything important. I want to make sure that the rest of you understand how this works.” He swung his gaze towards Frank. “Especially you, Healer Sanroya.” “As Jurors,” he said strongly, “we are responsible for deciding the outcome of this case.” He then looked at each juror in turn. “We represent the people, and are obliged to find for the common good. There are many truths to this case, and each side will attempt to convince us of theirs. Before the reforms, courts were forced to choose one of those truths. As a result, precedents undermined the intent of well-meant laws, and justice became a servant of the powerful.” Frank glanced around the table. Their foreman had quickly brought the group into unity. It was almost as if he had placed them all in a light trance. Even the rhythm of their breathing was coming into step. “Your job here,” the foreman said evenly, “is to question those truths, to find the reality behind both of them, and bring it out into the open. You are not here to sit quietly and accept whatever you are told. Nor are you here to disrupt the proceedings. There is a well-wrought process for performing your job, and we, as a jury, will be far more effective if we all use that process.” He paused for a moment. When he continued, his manner was looser, his bearing at ease. “During your interviews, I said that being a juror was a careful balance, that you would at once be both on public display and cloaked in secrecy.” Frank watched intently, realizing that #1 spoke as performance art, as theatre. In a way, he was preparing the jurors to enter the courtroom as players in a sacred drama, to treat the room as sacred space. A sudden rustling outside, followed by a resounding thump caught everyone’s attention, breaking the secular spell being woven by their leader. A moment later, the door swung open. The final juror stumbled over a thick black book and sprawled to the floor. While their newest member stood up and brushed himself off, Frank leaned over and picked up the book. “‘A Pictorial History of the World’s Great Trials’,” he read. “Are you a historian, or just a book collector?” The slight man took a breath. “There’s a difference? Virtual books can be changed. Authentic paper can’t.” He laid his hand on the book, which Frank had started to page through. “This one is from the time of the first space exploration, mid 20th century. It’s a record of western—” He froze when his eyes met those of the foreman. “I’m late, aren’t I? Sorry.” Then he took the book, walked to the far side of the table, and sat down. Juror #1 waited until the historian stopped fidgeting, then spoke directly to him. “We’re here, all of us, to see that the common good is represented in a very high-profile case. It is important, not just for me, or for the court, but for the people following the proceedings, that we all treat the act of seeking justice with respect. That means not only showing up on time, but being prepared as well. Why did you bring that book with you?” The historian cringed. “Perspective. I brought it to make sure that we kept this case, and our roles in it, in perspective.” When nobody spoke, he laid his hand over the book and continued. “Courts, and… and their proceedings have changed over time. Some of those changes have been for the better. Others have not.” He cautiously studied Frank. “I’m not sure how I feel about you, yet.” Frank smiled. This was, after all, the same juror who had asked him how he performed his special ‘magic’ during the interview. He was about to answer when they were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. A bailiff stuck his head in and announced that the jury had been requested to appear. As they were getting up, the foreman said, “I go in first, followed by #2 here, then the other jurors. Healer Sanroya comes in last, and takes the seat closest to the witness box, beside #2. I sit farthest from the witness.” Before stepping through the doorway, he added, “Remember, a courtroom is sacred space. Treat it accordingly.” The historian smirked, and followed the others across the hallway. Mara was sketching something when Frank returned home that night. Pegwin was asleep nearby, and the calming sound of Mara’s favorite acoustic artist was stirring the silence. She looked up from her stylus and asked him how court went. “Stridently comes to mind,” he said as he sat beside her. “For some reason, lawyers seem to think that they can change reality with the force of their rhetoric. They made their opening remarks today, and both sides portrayed their clients as the injured party.” She shook her head and smiled. “Winning an argument through the strength of one’s convictions may quiet an adversary, but it doesn’t defeat him.” Frank sat with the thought briefly. He knew that his wife spoke not only from her mediation experience, but from meditation as well. “What are you working on?” She tapped the stylus a few times, and handed him the pad. “My brother decided to enter the Fancydance competition after all. This is a design I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Give it a spin.” The virtual clothesform that Mara had built it on wasn’t exactly right, but it was close enough for the moment. Frank stroked across the image to rotate it, and then poked at a few places to see what kinds of feathers and other decorations she’d used. He wasn’t surprised to discover just how wide a swath of the Earth she planned to reflect in it. Before handing it back, he selected one of the canned dance sequences, so he could see how it would look in action. The Fancydance competition, which had its roots in displays originally staged for reservation tourists before First Nation was founded, had become an industry in itself. Groupies bought knock-offs of the original designs, and people around the world and even from off-planet followed the careers of the best dancers. Her brother Alex’s publishing company sponsored several entrants each year. Hearing her expectant non-verbal question in his head the whole time just made Frank relish the tension his silence had created. He even waited a while longer before answering. “Court went fine,” he said at last. “Thanks for asking.” “Really?” she said gently. “Drop the other shoe.” Frank sat back and crossed his arms in subconscious protection. “I can’t say the entire jury is completely comfortable with me yet, but they are willing to hear my reports. One of them is a historian, with a particular interest in trials and courtroom procedures. He actually brought a book with him, a pulp and glue book.” “And the case?” she prompted, once again busy with her design. “What was the case about?” “It’s a public action against two companies,” he said. “One runs MedCenters and the other sells Insurance. A group of prominent people contends that the two businesses conspired to treat them more expensively at MedCenters, rather than at a Hospice. Not that that’s news to anyone.” “How are the companies framing their defense?” “Pretty much as I’d expected,” Frank said. “They simply point to the jurisdictional rulings, and remind everyone that the disputed gray area is fair game for either side. But they have an even stronger argument.” Mara stopped experimenting with the costume. “Which is?” “Which is that most of the cases in question were brought first to a Hospice Center for evaluation, and then transferred to the MedCenter for treatment.” She nodded. “So why the case, then?” “Greed, of course. The result of routing patients like that is more money for both companies. There’s a far higher markup for the MedCenter’s flashy tech than there is for what we do. And the Insurance rake-off is better, too.” Mara lowered her pad. “But then the Hospice staff would also be implicated, and that makes no sense. What do you make of it?” “That’s hard to say. The results are certainly true; everyone knows that. So the only question is whether there’s intent behind it, whether there really was a conspiracy involved. Which reminds me…” “What?” He shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Some woman grabbed my arm before I entered the courthouse. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Then, for some reason, she freaked at the sight of a cop.” “That is odd. What did she look like?” Frank shook his head. “I wish I knew. At first, I thought she had green eyes, but they were really brown. Trying to remember her is like trying to wrestle smoke. Anyway, she disappeared into the crowd after that. | 31,472 | 1 |
​ " Expedition Log T - H - A - 0 3 - A 6 Hello, I'm Drex, and I am one of the very few survivors of the military expedition. I record this to know and remember how the expedition went. To remember how foolish -- how preposterous was to accept to go there based on nothing but intended miscalculations of those psychopathic, imbeciles from Scientific League. I should have known to avoid something so utterly irresponsible and suicidal... I had always dreamt to be part of the Scientific League; to hold an well deserved place in the pantheon of the greatest biologists and astrophysicists. So, when my race discovered a new species, I saw a great opportunity that screamed at me. All I cared about was my scientific research. I knew that, as soon as they discover it, they'd send the military to take over, maybe exploit them, though I saw no way in which they could exploit an inferior species. So, It took me quite a lot to convince them to take me there, even if it meant enlisting as a rookie. What was I thinking?! ... I had only used guns two times before. The first day should have been a great opportunity to get to study them. I landed during midday. Their planet looked better from afar. And quite similar to ours. They called it "Earth", I think. But it looked deplorable once I moored on. Just a deserted city. The remnants of it, bombed to shreds. Based on the little technology I found, the civilization on their planet was much less advanced than ours. I walked up into a high tower-like building where stairs were spiraling up like a maze towards the sky. It looked ... fascinating. And all that brought to ruins. The mountains from that vantage were spectacular though. Could have been a war. A natural disaster. Civil unrest. An experiment gone wrong... So many possibilities, but the disarray of that planet still baffled me. I wish I had explored more, but The captain contacted me. One of the drones just vanished. Gone. Looking back, I wish I had never accepted his requirement. Well, my stupid, inquisitive nature took over. Foolish... I happened upon some dark catacombs through which they traveled in long capsule-like machinery. I think they called it subway trains. Quite interesting. Their mechanics and engineering were a little, little bit primitive. But surprisingly efficient for their needs. It was winding around underneath... Filled with debris and, well - what I correctly figured out as being the planet's inhabitants corpses. I stubbornly didn't want to accept that I had traversed countless solar systems just to see corpses. Though, even that would have been an immense discovery for the scientific community... besides the few dozens forms of life whom my race eradicated. I really, really wanted to encounter a semi-intelligent race which humans seems to have been. Oh, did I mention they are called - they call themselves "humans". I trudged forwards through that dusty, tiny, compact place and came across two subway transportation machineries. And my foolish mind pushed me to do more stupid things. I stepped in. I should have known. It was empty, bar a human skeleton that stared at me. Quite creepy. When I made a step forward to study it...what was I thinking?! it went blank and I woke up in a small place. Surrounded by tiny... curious humans. Well, normal for their race, but... They looked somewhat like in the recordings. Just dirtier and more malnourished. Their musculoketal structure did not reflect that of an warrior. Not even their movement which weren't that nimble. It was quite remarkable - Their physical attributes didn't reflect any high class either. Hairless, stunted creature trapped in the middle of the evolution. Their behavior underground was so peculiar. I could only conclude that they were not fit for living in that little odd world that they created underneath. A temporary hideout. that only served as protection and not anything more. They wanted to kill me there. Their fear seemed to have overwritten their curiosity. One -- Just one suggested I could be of use. Well, my technology at least, but I could have used that to get out there alive. I tried to speak to them in their language which I picked from the few recordings my race had. The leader told me to shut up. Quite a friendly race. Some of them even suspected me of being a creation of their enemy. It seemed preposterous... implausible, but I understood their thinking. No matter how much I tried to interject; to find any pitiful clue about their situation, they refused to give me any answers. They kept me tied there and were having a petty squabble about their next steps. I was almost relieved when their sentinel bursted in. Almost. Too bad that what came next was horrendous. Their sentinel cried " They're coming" before a blade cut him in two. Ouch! At least he had a quick death. The humans around me panicked, all grabbing their weapons as a machine slashed their doors and stepped in. It didn't seem that scary. It just resembled them. Just metallic sinews instead of bones. It walked and moved so weird. So rudimentary. It was a mystery how they destroyed; how they took over. Just another rudimentary technology would have been enough. I tried to wiggle myself out while they shot at... that thing. Witnessing how It overpowered and eradicated them... one by one. It was crazy... " To Be Continued... | 5,615 | 1 |
Amber shimmered and undulated as the arid breeze glided across the rolling plain. The setting sun played counter harmony with ripe purples and violets bleeding across the sky as the day died to give birth to night. A soft crashing of blade against blade, reminiscent of the sea at beach, filled the air amidst the transition. Grass seemed to enjoy the clash as much as he once did. Verat bent mid-stride and drew one of the long amber from the ground, silencing its rasp. He rolled the dry slender grass between his fingers as he walked along with the caravan as they started their night’s journey. He chided himself; too often of late his thoughts turned to whimsy. Poetry, of course, had its place in all things, but wry nostalgia would not do for someone who was supposed to be guarding a shipment. He was too young to be old. “The amber sings well tonight” A delicate voice called from beside him, countering the thoughts he just held against himself. Verat walked faster to put it behind him. It would not do to further such a conversation. Hours passed as the caravan made its way across the sea of land with night in full bloom and revealing the skyward family. No incident occurred, no alarm was brightened. Verat kept watch to the north as the stars and moon guided them. The journey was familiar to him so guidance was not as necessary, though he did enjoy the company of the sun’s children and her husband. The journey they faced was a long one. It took many days of travel in this slow plodding way with only the sea and the occasional sight of the animals that made it their home. He saw a pod of sitkans breach from the ground and dance off, gliding through the amber and leaving small wakes. When next he had leave, Verat was determined to run with them again. He hummed in his mind. Near when the moon had reached his time to rest, the caravan struck camp at the crest of a tall wave. Marked by a white stone not two strides tall and near one arm thick, the site was wide and flat enough for their numbers. The captain of the caravan checked the mast to verify their position while Verat and the rest helped stake the wagons and set the sunblockers. “One could get lost in its song.” The same delicate voice reached out to him; extending an invitation. Verat did not accept. He walked away and continued his work. With the labor done, and all fed well enough, watches were set and the camp slept. The sky matched the ground in glory as the sun rose herself above the waves. Verat dreamed of running through the sea. In his dream the song of life pulsed everlasting. No longer bound by his clothes or the need of his equipment, Verat swam through the amber keeping pace with a pod of kampul as they shimmered in the sunlight. They loped along the soft ground with ease while the rhythmic padding of Verat’s feet kept time. His dark legs were but a blur as they were caressed by the passing leaves. The ground came up as a cloud of dull tan in his wake, his feet throwing up tufts as he went. The ocean of amber became liquid to his eyes as he ran as swift as the wind. Verat sang. The sun, whose power burned all those who came near, did not burn him now. Even her family could not bear her touch, but Verat could. The kampul melted away into the ocean as he ran, singing and pulsing to the pure joy that was the song of life. And Verat woke. The sun was nearing the completion of her journey while camp sounded with the quiet shuffling of those near waking. Verat lay still; not trying to reclaim his dreams, but not trying to let the memory fade either. The waking pain was something all felt when the dream left them, though some more than others. Verat, at his core, ached at the loss. The pain faded as Verat came fully awake, his dream receding in his mind like the coast. Rising, he stretched his long, dark limbs, his chest, his back. Tight scars whispered limitations as the flesh moved and pulled. | 3,986 | 1 |
I looked around my feathered bed, the dropped and shed feathers from previous season’s shed laying about with no clear pattern. I blinked my beady eyes, still stuck with sleep, and felt *odd*. It wasn’t exactly right, though I couldn’t tell what it was; I just felt a certain lightness in my chest; possibly from whatever my human had left in the food that night. Maybe it was that glowing rock. Who could say? I stood tall and fluffed up my feathers, trying to brush off the sleep and this strange discomfort. It didn’t go away with the shake, instead it lingered uncomfortably. I looked around myself to find my bunkmates itchy. They scratched themselves, noting the skin texture being rather odd. Almost like a burn. “I feel fine,” I shrugged, noting that nothing truly felt different. “You’re glowing!” One said, plucking at a feather that had just fallen from my skin. It was true; my entire body was awash in neon green light, stemming from my gut. Maybe it was something that I’d eaten. Maybe that glowing rock hadn’t been the best idea of a snack. Oops. My bunkmates were perplexed, but fell very quickly back to assessing their own skin. “It must be you!” they shouted. Lilly, who was sleeping next to me, had her entire right side illuminated by bright red splotches. It was proof enough for them. I was kicked from the henhouse, my feathered-bed thrown out with me to make the environment neater. They watched as I left, Lilly waving while she itched. A glowing, green, and very sad chicken walked down the lane, carrying nothing besides the strangely colored feathers on her back. She didn’t know where to go next, only that the chickens she’d left behind were anything but kind, and she had no idea of what to do. She tried to stay at a farm down the road, but the human’s dog was alerted to her immediately, and chased her away, all the while barking, “Green chicken! Green chicken!” She found herself down the road a little ways further, at a festival of some sort. Humans were everywhere, their big clunky metal cages still and sitting in the big open space in front of a bigger open space. This one had colors around it, with spirals of light and strange metal contraptions that carried the humans around quickly. It was all quite a lot. The green chicken wandered inside, noticing a human carrying some popcorn, who was being very careless about where he put it. A big bundle fell and the chicken found herself scooped up as she tried to eat every last bit of it. “Look here,” the man human who picked her up said, “now this chicken ought to win the county fair for sure.” He laughed, a big hearty laugh, then dropped her off on a stage. A thousand human eyes looked up at her, their mouths wide and confused, but curious. “FIRST PLACE!” A man in a hat said, before placing a ribbon around the chicken’s neck. She looked down at the ribbon, then to the popcorn that littered the ground. “Who’s chicken is this?” The man asked, while she flew to the ground to get some more popcorn. No one said a word. | 3,041 | 1 |
Andria sighed firmly in self-defeat, “Yes, I know, I know…Oh I don’t know!” She said in a fit of decisive indecision. “I just seem held back by something. Like a brick wall that sits in front of my mind. Even when I am not thinking about it my stomach aches and palpates as if I am facing a death squad eager to hear the order ‘Shoot!’” Alex did the ‘over it patient’ face of puckering the mouth, widening the eyes and looking about himself, and breathing in through his nose fast enough to make a sound, which did not go unnoticed by Andria. “If you ask me.” Alex said with raised eyebrows “Which you have multiple times, I will give you the same answer I have given you before, and that is – it has to be done so just do it. But on the other hand maybe your fear is right and is telling you this is a bad idea, but I do not think that is the case. And I do not think you believe that either.” “Contacting them is a big step, we have only been observing them for 20,000 trips around their sun and we haven’t heard back from the boss yet.” Andria told Alex as if it was the first time she had used that argument. Swallowing and looking up at the sign over the control panel, trying half-heartedly to hide his annoyance Alex read the warning sign. “No Diverging or Reconverging on or near the Instrument panel.” The singular, ‘Instrument panel’, had always annoyed Alex for he had never seen any control panels with only one instrument. Raising his eyes even higher to make sure Andria could see his annoyance he asked to see the species printout again. Andria handed him the printout and tried to find something to look at, her head going up and down and side to side in an effort to look uninterested in Alex’s opinion. She disliked that part of herself which hung on every word Alex spoke but couldn’t help herself, love tied her to him and all of his annoyingly correct pronouncements. In the past Andria had tried really hard to be elsewhere when she knew he was about to make one of his royal announcements based on his sage wisdom but could not stay away when he spoke. Then when she reacted like an excited schoolgirl at his words she would cringe inside but could not still her love of his words and had to admit to the wisdom that those words quite often contained. It was like listening to herself, for he really did seem to know her inside and out. “They have killed off over eight hundred species already and exponentially that is rising fast to a million.” Alex mumbled under his breath, annoyed with the human arrogance and forward momentum that seemed unstoppable by the humans themselves. “Our job is to save ‘species’ not just ‘alpha species’ Andria, you know that as well as I do and you also know the boss has given us freedom to act without always waiting for orders from him because he is busy with other search and rescue teams as well, not just us.” Alex was turning from annoyance with Andria to annoyance with the humans now and getting angrier and angrier for they had been in orbit for ages now scanning the human internet for signs of intelligence, a tougher job then they had previously thought. Not wanting her man to get too angry, for she did enjoy making him ‘somewhat’ angry, but in the past had pushed him too far and she knew the consequences of that, she tried now with her feminine ability to use words to calm him down and refocus him on the issue at hand. After she could see his anger had plateaued and was declining, she asked him “Should I contact them or not?” Bending at the hips to bring his upper torso away from the seat and his legs up and off the console he spun his seat to face her. Putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands he loaded the words from his brain into his mouth, face glowering he shot his fiery words at her in controlled bursts. “I have given you every bit of wise insight I can mentally muster on your behalf on this subject over and over again.” Pause, breath, reload. “I acted happy for you upon your idea of taking action and I have acted supportively ever since as you procrastinated and continuously questioned yourself internally and out loud in my patient presence.” Pause, breath, reload. “I have talked with you about the consequences and about your abilities, I have figuratively kissed you and propped you up and given you everything I possibly can.” Pause, breath, reload. ”And what have you done with my words of support and wisdom? Nothing but undermine your own strength and the strength I have given you. You have questioned yourself until you are shrinking in body and mind. You have listened to the internal dialogue of fear that buzzers around inside your head like a murder of crows. What you haven’t done is support yourself, trust yourself and be uncaring whether the humans like it or love it. You have to do this for yourself as well as the other species on the planet. Please, for the love of the Great Curly Green Mushroom that sits in Heaven, just do it!” Andria looked down at the cabin floor and knew his words to be true. She knew he had been patient and supportive; knew he had spoken to her on this matter only to help her; knew she had been harping on it for way too long now. But who else was she supposed to talk to out here? Herself? No, sometimes it was best to have an unattached masculine point of view. Most of the time the masculine side could be so un-insightful, but sometimes their simple unemotional point of view was worth listening to. Like now Andria had to concede. Just as the light of freedom broke through a fear crow flew across her mind startling her and Andria’s eyes came sharply back into focus as the crow clawed it’s way back into her thinking. “But what if I can’t convince them in time or they just laugh at me?” Alex threw himself backwards sending his chair rolling rearwards into the instrument console. The Instrument Panel was protected by the sign which hung above it from ‘Divergence’ but had no sign to protect it from rolling chairs with irate beings in them. Quickly glancing back to see if he had damaged the panel and seeing no dents in the shiny blue surface Alex whipped his head around to glare at his cowering companion. The masculine side of this argument glowered and tried to beat his courage into her through the power of his eyes alone. The female side of this discussion sat looking at the masculine side with eyes that tried to gently make him see that all she wanted was his support, not his anger. Alex spoke the only thing he could think of after weeks of intuitive support and insightful words. “If, when you are back on our home planet Dichotomy and you have our grandkids on your knee and you tell them of your adventures out here, you will speak of this missed opportunity with regret. You know that don’t you?” Andria rose from the captain’s chair and walked over to the scanner that watched the human communications system called the Internet, regretting that human sex didn’t do it for her, for there was plenty of it out there. Alex walked over to join her but made sure not to get too close to her or touch her for they were not ready for that yet. He looked down at the scanner and Alex saw the screen filled with close ups of amalgamating human anatomy and spurting human anatomy and spoke more words of wisdom. “Wow look at her hooters!” An expression he had picked up from the humans and one he found amusing for some reason. Andria laughed and walking away said. “You love your human sayings way too much Alex. Are you ready to reconverge?” Alex wasn’t ready to reconverge and didn’t think she was either and that they hadn’t really resolved this issue. But as Andria was the boss he had to be ready if that was what she really wanted. Or was she just reacting emotionally and too quickly just to get out of finishing this confronting conversation he wondered. Tentatively, Alex asked. “Are you sure you don’t want to finish this conversation before we reconverge?” Andria responded. “We have finished my love, your words and wisdom have been very helpful and even though it might not seem like it, I have heard you and your words are in my mind swatting away at that murder of crows you so eloquently told me were in my head. Thanks for your words, Alex, but now it is time to move this old craft to the New Moon Position and you know there is only room for one physical body in here, one captain’s chair Alex. So, yes, it is time.” “Ok.” Alex responded. He always liked the feeling of physical freedom he felt when he was separate from her. As much as he loved her and enjoyed their existence together, he did cherish his time apart from her in his own body. “Where should we do it?” Alex asked with male glee. “Let’s do it on the control panel! I have always wanted to reconverge on the control panel!” Snorting with pleasure at his antics Andria said. “You will always be a boy at heart, no matter how old we get or what we see and do, won’t you my love.” Alex smiled at the thought and replied in the affirmative. “Yes love, hopefully I will. But you didn’t answer me. Let’s do it on the control panel and make a hell of a mess all over their precious ‘Instrument Console’.” Looking at him with joy Andria playfully reprimanded him. “All good for you to make the mess but you won’t be here to clean it up, will you? Typical male, leave the mess for the females to clean up! Come let’s do it in the washing cubicle. Easier for me to clean up after your gone.” Alex played the little boy card further and petulantly stamped his foot and said. “Damn it Andria! You know I hate doing it in the cubicle we wash in. Feels so clinical and impersonal.” Andria’s feminine heart melted at this boyish display. She really did love this side of her personality. “Ok.” She conceded with a grin. “Let’s do it on the console.” After Alex was once again a part of her inner being and Andria had cleaned up the mess made on the console by their reconverging physical bodies, she sat in the captain’s chair, Alexandria, once again and reached out her hand to dial in the new coordinates. | 10,156 | 3 |
“Deadly Attractor” () by P. Orin Zack [2003] Chapter Four … Tuesday … If time was a river, the scene in front of the courthouse the following morning was in a much different place than on Frank’s earlier visits. The crowd ringing Juror #1, or the casual splitting of the ranks as some unknown passed through had given the scene a sense of gentle flow, of a stream casually crossing a sun-soaked meadow. Today, even from a distance, Frank could tell that something had changed. Instead of orderly waves of curious listeners craning to hear, there was a staccato tapestry of sharp words, a drummers’ circle of crows. After yesterday’s incident with the mystery woman, he was alert to catch another glimpse of her, but was uncertain how to choose which face, which voice, might be hers. “Kill them!” yelled a shrill, raspy voice a dozen yards to his right. “Kill the robots before they kill you!” Two Los Angeles police uniforms converged on the sound, as did several newshounds, judging from their distinctive headgear. Frank glanced around to see what else was going on, and noticed several people quietly handing out papers to passersby. Thinking that the disturbance might have been a distraction to cover what the others were doing, he chose the nearest one and worked his way through the crowd towards her. “Quick, give me one of those,” he said quietly in her ear. Suddenly, the young woman spun around, grimaced, and ripped Frank’s glasses from his face. “What…?” Before he’d had a chance to act, his assailant threw them down and crushed them under the heel of her boot. She looked up at him, a mixture of anger and pity on her face. “Those things will kill you. Don’t do what they say!” “But all I wanted—” She pressed a folded sheet of paper into his hand, looked back at the brawl that had broken out around the speaker, and pushed her way into the crowd. Frank looked down at the paper in his hand, then at the roiling crowd that now blocked his view of her. “Thanks. It better be worth those glasses.” Leaving the debris underfoot, Frank folded the paper again and slipped it into a pocket while making his way up the stairs and into the courthouse. He came up short a few steps beyond the door, however, when he realized that he’d have to check directory, instead of it coming to him. Like many things in life, technology is most evident when it’s missing. He looked into the laser target on the directory panel. Almost immediately, he saw the virtual display materialize. Instead of the formal judicial background and terse instructions, there was just a blank frame with a one-line message: ‘Read the paper.’ He quickly looked away from the laser target, unconsciously concerned that the message might be read by someone else, and nervously glanced around the lobby. Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, while simultaneously certain that he was, he headed directly to the jury room. It wasn’t empty. Sitting at the far end of the conference table was juror #7, the historian. He’d put his pack on the table, and was hunched over the black Great Trials book that had caused such a commotion the previous day. Frank caught his breath, closed the door behind him, and stood there, staring. The historian looked up momentarily, and then went back to his book. Frank flexed his fingers a few times before pulling out the paper and unfolding it. Then he stood very still, mouth agape, his hands trembling ever so slightly. “Is that real paper?” the historian asked, startling Frank. “I think so,” he said absently, still somewhat shocked by the incident. “What is it?” Frank stepped towards him, rustling the paper in his right hand as he spoke. “Outside. Just now. Someone…” He shook his head. “Some woman smashed my glasses. A guy was yelling about killing robots. The police got him. Then she handed me this.” “What does it say?” Frank shrugged. “When she snatched my glasses, she said they’d kill me. Not to listen to them.” The historian stood and reached towards the paper. “What does it say?” Frank handed it over, and waited. “Nice work,” he said after rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “Home-made synthpulp paper. From the look of the ink, I’d guess they pressed it from a master built with an old laser-deposition system. I’d have guessed they were neo-Luddite if it weren’t for the message.” Frank sat. “You know these people?” “I know of them.” The juror went back to his seat and laid the paper down over his open book. “The press paints them as crazies, but I’m not so sure.” “Like you weren’t so sure of me? Of what I do?” He nodded. “In a way. There may be something to what they say, but they’re not going about it right. Take this, for example.” He poked at one of the short articles on the page. “They claim that virtual displays, like the one in your smashed glasses, are mind-control devices. And, from a certain point of view, they are.” “They are?” “Sure. If all you see is a person wearing one, and they suddenly change what they’re doing, that’s one logical conclusion you might draw from the evidence. Of course, you don’t have all the evidence, so your logic is worthless.” Frank gestured towards the paper. “How about that other one? A ‘Department of Improbable Events’? What kind of sense could that possibly make?” Juror #7 chuckled. “Unexplained phenomena have happened throughout history. People like Charles Forte even collected them. I suppose blaming them on some shadowy government agency at least gives people the illusion that there’s a reason for them. Creating certainty in an uncertain world goes back thousands of years. The ancients blamed it on the gods. Some religions call them miracles. These people just picked the government to blame it on.” The man was silent for a moment, then picked up the page and turned it towards Frank. “It’s this other piece that interests me the most. It’s what you said that guy was yelling about, killing the robots. They’re talking about all of the automatics on everything, all the supposedly error-proof systems that find some new failure mode at just the right time.” He paused. “This one is about our case, you know.” Frank took the page back and read the article. “You really think so?” Juror #7 nodded slowly. “That’s also why I’m ambivalent about what you do.” “How so?” “Probing someone’s mind, monitoring their memories, is the worst kind of invasion of privacy. And yet, we’re using it in a court of law, the very place where such rights are supposedly defended. At least, they were in some countries, before the GD, anyway.” Frank took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re good. That controversy is at the heart of my profession. It’s why the Healer’s Oath was developed. Physicians simply have to do no harm. We have a far harder problem to deal with.” The historian smiled. “Hippocrates was only followed partially in any case. Physicians do charge for the training, after all. And as to harm, that can be a very tricky matter to judge.” “Healers,” Frank said after a time, “start from the principle of respecting our patients. Physicians seem to start from respecting themselves. These ideas lead down very different paths. In taking this job, I risk putting my principles in peril. The court requires me to inform the jurors about the truthfulness of witnesses, but to do that I have to violate their selfness by observing the memories behind that testimony. It’s a challenge that I both want and fear.” The door opened, and the rest of the jury walked in. The historian reached for the paper and met Frank’s eyes in a wordless request. Frank nodded, and withdrew his own hand while the paper vanished between the pages of that thick black book. The two watched as the other jurors quietly settled into their seats around the table, and waited for instructions from the foreman. “The case really begins today,” he said as he looked at each in turn. “Yesterday’s opening statements, as you heard, provided the lens through which each side would like you to view the evidence. Their respective statisticians presented roughly the same thing in numerical form. Today, the complainant’s counsel will start calling witnesses to the events described in their brief. Since the damages claimed arise from the implications of a pattern of these events, they must first convince you that these events happened as they claim. Therefore, it is important to understand the role that Healer Sanroya is to play, and how that relates to your own responsibilities.” All eyes were now on Frank, and that was beginning to make him uncomfortable. After all, his observations were unverifiable. The witnesses, at least, might have some way of corroborating their testimony, some recorded event or observed action. What he reported would be intensely subjective, prone to interpretation and even misunderstanding, and there was no way he could prove anything he might say. In an earlier day, in a different court system, his analysis would be inadmissible as hearsay. Now, the jury was depending on it. The foreman’s powder blue suit seemed to fluoresce slightly under the light of the overhead glowtubes. The effect was subtle but powerful. “While the witness is recalling and describing events,” he continued, “Healer Sanroya will be in psychic rapport, observing the imagery evoked by that process. Healer?” “That’s correct,” Frank said. “If you’ve ever spent time in meditation, observing your own mind, you know how easily you can be distracted. New memories are associated with, and layered over, existing ones. When you think about something, or when you recall an event, those other memories are there, too. I’ll be sharing the witnesses’ stream of associations, as well as the remembered events themselves. These associations, and the clarity of the memories, both provide clues to the honesty and accuracy of the testimony being given. If I encounter something unusual, I’ll report it to you.” “To be precise,” the Apprentice Juror said, “you’ll report it to me. If there is a need for immediate action, I will interrupt the proceedings and give the other jurors a chance to consider the situation. The jury will then have an opportunity to pose any questions that might shed further light on it.” “That is correct,” said the foreman. “As always, if you would like to pose a question, simply tap the ‘Inquiry’ button, and enter a few words of explanation. I’ll handle the procedural issues, and you’ll have your chance. If you want to note a section of testimony for later discussion, tap the ‘Sidebar’ button. Are there any questions before we’re called?” In the silence that followed, Frank closed his eyes and did what he could to clear out what anxiety remained from the morning’s excitement. When he opened them several minutes later, he noticed that juror #2 was watching him with what appeared to be a wistful expression. She laughed briefly. “Pardon me, Healer Sanroya. Watching you prepare for this reminded me of a particularly hectic day in my laboratory. In a way, it was like the time I spent afterward, cleaning equipment, to reconnect with the reason I had begun the project.” At the bailiff’s request, the jury then filed into the courtroom and took their seats. There was a larger crowd in the gallery than there had been the day before. Some were newshounds, judging from the headgear, but they couldn’t broadcast from inside the courtroom. Once Judge Bennigan resumed the case, counsel for the complainant described the pattern of behavior that they wished to prove. There had been many cases such as the one to be related by the first witness, but they would not explore each one in detail. Instead, they planned to investigate one or two in depth, and then ask other witnesses to compare their own experience to that already presented to the court. Counsel for the Complainant called their first witness to the stand. Mr. Haglund was a prominent member of an organization of business owners in his field, and he’d been invited to attend a special conference in Los Angeles. The trip from Montreal could have been managed in several ways, but for privacy and convenience he used a private airlimo. The executive flier was equipped with a full-immersion holo theatre, one of the perks of flying solo, and had all the latest automated navigation and control systems. Standard practice on such trips was to enjoy the entertainment and forget the world until the trip was over. This trip, however, did not go as planned. While the witness set the stage, Frank settled into a state of deep meditation. He closed his eyes and filtered out the extraneous noise, focusing only on the sound of Haglund’s thready voice. Using this as a starting point, he mentally extended his feeling of self towards the sound of that voice, at first surrounding it and then seeping into the personal space from which it had come. At this stage, Frank felt as if he was trying to stand across the room from himself, at the place where that voice was floating in his darkness. As counsel guided Haglund through the events of the day, Frank adjusted the focus of his attention, and gradually began to sense the flow of subjective reality behind the words. At first, all he felt was the rush and flow of emotion, as the underlying thoughts and memories flashed through the witness’ subconscious carrying their treasure: the memory of having been on that flier, of having become involved in the holodrama, and of the cascade of buried memories elicited by these surface ones. As happened when Frank was completely engrossed in reading a book, the state of flow overtook him, and he fell into the comfortable attractor of being in another’s mind. Without special training, a person able to reach this state might not be able to return from it. Several of those who had first explored the technique decades earlier had required extensive therapy afterwards, and the volunteers in whose minds they had become trapped were rightfully paranoid, fearful of losing control, and left with a devastating sense of having been violated. Needless to say, there was still a lingering shadow over the practice, and not every witness was willing to have their testimony monitored in this way. Counsel then asked Haglund to describe what happened as they were entering MexAmerican airspace a few hours later. Haglund was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was comparatively flat, as if there was a kind of distance between his words and the experience they related. Frank also noticed a difference in Haglund’s memories. Until then, there had been a distinct differentiation between the witness’ sensory memories and the experiences being portrayed in the holodrama he was watching: Haglund knew that he was relaxing in a moving flier, while watching a fictional chase sequence unfold. Then, quite suddenly, the flier lurched, and the two realities became jumbled. The two realities beat against one another as the flier tumbled out of control. Because of this confusion, Haglund was unable to separate the two sets of stimuli, unable to switch off the holo unit and pay full attention to the very real danger that he was now in. For Frank, it was even more confusing, because layered on top of all that was his own sense of standing across the room from himself. He struggled to maintain the separation required to clearly observe the artifacts in these memories, while simultaneously being close enough to share them with Haglund. The experience was exhilarating, just the kind of work that would appeal to an adrenaline junkie. “That’s all I recall of the flight,” Haglund said, and waited for counsel to speak. What Frank experienced then was the psychic equivalent of sudden sensory deprivation. One instant he was fighting overload, and the next hanging suspended in the comforting blackness of his personal meditation. They had separated, and he would have to re-establish the link. In the silence that counsel allowed to fill the courtroom before proceeding, Frank’s inner darkness filled with the sparkling waves of otherworldly froth that had been his constant nocturnal companion since childhood. In another situation, he could allow the sensation to lull him towards sleep, but this was court, and there was much more testimony for him to monitor. “What was the next thing you do recall, Mr. Haglund?” said counsel finally. Haglund looked out at the spectators. “The ceiling of an examination room. I was laid out on a table, and two people were bending over me. I asked where I was and whether I was hurt. One of them said I was being evaluated at a Hospice Center for trauma I had experienced during the crash of my limo, but that there were no physical injuries.” While the witness described all this, Frank re-established his link, and examined the memories flowing through Haglund’s mind as he spoke. “They told me that the limo’s safety systems had saved my life, as they were designed to. I asked how I got to the Hospice Center, and was told that an emergency transport team had been vectored to the crash site even before impact in order to maximize my chances of survival in case there were any physical injuries. It was all very efficient.” The memories that Frank surreptitiously witnessed supported the tale told by Haglund. Apparently, he remembered this portion of the sequence extremely well, because the exchanges were almost verbatim. Counsel for the Complainant then stepped over to the witness box, exuding confidence. “How did they then treat you for your trauma?” Haglund shook his head. “They didn’t.” “No? Please tell the court what they did instead.” “Well,” Haglund said after a sigh, “they had me transferred to a MedCenter for treatment. I objected, of course.” “And why was that, Mr. Haglund?” He shrugged. “Why would they? Non-physical trauma doesn’t have to be treated at a MedCenter. It can be treated far more cheaply at a Hospice, and I was already at a Hospice. It didn’t make much sense to me.” At that moment, the Counsel for the two corporations rose to her feet. “I object, your honor, on the grounds that the witness is not qualified to make medical judgments.” Judge Bennigan considered the matter briefly. “Overruled. The witness only stated that it didn’t make sense to him. He does not claim to have offered a medical opinion, either here or at the Hospice Center. Proceed.” “So, Mr. Haglund,” said Counsel for the Complainant, “you were transferred to a MedCenter. What happened there?” Frank was treated to a succession of images as Haglund recalled previous visits to one MedCenter or another. The imagery was stark compared to what Haglund remembered of previous Hospice visits, and Frank had to deal with an annoying echo effect from recognizing some of the places in Haglund’s memories. When the testimony focused on specific events during this incident, Frank was able to see detailed images of a number of the physicians involved. It was unfortunate that memory probes like this could not be used as evidence in court, because the pictures in a witness’ memory were frequently better than their description of that memory. This was due to the fact that any verbal description is inherently shorthand for reality, and pre-existing associations obscure the actual details in a memory. Haglund was enumerating the many specialists that he dealt with while at the MedCenter, when something in the shared perception caught Frank’s attention. One of the people in this sequence of memories was out of focus. It was as if a portion of the memory had been altered, and that was one of the things that Frank was here to spot. While Haglund moved on to other memories of what he described as an ordeal, Frank stayed with that one image and was attempting to get some additional information out of it, when his concentration was suddenly shattered. Frank was having another attack, and the active energy pattern – the Elemental – had quickly swung into action. The Elemental stayed right behind the attack’s pattern, countering each spasm and stab before the pain had a chance to assert itself. That was the good news. The bad news was that the chaos surrounding that battle had broken both his link and his concentration. When Frank opened his eyes, he found Juror #2 watching him intently. She mouthed a silent question, to which he replied by lowering his head and slowly shaking a somber ‘no.’ Fortunately, Haglund’s testimony had now completed, and court would soon adjourn for lunch. Frank was in a quandary, however, because although he’d seen something that ought to be reported, he didn’t have enough information to do anything about it. Had he been able to examine the image for a bit longer, he could have learned enough to provide a starting point for the jurors to pursue. As it was, he didn’t want to say anything at all, for fear that the reason he lost contact would cost him the job. He’d already broken his word to the jury, and felt trapped in shame. There was only one thing to do: find the source of the anomaly, and bring it to light. To do that, however, he’d have to stay with a link long enough to get the details he needed. This last attack may not have incapacitated him, but it was still enough of a problem to warrant revisiting the solution. Frank didn’t go back to the jury room when court was adjourned for lunch. Instead, he located a public com and called Healer Gutiérez at Kübler-Ross Hospice. It seemed that losing his glasses was more than an inconvenience; it also put his calls on the public airwaves without encryption. On the other hand, if anyone did want to eavesdrop, they couldn’t be certain how or where he’d place the calls. The paranoia was palpable. “Okay, Frank,” she said after he related what had happened, “here’s what I want you to do. Come to my office after dinner. Until then, steer clear of extremely potent link experiences like that crash sequence. The sprite, or elemental if you prefer, might mistake it for a real attack and attempt to correct for it.” The afternoon session turned out to be a non-issue for Frank, since the second witness of the day had not agreed to submit to having her testimony monitored. Freed from the need to focus on the witness’ internal life, Frank spent the time mulling over what had happened so far that day, and listened for casual remarks during testimony that might help him to solve the mystery. He may have been prohibited from making any statements regarding the details of the case, but that did not prevent him from trying to understand it. Interestingly, the loss of his glasses heightened his awareness of the role that ubiquitous technology played in the events being described. Things that had previously passed without notice suddenly grew in importance, and other explanations for some of the events being related drifted through his mind, occasionally picking up a new data point along the way. He was beginning to understand how the people behind that paper he’d been handed saw the world. Both of the day’s witnesses had been subjected to trauma resulting from a failure of the supposedly fail-safe technology on which everyone’s lives depended. The first one was due to some fault in his limo’s flight systems, and this one by a gene-typing error. Performance-enhancement has always been risky, but when the objective is to bring a person into normal range, the risks have historically been overlooked, especially when the patient is as influential as this one. Just as with the morning’s witness, this one was brought first to a Hospice for evaluation. She hadn’t suffered any physical damage, and the emergency transport people identified the cause of the problem en route. What remained was to address the effects. Once again, the patient was transferred to a MedCenter for treatment; only this time the witness objected to having been brought to a Hospice. She contended that since her condition required the technical support that only a fully equipped MedCenter could provide, prompt treatment at the MedCenter would have minimized any long-term effects of her trauma. By the end of the day, Frank had pretty much caught up with the parts of the witness’ explanation he’d missed earlier. On the other hand, he didn’t know any more about the mystery person in Haglund’s memory. Once outside the courtroom, Frank buttonholed the historian and they wandered into the noisy crowd for privacy. “Listen,” Frank said quietly, “there’s something odd going on, but I can’t put my finger on it yet.” Juror #7 glanced around at the crowd. “What do you mean?” “I think you were right. That paper is related to this case; so was having my glasses smashed. And I think I saw something in Haglund’s mind, but not enough to say anything. Could I have that paper back?” The historian crept open the pages of his book and slipped a sheet into Frank’s hand. Frank quickly refolded it and palmed it into his pocket. “Thanks.” Mara was talking with her brother Alex when Frank arrived home. He’d called her from a public com at the Halifax transport hub, judging from the watermark on the image, and was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Is there a problem?” Frank asked quietly as he sat beside her. She nodded. “One of Alex’s clients was injured in a building collapse.” Frank turned towards the screen. “Sorry to hear that. How bad is it?” “Well,” Alex said uneasily, “they tell me he’ll be okay, but then they’re only concerned with his physical and biochemical well-being. There’s not much they can’t patch together these days, but MedCenters don’t generally concern themselves with the quality of the lives they save. Uru G’danic was scheduled to moderate a special session at next week’s Aboriginal Nations Summit, but that’ll have to be cancelled now. It’ll be weeks before the effects of all the medications wear off.” “G’danic is amazing,” Mara added. “He has the ability to synthesize conflicting wordviews in the midst of discussion. In fact, I read recently that his technique for—” “Had,” said Alex flatly. They both looked at Alex’s image. “Why ‘had’?” Mara said finally. “It’s a likely side-effect of the treatment. We won’t know until he’s fully recovered, but there’s a good chance that G’danic’s genius will be blunted.” Frank shook his head. “Who approved the treatment? I can’t imagine him agreeing to such a thing, and anyone familiar with what he does wouldn’t have risked—” Alex threw up his hands. “They don’t know.” “What?” Frank said in astonishment. “How could they not know who approved— Wait a minute. What was that session about? The one he was scheduled for.” “Well,” Alex said, pausing, “from what I understand, the group was planning to explore the historical roots of various families of tradition. Why?” Mara turned to face Frank. “Yes. What are you getting at?” “Bear with me a moment, both of you” he said slowly. “This morning, I was accosted outside the courthouse. Some woman smashed my glasses and handed me a sheet of paper. After reading the paranoid conspiracy theories it contained, I was ready to write it off to random strangeness. But then something happened in court. I think I saw something in a witness’ mind, but I can’t be certain. Not yet, anyway.” “Is there a point to all this?” Alex prompted. Frank nodded. “I think so. One of the articles in that paper claimed that the government was somehow behind improbable events. A second one warned against trusting your life to automatics. Both witnesses in court today were victims of improbable events having to do with automatics.” “Are you suggesting,” Mara said then, “that Uru G’danic was prevented from being at that session by whatever dark conspiracy was after those two people?” “I don’t know.” Alex raised his hand. “Okay. Let’s assume it’s true for the moment. Why? What does G’danic have in common with the witnesses? What kind of oddball conspiracy would have an interest in all three of them?” Frank shrugged. “I wish I knew. If there is something to it, though, there may be far more people at risk than that. What I can’t figure is what I have to do with it. If there’s purpose in my having been drawn to this case, then maybe I ought to see where it leads.” “Maybe so,” Mara said, her voice taking on that special tone she reserved for acting the role of facilitator. “Tell me, how were you selected for the job?” “Random chance, at least that’s what they told me.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?” Frank reached into his pocket, unfolded the paper, and handed it to Mara. “I don’t know. You tell me.” She peered at the sheet intently for a moment, then turned pale and let it flap loosely in her hand. “Uh, Frank. This can’t be the paper you just told us about.” He took it from her. Mara was right. It wasn’t. Instead of containing three paranoid articles about shadowy conspiracies, it was an unsigned, handwritten letter. “Well? What is it?” Alex said. Frank laid the page down on the coffee table, and ran his finger across it. “The handwriting is awkward,” he said, “which probably means the writer isn’t used to doing this. There are also a number of erasures, so whoever it was had qualms about how it was said. Listen: “ ‘I apologize for contacting you in this way, but under the circumstances I hope you can forgive me. I understand that you’ve been selected to be on the jury for the case we spoke about.’” Frank frowned. “This must have been written to the historian. Why would he have given it to me?” “ ‘Once I realized that the situation I’ve been investigating was a minor part of some larger scheme, I vowed to expose the whole thing. The information you supplied has helped immensely, but I’ve run out of leads. I have something else to ask of you, something very dangerous, and I will understand if you cannot risk doing it for whatever reasons you may have.’” Frank looked at Mara, then at Alex’s image before continuing. “ ‘If you’re willing, please use your ability to ask questions during the case to get at some of the answers I’ve been looking for. I know this will put you at risk of being removed for diverting the investigation, but I believe it is the only way. Contact me when you can.’” There’s no signature, but there is something else, in another hand. It says ‘Maybe not.’” Mara took the page. “ ‘Maybe not’? What could that mean?” “Isn’t it obvious?” Alex said. “In your position, you could do far more than simply ask questions. You could poke around in the witness’ memories. They’ve hired you to do that, after all. Just not for quite this reason.” Frank threw up his hands in resignation. “But I don’t know what this is even about. I don’t know who wrote it, or what they were investigating. For that matter, I don’t know that I even want to get involved. The writer did say it was dangerous, after all.” “Then maybe,” Alex said in the silence that followed, “you should ask your historian. Just be discrete about it. And keep in mind that this may well involve Uru G’danic and the Aboriginal Nations Summit as well.” That was the most compelling reason he’d heard, so Frank decided to pursue the matter. In order to do it effectively, however, he’d need to keep that Elemental in line even more than before, so he excused himself after dinner, and headed over to Kübler-Ross Hospice to see what Healer Gutiérez could do. “You’re in luck, Frank,” she said as they were getting settled. “A colleague of mine, Allan Wylie, is visiting from Platte City as part of a nine-city speaking tour. Allan was instrumental in developing the technique we’re using. I asked him to stop by for a chat tonight, because he’ll be flying out immediately after his talk tomorrow morning. Would you mind if he sits in on our session?” “Not at all. With all the pressure I’m under in the courtroom, having another expert on the case would suit me just fine. When do you expect him?” “In a few minutes. How did the afternoon session go?” Frank smiled. “Better than expected, really. The witness hadn’t approved a link, so I was window dressing.” “By the way,” she said, “what happened to your glasses? That was the special edition, wasn’t it — the ones with proximity sensors for direct hand control? I’ve been thinking of getting a set myself.” “Smashed,” he said flatly. “Snatched and smashed by some crazy by the courthouse.” “If you’re planning to replace them, let me know. There’s a special price on two at a store I found, and—” He shook his head. “Nah. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. I’ll go without, at least for a while.” Their discussion, like most others, soon found its way into the outskirts of medical politics. Fortunately, they were rescued from succumbing to its lure by the synthesized cornet trill of Carlita’s door chime. Allan Wylie was dressed in Midwestern casual, the mock-natural look currently in vogue at campuses; not the look he’d probably use for his talks, but certainly comfortable for traveling. He was a bit taller than Frank, and quite a bit rounder. On him, Midwestern casual looked more like a costume than a habit. Frank guessed that it was a cultivated style, worn more for effect than anything else. “Healer Sanroya,” he said as he entered. “Carlita – Healer Gutiérez – told me about you. We’ve worked together for a long time, and not much of that was formal.” She grinned. “Okay, okay. Both of you can call me Carlita. Really, Frank. I prefer to dispense with the formalities.” After a few minutes’ friendly chatter, they adjourned to one of the examination rooms, where there was enough space for the three of them. Frank got comfortable on the form-fitting reclining chair, and the other two pulled more conventional seats over, one on each side. With Carlita’s assistance, Frank was soon in a light trance, focusing on that fleeting moment just before an attack. As Carlita explained while they were getting comfortable, she would isolate the active energy field – the Elemental – and then work with Allan to adjust its purpose and methods to compensate for the behavior it had expressed at court. During this process, Frank was wholly focused on keeping his energy field still, so it did not confuse the pseudo-conscious energy being they were training. That also meant he wasn’t aware of what they were doing. It was an annoying situation, because he couldn’t learn how to do it himself, should the need arise. Perhaps he’d get the chance if someone else needed a similar treatment. Frank had fallen to wondering what the historian might be able to tell him about the person who wrote that letter, when Carlita nudged him back to alertness. “We’re finished, Frank.” “That’s it?” She nodded. “What did you do?” he asked, swinging around to get up. “You could say we had a little talk with your symbiote. It ought to be more polite the next time it swings into action. | 35,131 | 1 |
**(PS. I have other stupid short stories that revolve around the communication between different human colonies through huge distances in space. Will probably post them later)** "Ralph and his small crew left Earth forty years ago, after the Earth's Space Station had received an SOS call from the Colony Ares-5. It was a small colony that was formed three hundred years ago when a group of brave people searching for a better life, for a new life, left Earth with nothing but the bare minimum. There were other three colonies, each of them dozens and hundreds light years away from each other and from Earth. Though the distances between them were maddening, the communication between them was much faster for it took a much smaller effort to throw a few words through the cold space than to carry a city-sized ship through it. But this message was different. It wasn't a simple; a cordial, almost mechanical "how are you?" thrown among the stars for which the Earth or the other colonies could have waited a few weeks, months or maybe two years at best. This message was an emergency, a curt one, thrown in a bout of desperation when the Colony came face to face with their own annihilation. Being under attack from an unknown force, all they got to send was " *Ares-5 here. We're under attack. Send help in June 4163! Repeat June 416 -- "*. When the Earth Space station received the message forty-five years earlier, in March 4118, they understood how severe and important that was. They knew that a colony wouldn't have wasted their entire generated energy to send an SOS in the past, and all that just to say "what's up?!" or ask for supplies that they could have gathered on their own with just a little bit of struggle. The crew on the Earth's Space Station knew that they only had a few years to prepare a fleet and send it in a long, arduous journey and make sure it reaches the Colony just in time to be of any help against the threat that (were to destroy it) / destroyed it in the future. Not even five years later after they received the message, in a rainy November, Ralph and other three thousand soldiers, possessing the most advanced technology Earth could have come up with, left for Ares-5. And it wasn't but forty years later, when Ralph and his crew were jerked awake from their cryo-sleep. Thunder-like sounds echoed through the spaceship's hull as the entire ship trembled. Its defenses had been activated during the crew's cryo-sleep to fend off the attackers, and no matter how much the captain tried, he couldn't gain the control back. If only they could have managed to see the flight log and figure out what forced the ship's defenses to activate. Ralph watched The Captain "wrestling" with every inch of the control panel till he finally took control and struck back at the attackers. "The engineers probably overlooked some malfunction", thought Ralph. " Or maybe some celestial phenomenon made the ship's computer go astray... or was it the attackers' fierce bombardment. " Whatever it was, he couldn't figure it out, nor he had time to ponder over it because the captain ordered him and his mates to jump into the smaller ships and go stop the attackers. The ship doors opened, and Ralph's small battleship drifted up over the giant destroyer. For a second, the sun of the colony deprived him of sight. He veered off and was astonished at the catastrophe left in the wake of the brutal space skirmish - remnants of battleships floating aimlessly through space, some hitting colonist pilots' corpses then colliding with other pieces of spaceship, and the worst of all, the giant ship they came in had its front right side of the hull strafed like honeycombs. "It would be a miracle if we made it back home", thought Ralph. A colonist warship darted by like a bullet while it emptied a few rounds into Ralph's ship, then continued its soar towards the Colony's Space Station. A brilliant thought struck Ralph's mind: "I must go to their station and established a connection with the colony". And he drifted after the colonist's warship. It wasn't a great landing, but he managed to sneak the ship through the Space Station gate. He hurried out, buried completely in his suit, he could barely hear his menacing goosestep echoing through the metallic hall. Any trial to communicate with the Space Station stuff was met with aggression for none understood his language nor they cared to. He started to lose his hope. "The inhabitants on the colony may react the same", he pondered, " but the message was in my language, so someone must understand", was the thought that convinced him to keep pushing forward until he reached Station Communication Deck. He darted in, ready to make it for the control panel. But the panel seemed but a far blur as the Colonist Pilot emerged from behind dragging a gun in his sprint for the control panel. Ralph's weak body collapsed to the floor. His eyes glanced down to the streams of blood leaving his body, and, in his fading moments, before a spaceship warhead hit the Space Station, he only heard the fading sound of Colonist Pilot's words: " *Ares-5 here. We're under attack. | 5,632 | 1 |
The sound of a raindrop hitting the windowsill took her out of the moment. She could have sworn that today was expected to be sunny with minimal cloud coverage. She put aside her task and looked out of her apartment window to take stock of the situation. For a weather phenomenon the rain today seemed awfully self-conscious, sheepishly announcing its arrival with the occasional plink off the windowpane. It knew it was unbidden, but it was inevitable, the timidity in its approach very human. Those who wanted no part of the rain were given the opportunity to hide away inside, close their windows and get on with their lives, occasionally cursing out the weather under their breath. Normally, she would be one of those people, drowning out the nagging distraction that poor weather provided. But today was far from normal. Today she had the time and, more importantly, she welcomed the company that the rain provided. As if feeling the appreciation, emboldened by having found a companion, a wanting audience, the rain picked up and steadied itself at a shower. She sat there and listened. And as she listened, she realised that this patch of rain was different. It wasn’t the chaotic cacophony of noise that she was used to. Today she was treated to a symphony. The thrumming of the raindrops on the outside wall of her apartment had a distinct lilt to it, like the string sections, establishing the melody of the orchestra. The cars parked outside, a full percussion set for the raindrops to drum off of, each roof contributing a unique sound. Expletives from the unlucky ones who didn’t heed the warning of the rain’s arrival, cutting through the air like a trombone. A delicate yet constant hum, the cutting of the droplets through the air, whirring through the shrubbery, harmonising with the rest like the woodwinds. The rain a natural conductor, used all the instruments at its disposal, flowing seamlessly through the movements of the composition it finally got the chance to show off. For the first time in a long while it had not scared everybody away. This time around somebody was willing to give the rain a chance. Its newfound companion was still there, listening intently, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. Just as gently as it started, the rain began to slowly fade away, giving way to the sounds of humanity returning outside, discordant sounds filling the airwaves again. But those seldom few moments of bearing witness to the rain meant more than anyone could, no, would, ever know. The rain granted her a moment of peace, a moment of beauty. For a moment, it made the pain go away. For moments like this, it was worth pushing onwards. She asked for a sign and in response, she was visited by the rain. The rain saved her life that day and whenever it returned, she welcomed it with open arms. Whenever it came to visit, she would put aside whatever it was she was doing, opened her windows as wide as they would, and listened to the newest composition put together by her old friend. | 3,022 | 1 |
All of a sudden I felt a great weight and pull on my body as the ship was ripped out of hyperspace, in the ensuing chaos I was able to reach the controls for the stabilizers but I was too late and was caught in a planet’s gravitational pull. The force of re-entry knocked me unconscious, but not before I saw a medium sized continent covered in what I can assume to be trees. It must have been early morning when I woke, I was able to see a small amount of light coming through the forest that I must of crashed in. I was able to use the red emergency lighting in the cockpit to unclasp the safety harness. As I stood from the pilots chair, I noticed the astromech that was in the room with me was shoved into the corner with some damage to its connection hookup. I walk over to it thinking “fuck this is going to slow down any process of getting out of here”, I kneel next to it to ensure it still at least powers on and after messing around in the wiring and power supply it comes back on with a few chirps and whistles. After getting the little guy powered back up I make it do the door to the rest of the ship, as I approach the door I heard something beyond the door, scraping or screaming? I pull my sidearm and hold it close to be as I try to use the manual override for the door. After a few minutes the door slides partially open, enough for me to squeeze through, once I’m through I look back at the little droid and instruct him to do what he can to get some power back to the systems in the cockpit. I walk down the red corridor with my sidearm tucked in close, I hit a four way and the sounds are getting louder, it sounds like it’s coming from the right in the cargo hold. I get close to the corner and before I peer around I take a deep breath taking in the smell of burnt plastic and wires. I steel myself, and I slowly take the corner only to see the hallway soaked in the red emergency lights, I proceed to step out of cover moving towards the cargo bay where I think I heard the sound. As I make it to the door I noticed that it still has power, I brace myself ready for what ever lies behind the door and as it opens, there’s nothing, just the sound of what I can assume to be insects and a massive hole in the wall. I scan the room right to left not seeing anything, just some supply crates knocked around. In the left corner I see what looks like feet, I start to move quickly to see what it is. After moving some crates and other miscellaneous stuff I see the synthetic human I missing their arm. The way it was torn off suggest whatever was in here didn’t like the taste for synth. | 2,622 | 2 |
As the lightning flashes through the cracks in my bedroom curtains, my thoughts slowly begin to wander. What if…. What if I could take it all back? What if we had never played those stupid games, said those stupid things. Would things be different? Would I be less afraid to close my eyes in the darkness of my own room? They always say kids will be kids, but what happens when those kids make adult choices? In the blink of an eye we suddenly became something more than a kid but less than adult. We used to be friends, or at least that’s what I thought. The three of us spent all our time together, we were inseparable… Now I lay here unable to sleep, with nothing but the constant nagging of racing mind. I wonder where they are now, if they’re thinking about me or the last time we hung out. I doubt they even miss me, they never bother to check in. You’d think I moved away from this little town, but I haven’t. I am where I’ve always been, at home. Every night I relive the moment that ended our relationship for good. It all started on a night much like tonight, rain drizzling and thunder cracking. I was laying in bed just like I am now, unable to sleep because I could feel the strain in our friendship growing into a void. Laying there I felt a small vibration coming from my left side where my phone had been laying. Wanna come out tonight? -L Against my better judgement I eagerly told her I would, desperate for anyway to bring back the friendship we once had. Sure, pick me up? The rain had begun to slow when Lauren and Abigail pulled into the parking lot of the small apartment complex I live in. Without a moments hesitation I slowly made my way out my bedroom window and across the parking lot where they were waiting for me. “Hurry up and get in slow poke,” Abigail teased as I slid into the backseat. “Kind of hard to hurry when you’re trying not to fall on your ass into one of the eight million puddles I had to pass to get here,” I shot back while laughing a little. I turn to Lauren next, “soooo where we going?” Lauren doesn’t answer right away but her and Abigail exchange a look that I couldn’t quite decipher. Finally she says, “I thought it would be nice if we kind of just drove around for a bit. There’s supposed to be a party at Jack’s house, but it doesn’t start for another hour and I don’t want to be the first ones there.” “Nice a good party is exactly what we’ve been needing. I feel like it’s been forever since we’ve all hung out together,” I say excitedly. And so that’s what we did. We drove, and drove, and then kept driving until I couldn’t recognize one town from another. We laughed and joked the whole time. As the music blared it was finally beginning to seem like we were putting the pieces back together. We were going to be okay. The time had slipped away just like the road behind us, it was now the perfect time to make a well executed entrance to the party. Not early enough to be the first ones but not late enough to not be noticed as we walked through the front doors of Jacks parents house. Lauren always had to make a show out of everything we did together. I’m not really a party girl myself, but if it makes my friends happy I’m always willing to tag along. “I’m going to go get us some drinks,” Abigail shouts over the roaring of the music. “I’ll come with you to help you carry them,” Lauren says in response as they both start to walk away. I take that as my cue to try and mingle with everyone else in the crowded living room. I don’t make it very far when suddenly a really drunk dude runs through the crowd and I get an elbow to the ribcage. If I wasn’t awake before I definitely am now. I turn around to walk back to the door as I struggle to breathe from the impact of the hit. Finally, I make it and as soon as I breathe in the fresh air a wave of relief washes over me and the pain begins to subside. While I’m sitting there on the front steps of the house I hear the door behind open then click shut. Hoping it’s Lauren or Abigail I turn to look, but my optimism turned to disappointment when I see the face of a boy who I don’t even know. “Hey now don’t look so upset to see me,” the boy says with a smirk hidden in the corners of his mouth. He must have seen the look I tried to hide when I realized he wasn’t one of my so called friends. “Don’t take it personal,” I tell him “you just weren’t the person I thought was coming out.” “Ooh I see, you’re out here waiting for your boyfriend right.” “Ha as if, that would probably less complicated if I had a boyfriend to begin with.” “Complicated? Lay it on me, what could be so complicated that it has you out here missing an awesome party?” “I could ask you the same thing,” I say to him, trying to avoid telling a complete stranger my stupid friend drama. “Touché, well I’m out here missing this awesome party because… well actually I don’t really have a reason. But it does feel nice out here so maybe that could be my reason” I laugh a little at his completely ridiculous reason to be missing something he claims is awesome. “Well if that’s your reason, then I think it can be mine too.” “Hey now, that’s not how this works. Only one customer per excuse and that one is taken. All jokes aside if you need to talk I’ll listen, nothing better than pouring it all out to a slightly intoxicated stranger on the front steps of someone else’s house.” I pause for a moment and think about it. Then it all starts coming out without a pause. How Lauren and I have been for as long as I can remember. How Abigail then became apart of the mix. How everything was great for awhile. The more words that came out the better I was starting to feel just being able to say the things I was thinking. I told him everything, from start to finish, and not one time did he try to interrupt me. I told him about how it seemed like they were going apart from me. They rarely invite me out with them anymore and when they do I still end up finding myself alone much like I am now at this party. I didn’t really understand what I could have done for them to barely acknowledge the fact that I exist or existed as part of the group. I’m just lost is how I ended the whole thing. After I finished he paused for a moment before taking a breath and saying, “Honestly, that would be a lot for anyone to go through. Well fuck, if I were you I’d demand to know what was up and if they couldn’t give me a solid answer then I’d move on. I’m sure there are plenty of other people in this world or hell even at this party who would kill to be friends with you.” “You know for a stranger at a party at 3am you’re pretty wise,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. “Some would call it a gift,” he says back with a slight sarcastic tone and a hint of the same smirk from earlier. “I might just take that advice.” “Good, I’d hate to see a girl as pretty as you stay so sad.” I open my mouth to reply with some witty comeback but I feel my face slowly start to turn red out of embarrassment. I turn away hoping he doesn’t notice but apparently too late because a little laugh slipped out of his mouth. “What’s so funny?” I ask, now regaining my composure. “Oh nothing, it was just cute how your face turned all red when I called you pretty. You act like you’ve never heard anyone call you that before.” “I… I umm haven’t really, and what are you doing going around calling girls pretty when you don’t even know their name.” I say with a laugh to try and relieve some of the awkwardness. “Okay okay, that’s fair. So, what is your name then if I may ask.” I pause for a moment not sure if I really want him to know my name after the embarrassingly long rant I just spilled on him. “Sierra,” I finally respond. He already knows my inner most thoughts at the moment, what’s the harm in putting a name to them. “Well Sierra, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Ryker.” “Nice to meet you you.” I laugh as I hold my hand out for him to shake. He doesn’t let go right away, which honestly I don’t really mind. I can tell he’s thinking about what to say next, but for the first time during this whole interaction he doesn’t know how to. Finally he settles with, “Well Sierra it is getting pretty late, or early, however you want to look at it. I should probably head out. Do you want me to give you a ride home or anything?” “Hmmm a ride home with stranger I just met about an hour ago, you’re not planning on murdering me are you?” I laugh as I finish the sentence. “I don’t think we are strangers anymore after everything you just told me Sierra, plus strangers don’t know each others names.” “Okay okay fair point but as nice as you have been I wouldn’t want to bother you with one more thing. Plus I should probably go back in and try to find Lauren and Abigail. I’m sending a long conversation with them in the near future.” “Well alright, if you’re sure, but I really don’t mind. Can I give you my number in case that conversation doesn’t go in your favor. Wouldn’t want you getting stuck here if your ride decides it doesn’t want to be friends with you anymore.” “Although I sense ulterior motives, sure, hand me your phone. Mines still in the car I can text myself from yours. That way you’ll have my number too.” “Haha I’m not sure what you mean by ulterior motives,” he smirks again, “but seriously if you end up needing a lift just call I’ll answer.” “Thank you Ryker, have a good rest of your night. And thanks for listening!” “You have a good night too Sierra,” he replies as he starts walking down the rows of cars parked in the yard. I stand there for a minute and watch as he gets into one of the cars. I see it disappear around the corner at the end of the street before deciding to rejoin the party. It doesn’t take me long to find Lauren and Abigail. I spot them dancing on each other on top of a table with a group of guys cheering them on. Typical Lauren, always has to be the center of attention no matter where she goes. I stand in the corner and wait for the song to end and then to get off the table before I approach. “Hey you guys ready to head out soon,” I shout to them over the music. “Dude where have you been this whole time,” Lauren asks me completely ignoring what I just said. “I just had to get some air,” I respond not wanting to start a fight here by mentioning that they’re the ones who ditched me first. “Well you’ve missed all the fun in here that’s for sure,” Abigail pipes up. “I’m sure it was a blast,” I say trying to hide my annoyance. “Are you guys ready to head out?” I try again. Abigail looks at Lauren like she’s waiting for her to respond first before she says what she’s thinking. Lauren finally answers, “Yeah I guess it is getting pretty late and we should get you home before anyone realizes you’re gone.” Abigail chimes in, “I’m pretty exhausted too so that’s probably a good idea.” “Plus we don’t want to be the last ones here either, that’s almost as bad as being the first.” Lauren states. With that we all walk out the door of the party and get in her car. As Lauren drives I find my phone on the seat I left it and go to the text I sent myself from Rykers phone. I add his name and number to my contacts before sending him a text. Thx for the advice, wish me luck, it’s happening now! -S He responds back seconds later. Good luck! Let me know how it goes, I’ll be up for awhile. -R ;) I put my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath before starting to talk. “Hey do you guys think we could stop somewhere and talk before you drop me off?” “Why can’t you talk while I drive?” Lauren asks. “It’s just it’s kind of important and I want to make sure we have enough time to finish the conversation.” I tell her. They agreed to find a place to park so we can talk. The entire mine I can feel my heart racing in my chest. I can’t believe I’m really doing this. Lauren finally finds an old run down gas station in the middle of god knows where and parks the car. She gets out to fill her tank and grab some snacks then pulls us into the back corner of the parking lot away from building. I try to let everything off my chest just like I had when Ryker was listening but Lauren wouldn’t have it. Everyone I try to say how I feel about everything she cuts me off and inserts a different lame meaningless excuse. Eventually it starts becoming a match in who can say their opinion louder. Lauren and Abigail eventually become so loud that I just shut up and let their words hit me like a tsunami. “What? Nothing left to say?” Lauren throws at me with a snarky attitude. “No point in saying anything if you aren’t even going to let me finish a sentence without getting defensive,” I say flatly. “Well it’s not our fault that you’ve been kind of lame all summer,” Abigail says as she rolls her eyes. “How would you know I’ve been lame, you two have been avoiding me like the plague this last month and a half.” “You’re just such a goody goody, you NEVER, want to do anything fun.” Lauren says seeming annoyed. “Yeah well the last time we hung out, A MONTH AND A HALF AGO, your guys idea of fun was getting wasted and making out with eachother. Excuse me for not thinking watching you two fondle each other was fun.” “You know what Sierra just shut the fuck up!” Lauren yells at me. “Fine just take me home, I knew this was going to be an awful idea. Maybe I should just find new friends since you two have each other now.” “I’m not sure what the fuck you mean by that but sure, whatever, I’ll take you home. Just to spare you the walk, but the sooner you exit my car the better,” snaps Lauren. I don’t respond because I don’t want her to change her mind about taking me home. The rest of the ride is complete silence, I spend the whole time trying to avoid looking up Lauren and Abigail. At one point tho I look up and notice Lauren giving that same indecipherable look as earlier to Abigail. I’m not sure what it means but it’s probably not important. I don’t bother to text Ryker back, this whole thing was an absolute disaster and I don’t need him, an almost complete stranger, worrying about me. A girl he just met. I’ll probably tell him in the morning after I’ve had the rest of the night to cool down. Finally the car comes to a stop after what feels like forever. I pick my head up from the spot on the carpet I was focused on the entire drive expecting to see the familiar sight of my apartment complex parking lot. When I look out the window all I see is darkness and trees. “Dude where are we Lauren, I thought you were taking me home.” “Look I’ve been thinking about what you were saying and I’m ready to listen. Also I ready to get out of this car so I figured we could all just take a walk down our old favorite hiking trail for a minute.” I find this odd but maybe being in a place where we were never anything but happy as a group would be good. So we get out and start walking down the over grown trail. No one’s really saying anything as walk but maybe that’s a good thing for now. “Hey guys I’ll be right back I’m kind of cold and I left my jacket in the car I’m going to go back and get it,” Lauren tells us. Lauren runs back to the car and Abigail suggests we go off the path to the little spot next to the creek we used to play in. That was always our destination as kids when we would come down here so I’m sure Lauren would figure it out on her way back to us. It doesn’t take even five minutes before we hear the slow moving water in the creek. I find an old close to the water and just listen to it flowing. “Hey I’m going to go back up to the path so Lauren doesn’t pass us,” Abigail tells me. It doesn’t take long before I can hear their footsteps crunching the leaves of the forest floor. I don’t bother to turn around as I hear them approach. As they get closer I hear one of them whisper something and then all of a sudden the whole world goes white. Searing pain in two places in my back, heart racing, I get up and run because I know that’s all I can do now. Then Abigail grabs my shoulder and spins me around, that’s when I see it, the kitchen knife she’s holding in her hand. It’s soaked in my blood. She tries to bring it down on me again but I manage to hit her just hard enough in the stomach that she drops it. As soon as it leaves her hand I dive to retrieve it, desperate for something to defend myself with. Just as I pick it up she’s coming at me again, this time, still trembling I swing the knife on her. Just as it’s grazing her shin Lauren finally catches up to us. She throws herself on top of me and already I feel I’m too weak to get her off. She plunges her knife into me, once, twice, three times. This time while I’m still trying to fight back, everything around me goes black. Suddenly I’m not in my body anymore, I’m watching from the outside. A bystander to my own murder. “DIE BITCH DIE!” I could hear them shouting over and over. But it was like my head was underwater. I watched as I took my last breath and still even then they didn’t stop. I lost count of how many times that knife went into my body. Thirty, forty probably fifty times. And I had the same questions I still do now, why? And what if? What if I could take back that whole conversation in the car? What if we had never played those stupid games with each other where we pretended everything was fine when we knew it wasn’t? What if we never said those stupid passive aggressive snarky comments to eachother when we were upset. Would I still be alive and physically able to sleep? Being a spirit of your former self sucks, you watch as life goes on in the world around you but you can’t participate. Granted I have been lucky enough to discover I’m able to interact with electronic devices, though to avoid more grief for my family I always post under an alias. Plus I’m not sure they’d believe it was me if I didn’t use an alias anyway, they’d probably just think it was some fucked up person trying to mess with them. Most of all being on this plain sucks because you watch as the people closest to you grieve once they find out about their loss. Then there’s the fact that you can sleep, because once you drift off you go somewhere else and leave this world behind. I’m not ready to leave it behind, but maybe now that my story is out I will be ready. The night I died was the worst night of my life, but not because of my death. It was the worst night because that was when I watch the people I thought I was closest to, the people I thought were my friends, become monsters. I watched as they celebrated what they had done. They may have thought they were only celebrating my absence but in reality they were celebrating more. They celebrated destroying my parents lives, the rest of my family’s lives and the lives of everyone that knew me. They celebrated becoming something less than human. So as I lay here on my bed, unable to sleep, with my thoughts racing I keep landing on one in particular. Something I should have known from the start… Three is a crowd. | 19,141 | 1 |
The dark blue of the sky hinted that dawn was close, but if the sun had yet emerged, it was hidden by the palace doors looming before her. In the plaza the air was still, but so cool that it made her shiver. It might be hours before she was admitted to the palace, she knew, but she was prepared to endure. Ulla was going to meet the King of Ildraz. She was to be granted an audience on account of the orphans. Ulla had lost her Steph when he was only a boy, but in the decades since she had worked to raise and find homes for a hundred other sons and daughters. It had become her life’s purpose, and it had taken her further than she had ever imagined. When on occasion she had found a home for one of her boys or girls amongst a noble family, they always pledged to mention her work to the King. It seemed one such pledge had at been carried out. From where Ulla stood, the palace looked at once splendid and austere against the slowly lightening sky. Gargoyles stared down at her from lofty perches. Carved in the space between the palace’s two towering doors was a figure with a crown but no face. *As befits a King with such a mysterious reputation*, Ulla thought. The King of Ildraz was shrouded in rumor and strange custom; According to law and culture, there had only ever been one. He was treated as if he had been the same ruler who founded the nation long ago. It had always struck Ulla as strange, but she never thought that she would get to meet him. If only her Steph could see her now. He had always been an imaginative boy, her Steph. He had never gone to bed without first listening to a story at her feet, and he had never woken the next morning without a new dream to tell her of. When he wasn’t learning or doing chores, he brought his dreams to life in the garden. Sometimes he was a samurai from Ceram, armed with a garden-stake blade, riding a broom stallion. Other days he became a pirate of the Piraks, peering through a candle spyglass. And on some he had been a king, crowned with a circle of chickenwire and robed in bedsheets. That was who he had been on the last day she had seen him. Was that why Ulla had always wanted to meet the King of Ildraz? The sun was still behind the looming palace doors when Ulla heard the click of latches, and watched as they slowly swung open with a great moaning of their hinges. The servants who had opened them payed her no mind, and she stood in the plaza for another hour before an elderly woman in green robes wandered out to meet her. From introductions Ulla learned that the woman’s name was Minister Kreka, and that she did not say more than was needed. The Minster lead her into the palace, down a gilded hall lined with scenes of hunt and battle and strange ritual. Some of these Ulla recognized; One tapestry depicted the King calling forth great worms to repel the Samurai Emperor’s invasion of 575. A statue showed the King speaking with Haka the Pirate Queen in 1300. In some pieces, the King of Ildraz looked tall and muscular, in others he appeared short, slender, fat, or even voluptuous. But in not one of them did he have a face, only a crown. The hall intersected with numerous other corridors, but Ulla never glimpsed anything along them. It ended at a small door with wooden chairs at either side. Minister Kreka turned to her, “The King’s audience chamber is through there,” she said, gesturing behind her, “I remind you to be courteous before the exalted one as befits your humble nature. Do you have any questions before we proceed?” It was the first time Minister Kreka had spoken to her since they had entered the palace. Ulla thought for a moment: “How do I refer to him?” “Call him only King or Crowned,” the Minister replied curtly, “There has only ever been one King of Ildraz. He needs no other name.” “I know that,” Ulla said quickly. She hesitated, then asked: “What does the King look like?” “He wears a crown.” “I mean what sort of person is he… right now?” The Minister’s eyes went wide, and Ulla felt something crack against her face. She had been slapped hard. The blow stung, and she felt tears building in her eyes, but she rubbed them away with balled fists. When her vision cleared, Minister Kreka was staring at her, her eyes blazing. “He looks how he always has. There has only ever been *one* King of Ildraz.” She said it in the same way Ulla might speak to one of her orphans who had stolen a toy or pushed another child. Her cheek still stung, and suddenly she felt afraid. The Minister was still glaring at her. “There has only ever been one King of Ildraz. Do you understand?” Ulla thought of all the orphans she had found homes for. *How many more could I help if the King favors me*, she wondered. *But if I should misspeak?* Then she thought of her Steph, her imaginative boy. On their last morning together, he had run downstairs excitedly, already crowned in chickenwire and robed in bedsheets. “I dreamt the King saw me *again*,” he laughed, before giving her a kiss and running out into the garden. Ulla had wandered the neighborhood calling for him all afternoon and long into the night. She had spent another three weeks looking, and was inconsolable for months afterward. *I helped a hundred boys find homes*, she thought, *but I never saw mine again*. *He was the only child I truly cared for.* She looked up at Minister Ulla. “I understand. I will see the King now.” Minister Kreka studied her for a moment, then nodded. She opened the door with a some effort, but no noise. Ulla stepped inside. The audience chamber was brighter than the hall had been, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The crown was digging into her Steph’s head, drawing blood. At its center, upon his brow, a malignant stone glistened in the light. Steph’s eyes stared at her blankly, but the stone recognized her. *There is no greater honor.* She screamed. | 5,919 | 1 |
Despite the shrill alarm, my day starts peacefully. No animal nor ray of sunlight disturbs my morning. After getting up, I dress myself and head out, there is no time nor need for breakfast, I need to lose weight one way or another. The industry has made it known. During my journey on public transportation, I am graced with the luxury of a beverage called "Coffee". Its contents allow me to function with what sleep I have been allowed. During travel, I consume my country's media. My leaders support the politicians of my country financially and I am glad, for we need good politicians. The media isn't censored as that of other countries, for that I am glad. I know for I was told by the country's politicians. After 70 minutes of travel, I arrive at my workstation. The sun won't be out for another hour and I am glad, for my eyes are sensitive to its light. After the first five hours of work, it is time for my mandatory lunch break of 20 minutes and the first meal of the day. The breaks are mandatory to protect the countries populace, and I am greatful. My lunch consists of the very best this world has to offer. I know for I have been educated in geopolitics by lecturers benevolently supported by my leaders. I can afford enough not to feel my hunger and I am glad, for medication is provided to me to lesser the symptoms of deficiencies. Another four hours of work follow. It isn't too much, the populace of other countries work longer, my life is one of relaxation. I make my way home, transportation is crowded, I am tired. I arrive and check my bills, nothing unexpected, the usual. I spend the next hour paying bills, paying the lord who resides over the land he graciously allows me to occupy. The contract protects him from evil occupants. My lord is good and respectable. I know for the media has told me. I split the money I still have left, dividing it into what I wish to save for my old age. I already have enough to retire one full year before my expected expiration and I have only worked for a few decades, I am doing well. Next are issues to be voted upon. My country is one of the few democracies left. My leaders have told me so, and I am glad for we are doing well. Most issues are related to the wars happening around my country. The description writes of genocide. I am glad there is no such crime here. I vote for supporting those in need. I do not know whether my vote will make a difference. Before going to bed, I check the media, catching up on the most important avenues of life. Members of another minority have tried to make their political voices heard and bring aid to those in need within the war zones. The leaders have moved to educate them on the truth of what is happening within the war zones. I am glad my leaders correct the foolish misinformation they believe in. My leaders are good. I know for the politicians of my country have told me. I am glad, for my country is no tyranny and provides free education for all in need. Thanks to my leaders' education, I am richer than my ancestors have ever been. Even supporting my leaders financially, for whom life must be hard for my country's government has deemed it necessary to allow them yet more exemptions from the law, I can still afford not to labor once in a tenday. It is late, I must acquire a cheaper source of productive energy, the beverage is a luxury i should not afford. | 3,412 | 1 |
“Deadly Attractor” () by P. Orin Zack [2003] Chapter Five … Wednesday … Wednesday morning’s autocab eavesdropping left Tuesday’s in the dust. This time, the strangers that Frank shared a ride with actively sought out ways to connect their discussion with medical politics. It was obvious to him that they didn’t know much about the subject, but that didn’t stop them from trying to see reflections of it everywhere they looked. It wasn’t the topic, or even the viral spread of their misunderstandings, but rather the dynamics of the process that interested Frank, though. This was one of the ways that the nature of a person’s language affected their perception of reality. It was why Mara had questioned the jury’s choice of someone like Frank for this job. Metaphorically, we each carry a version of the world on our shoulders. We consult it constantly, whenever we transform an idea or intent into an action. As babies, we used it to teach ourselves how to move, make sounds and convert a noisy kaleidoscope of sensation into a friendly face and a comforting pair of arms. As we learned more about ourselves and about the world, we added to this model, making it a completely believable substitute for the world outside of us. In play, we discovered how to become immersed within this world we’d built, and that taught us how to use it to predict what would happen if we dropped a ball or hit a friend. Frank looked up from his musings briefly as the autocab paused at an intersection a bit longer than usual before proceeding. The navigation system must have gotten word of a disruption or blockage, and was deciding on an alternate route. While all of this world-building is happening, we also learn language, a set of things that we do to communicate with others. The kind of language that we learn affects the way we construct thoughts that can be expressed using that language. It also affects the way we organize and understand the profusion of new ideas, sensations and memories we add each day to the world we carry around. In this way, the world inside us, and the language with which we express it, become tuned to one another. Because of this relationship between a language and the world it creates, to speak in a language is to speak from a particular kind of internal world. In English, the language of record for the court Frank was reporting to, you build thoughts or sentences by using verbs to describe actions that are applied to nouns. A noun is what you’re talking about, while a verb is what it did, what it is, or what was done to it. A world created through the filter of the English language is therefore full of static things, which are referred to in thoughts and sentences with nouns. When you use English to say, ‘I am alive,’ you begin with the assumption that ‘I’ is a static thing, since a noun represents it. You then infuse this non-living ‘I’ with life using a verb, just as the Christian god blew life into his clay Adam. English is a language rich in adjectives, verbs and nouns, some which even come from other languages. This strength, however, is also its weakness, because there are many things for which there are no words, and which therefore cannot be expressed. The discussion in Frank’s cab was a good demonstration of how language affects reality. They were attempting to fabricate logical connections between whatever subject they were on at the moment and the assumed driving force behind the political battles between Hospice and MedCenters. Their evidence, however, was all hearsay, as none of them claimed to have any direct knowledge of it. When someone who thinks and speaks in a nouny language, such as English, accepts the word of another person about some event or truth, there are only a few ways for it to be categorized and then added to their internal world. If you experience something first-hand, you can speak from authority about it. In contrast, if you learn about it indirectly, there isn’t any way to represent how much credence to place on the information. All you can represent, think or say is that you heard it from someone else. Evidence passed along in this way has an unknowable amount of credibility. That is why indirect evidence is not valid in court. News reporters address this problem by citing their sources, but unless you know that the source was reporting from first-hand experience, you still cannot know its value. Ironically, the most credibility is given to a person with first-hand experience of what is being reported; yet subjective evidence is still not admissible in court. Frank could see a murder committed in a witness’ memories, but was constrained from reporting it to the court because in this world, indirect evidence is hearsay. It was enough to make you crazy. Frank was walking the last few blocks to the courthouse when juror #7 suddenly fell into step beside him. He kept glancing over apprehensively, as if expecting Frank to answer a question he hadn’t asked. Frank abruptly stopped. It took the historian a moment to realize what had happened, and then to turn to face him. The crowd surged past, leaving a pedestrian vacuum fore and aft. “What?” Frank said at last. The historian raised his hands a bit. “We shouldn’t make a scene.” “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Look, was yesterday morning staged?” “Not by me. I told you already. I know about them, that’s all. This is something entirely different.” Number 7 nodded left and right, denoting the split in the flow they’d caused. “We’re drawing attention, standing here like this. Would you mind if we walked?” Frank scanned the crowd, noting the stilted body language and awkward stares they were getting from passersby. He nodded, and then continued walking. The historian swung around as he passed, and fell back into step. “That note was written to you, wasn’t it?” “It started months ago. A stranger approached me for information. He said he was investigating the murder of one of his patients, and would pay whatever I asked.” Frank slowed. “Patients? Who was he? Do you know where he worked?” “No. Only that the patient was under someone else’s care by that time. He said he didn’t have access to the kind of information he needed, that it would be protected by doctor-patient privilege. He also said it might be dangerous.” “Then he worked at a MedCenter?” Frank probed. “That’s what I asked. He just laughed. In any case, I got what he wanted, but didn’t ask him for anything in return. Historically, there are times when—” “And the note at the bottom? You meant me, didn’t you?” They were now within sight of the crowd outside the courthouse. Juror #7 turned right at the intersection, heading towards the rear of the building, and Frank followed suit. They walked another half block in anxious silence. “Yes. I got the note about two weeks ago, just after I was selected to be a citizen juror on this case. It took me a while to make up my mind, and I’d arranged to meet him again, to give him my answer. He never showed up.” Frank watched the historian as he walked, recalling the paranoia in that first paper he’d been given. “Were you going to do it?” The historian huffed. “I was. But that changed my mind pretty quickly. I didn’t know much about what he was after, aside from the fact that he seemed to think it was related to this case of ours. There wasn’t much point in it, then, was there?” Frank looked him full in the face. “So why did you add that coda. And why hand it to me?” “Whatever it was he was after, if it was that important, I figured you’d be the only person able to get at it.” “That doesn’t answer my question. Why involve me? Why would you think I’d be willing to take that kind of a risk? It would violate my oaths, both to the court and to my profession. If this is so dangerous, I could even get killed! Why?” The historian looked down, and answered rather sheepishly. “She told me to.” “She? Who’s ‘she’?” “I don’t know that either. But she knew far too much about me. It was very unnerving, like she could do what you— She stopped me on the street one morning, while I was—” “What color are her eyes?” Frank said suddenly. “What?” Frank stopped walking. “Just answer me. What color are they?” “Green. No, brown. What does this have to do with anything?” He resumed the pace. “I think I’ve met her.” The historian was quiet for a while. Then, as they rounded the corner at the rear of the building, he said, “Are you going to do it?” “I’m not sure. I have to think about it.” Frank looked at the rear entrance to the courthouse, then at juror #7. “Go back the other way. We shouldn’t be seen together outside of court.” The door to the jury room was already closed by the time Frank walked in, a habit of their foreman that was beginning to bother him. Juror #1 was standing at the far side of the room, watching as his apprentice held the floor. She smiled, and gestured towards an empty chair. “Please have a seat. I hope our straggler arrives before the bailiff does. The others had a question for you, Healer Sanroya. We’ve been informed that a Healer will be called to the stand this morning, and that you have permission to monitor testimony. Will that present a problem for you?” Frank was momentarily taken aback. “Not for me, but it might for the witness. If it’s done carefully, any normal person being monitored won’t notice it. But a Healer’s psychic training makes you sensitive to such things, so it might be a distraction for the witness. I’ll do what I can to be unobtrusive, but I can’t guarantee anything.” The door opened, and the historian squeezed in behind the bailiff. Frank wondered if the apprentice juror had considered the possibility of a tie. When the foreman scowled, juror #7 backed against the wall, waited for the others to get up, and then followed them across the hall. Several minutes later, Judge Bennigan called her court back to order, and asked Counsel for the Respondent to proceed. “Your honor,” she said, rising to her feet, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Yesterday, Counsel for the Complainant proposed the existence a pattern of events, through the testimony of two witnesses; testimony that they contend forms the basis for their claim against HealthTech Resources and Tanguru ProbliMetrics.” Respondent’s counsel approached the jury box, and stopped in front of Frank. “That many people are injured each year is not at issue here; nor is the fact that some of these people are evaluated in a Hospice Center prior to treatment at any of the fully equipped MedCenters operated by HealthTech Resources.” She slowly walked the length of the jury box as she spoke. “They contend, however, that there is not only a pattern of these incidents, but that there is harmful intent behind the act of transferring patients to a MedCenter for expert treatment. In fact, the Complainants claim that the reason this referral is made is to enrich both the MedCenter and the Insurance carrier involved.” She was now standing by the foreman. “I call to the stand, Healer Michael Korn, of the Cibola Hospice Center in Albequerque, MexAmerica.” Korn strode up to the witness stand and stood to be sworn in. The bold tri-color design of his seamless caftan reminded Frank of the interview he’d had at Cibola before accepting the offer in Los Angeles. In an effort to present a striking image to the public, staff Healers were encouraged to wear clothes that incorporated a variation on the center’s logo, especially if they were representing the Hospice elsewhere. Cibola arranged with several suppliers to discount the cost of custom fabric designs, and that discount could be used for other purchases as well. Most of the staff agreed to the arrangement. Consequently, Healer Korn was a walking subliminal advertisement for his facility. While counsel set the stage with some introductory questions, Frank closed his eyes, dropped into meditation, and extended his sense of location towards the witness stand. This was a fairly simple matter when monitoring a person who had no special training, but quite a different thing for someone like Healer Korn. The idea of certifying practitioners of a profession was intended to give their clients, customers or patients a comfortable feeling of competence, and to ensure a consistent minimum level of expertise and performance. It does not, however, suggest that all certified members of the profession are equal. In the case of Healers, there were two broad groups. Most people drawn to the field were innately psychic. Having a structured environment in which to use their natural abilities enabled them to focus better, and created a professional community within which they could experiment safely. A smaller group was composed of people who were able to learn those varieties of psi used for diagnosis and treatment. Healer Korn fell into the former category. It was therefore no surprise when Frank felt a response to his presence. He suspected that Korn reacted physically as well; at the very least, his answer caught momentarily, an effect that most listeners would have ignored. “—as I was saying,” Korn said, calmly gazing at Healer Sanroya, “when emergency brings in a patient, they are taken to a special room for evaluation.” “A special room, Healer Korn?” Counsel prompted. In a way, establishing a link is like adjusting to the dark. As Frank first began sensing the memories behind Korn’s words, he only glimpsed the strongest ones, like seeing only reflected candlelight in a suddenly darkened room. When Korn mentioned the evaluation room, he recalled walking into that windowless space and watching the room slowly brighten. “Yes,” Korn said, facing his questioner once more. “A psychic evaluation, like any other kind of psi activity, is very subjective. The practitioner must be able to focus exclusively on the patient without distractions. To ensure a measure of psychic privacy, the evaluation is carried out in a shielded room. This prevents random psychic noise, as it were, from interfering with the Healer’s observations. You can think of it as a soundproof room for psychics.” By this time, Frank was fully linked with Korn. The internal landscape he found was nothing like Haglund’s had been. Instead of a strong, focused sensory record of the events being recalled, with vague suggestions of related memories, Korn’s mind was a whirlwind of associations. When he compared the shield room to a soundproof one, dozens of images and sounds flashed into existence and winked out in quick succession. Some were memories, others imaginary. Some even spawned their own sequence of yet fainter associations. If it had been a sound field, Haglund’s landscape could be described as an acoustic guitar solo, while Korn’s was more like a riff played by a jazz ensemble. “Thank you. Once the patient has been examined in this special room, how is a course of action selected? When you answer, please focus on those patients whose problem lies in the disputed gray area, as those are the patients that are at issue in this case. Say it’s a patient of yours; how would you proceed?” Korn nodded. “Certainly.” Have you ever tried to not think of something? Counsel’s request that Korn skip past the examination part of the process, and then to think only about patients that were relevant to the case had just the opposite effect, from Frank’s point of view: he was suddenly overwhelmed by a barrage of memories. Although Korn wasn’t conscious of it happening, a part of his mind did a massively parallel search for memories suitable to report during that one-word delay. Frank was momentarily dazzled by the sudden wash of sight, sound, touch and smell. The overall effect wasn’t a hyper speed montage, but rather like being dunked into a frothy section of whitewater: individual bits of memory were so interwoven that all he was really aware of were general patterns of color amidst a white-noise background. “Once I’ve identified the patient’s problem,” he continued, “I have to find a balance among a number of competing interests.” With its selection of memories made, Korn’s subconscious offered them up for his use by exposing some key element of each. Frank experienced this as a number of simplified memories – an image, a sound, a smell — floating in a fog of diffuse sensations. The English language doesn’t really have a way to describe most of what a psychic experiences. That’s why it’s so important to be able to translate those experiences in a way that makes sense to whoever they’re being related to. It was also why this job he was doing was so subjective. It didn’t appeal to very many people. Korn stared off into the middle distance for a moment. “For example,” he said, narrowing his eyes in thought, “say I had a patient who was traumatized by a malfunction in a simulator. He’d lost consciousness after being subjected to intense, but uncoordinated, sensory stimuli, and had retreated from reality as a defense mechanism.” Frank noted the similarity to what might happen to him if his sprite went bad. Judging from the clarity of the teenager’s image in Korn’s mind, and the presence of related memories, Frank was certain that Korn was speaking about a patient with whom he’d been emotionally involved. Rather than attempting to discern the reason for that involvement by examining associated memories – which would have been an invasion of the man’s privacy – Frank stayed with the surface ones. There was a great deal of temptation in this job, and some unscrupulous people had succumbed to it from time to time. Frank had already strayed in that direction once, and was conscious of the risks involved. “One of the things that I must consider is how the patient wishes to be treated. In this hypothetical situation, the patient isn’t communicative, so I have to move on to other issues. One of these is the availability of suitable treatment at the Hospice. If a certain specialist is needed, but will not be available, I might suggest a transfer.” Counsel, who was standing by his table, looked up. “Transfer to a MedCenter, Healer Korn?” “Yes. Because they use technological methods to accomplish some of the things that we do with other means, the presence of a particular specialist is not quite as critical. If the patient can be served well either way, there’s no reason not to have the patient treated there.” “I see. What other considerations do you have?” “Well,” Korn said lightly, “there are sometimes directives regarding treatment in the patient’s insurance package. Unless there’s an overriding reason to the contrary, we sometimes have to adhere to those rules and transfer the patient, even if we believe they would be better served by our own staff.” During this exchange, the force of some strong emotional memories weakened Frank’s link, as Korn recalled a series of events during which he had fought these rules and lost. “Is that all, then, or are there any other things that you consider?” Korn nodded. “For me, there is. This is something that not all Healers can do, but if you want all of the considerations, I’ll attempt to describe it.” Counsel walked towards the witness. “If you think it’s important.” “I do. Some Healers also consider the metaphorical importance of both the cause of the problem and the treatment of it.” “ ‘Metaphorical importance’?” “Yes,” Korn said slowly. “I’ll try to explain.” Frank suddenly lost his own metaphorical footing as Korn’s internal world suddenly opened up, and he found himself floating in a different kind of space. When someone recalls memories that are based on sensory experience, they are surrounded by subtle reflections of the original incident. Over time, most of the details get washed out, but the structure of having been based on sensory information remains, so it is like reducing a surround holofield to a 2-D image and then to a wire frame placeholder. This was different. Frank moved his imaginary hands to where he could see them, and waited in the darkness. Korn looked nervously around the courtroom. “Many people find it useful to think of the world as having emerged from a kind of reality similar to the place we go in dreams. When you’re in one, it seems real enough, but there’s no objective, verifiable existence.” In order to explain what he meant, Korn had discarded the entire idea of there being a physical world. As a starting point, Frank was very comfortable with that, because it related well to the inner mythology of aboriginal peoples from around the world. He just wasn’t expecting to encounter such a perspective in court. Counsel for the Complainant raised a hand. “Objection. What’s the relevance, your honor? This case is about money, not dreams.” Judge Bennigan turned toward the respondent’s counsel. “Is there a point to this?” “Yes, your honor. If you let Healer Korn continue, I think you’ll agree.” “Okay,” the judge said, “I’ll allow it. Proceed.” Korn, who had closed his eyes briefly, looked over at the jurors. “From this perspective, the course of a person’s life can usefully be thought of as if it were a story. Once you’ve finished a novel, it’s clear why many of the events happened just as they did. Some religions express this by saying those events in your life were part of some greater plan, and that the plan was crafted by some higher being. Regardless of who or what crafted the plan, and some people believe that we take a hand in it as well, there are events that seem to be there for a reason, and events that do not.” While Korn was talking, the space that Frank hung in was illuminated by a procession of shapes. At first, they were traced by a single point of light arcing along a line, or twisting into a closed loop of one sort or another. These broadened into surfaces of various colors, with more complex shapes intersecting them. Soon, there was a profusion of colorful forms, many which changed their shapes as he watched, and some that interacted with one another. “If I am already familiar with the patient, I may have gotten a sense of the shape that the story of their life was tracing out. Sometimes, I can get a glimpse of that shape by reaching into the reality they inhabit, much like the jury’s own Healer is doing right now, and see it for myself.” When Korn mentioned Frank’s presence in his own mind, one of the shapes being traced out headed directly at Frank’s location, spinning him violently, and throwing him into a state of vertigo. Frank immediately broke the link, blinked a few times, and stared at Korn. Counsel for the Respondent nodded. “And what do you do with that insight? How does it help you to select a course of action?” “Well,” Healer Korn said, once again facing his questioner, “if the incident appears to have been part of the plot, as it were, I’ll use my psi ability to determine whether the location of treatment is important as well. That will tell me whether to have the patient kept at the Hospice, or transferred to a MedCenter.” “And if it’s not?” counsel prompted. “Then it really doesn’t matter where the patient is treated. In this situation, I’d compare the availability of staff and facilities at both locations, and choose whichever makes better sense.” “In other words, Healer Korn, there are many ways to decide, none of which have to do with money. Is that correct?” “Yes.” Respondent’s counsel then thanked Healer Korn, and turned the witness over to the Complainant’s counsel. At that moment, juror #2 requested the floor. Under the rules that had given juries this power, there were specific points during the process at which they could interrupt the proceedings. One of these was when counsel for either side had completed their questions. This was done because the point being sought may only be clear after a series of questions has been asked and answered. “Healer Korn,” the apprentice juror said, “I would like to explore your final point a bit further. You have told the court that not all Healers are capable of considering this ‘metaphoric importance’ you speak of when evaluating a patient. Is this technique a generally accepted practice in your profession? In other words, is it among the techniques required for certification?” Frank quickly reestablished his link with the witness. The answers to the jurors’ own questions were the most important ones for him to report about, because they weren’t crafted to support or refute either side’s position, but rather to illuminate the truths that one or both sides wished to obscure. Korn hesitated briefly before speaking. “You are correct. It’s not required for certification, but that’s for precisely the reason that I stated: not all Healers are capable of doing it.” “Why is it that some Healers can do this, while others cannot?” she probed. “Believe it or not,” Korn said, smiling, “it’s partly a matter of whether they believe in magic.” While Judge Bennigan was quieting the murmur that suddenly erupted among the observers, Frank shared the memories behind Korn’s answer. Instead of being drawn from a cultural foundation, as Frank’s own magical grounding was, Korn had built his understanding of it piecemeal, and from a variety of sources. The most striking image that Frank saw during the pause was of a ritual ceremony, faintly overlaid with the kind of dynamic probability model you might find in a quantum physics explainer. The ceremony was a real memory, judging from the sensory overtones that it evoked, but the overlay seemed out of place. “Magic?” juror #2 said, once the room had quieted. “It’s a useful way of understanding the world. If you only consider physical objects and how they interact with one another, you can have a perfectly useful model of how and why things happen the way they do. There are others, though: quantum physics, religions, even paranoid fantasies can be useful, if you happen to be a paranoid.” Frank momentarily flashed to the paper he’d been handed, and wondered if Korn was too busy to be aware of what was happening on his end of the link. Judge Bennigan dropped her gavel for attention, and warned the observers to hold their tongues. “I take it, then, that this is a highly subjective method of evaluation. Does it have to be confirmed by a second Healer? In fact, can it be confirmed at all?” Korn shook his head. “It doesn’t, and it can’t.” “In that case,” juror #2 said, sitting back in her seat, “a Healer performing an evaluation of a problem in this gray area can act in complete autonomy. This method could conceivably be used to conceal the real reason for the choice of treatment venue, could it not?” “I suppose it could, except for one thing.” “And that is?” “The Healer’s Oath.” Now that the apprentice juror had finished questioning Korn, Frank quietly described to her the overlay he had observed. Since it didn’t fit the memory pattern that indicated willing fabrication, she chose to make a note of it, but not to take any action at the moment. Frank continued to mull it over, even after Judge Bennigan asked the Complainant’s counsel to proceed, but he still didn’t know what to make of it. The questions asked by the Complainant’s counsel focused almost entirely on the effects that Hospice management and the patient’s insurance had on how and where treatment was handled. Neither of these things were of much importance to Healer Korn, a point he made at least three times before his session in the witness chair was ended and court was adjourned for lunch. Clearly, they were working their way to the policies and procedures of those two groups. Questioning Korn, it appeared, served primarily as a means towards that end. Juror #7 cornered Frank briefly during their lunch break. “Well?” Frank nodded, aware that he was stepping into the paranoid world of whoever had written that flier he was handed. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?” he whispered. The historian thought for a moment. “Possibly. When I asked that woman why, she said that someone named Jerry would have wanted you to.” Frank froze, his memory of visiting Jerry at the MedCenter enveloping him in dread. If his colleague had been on the trail of a real murder when he boarded that doomed flight, then his injuries were no accident. Someone wanted to keep him from identifying the murderer. But who, and why? What was the connection to this case? And if keeping Jerry off the trail was so important, then Frank’s life might be in danger as well. One thing was clear: he needed to see Jerry before it was too late. | 28,802 | 1 |
It happened every Christmas. The entire family descended on Grandma’s house, having the whole big traditional family shindig. Christmas dinner, gift exchange, the whole thing. And nearly every year, someone would ask Grandma to tell her story. THE story. The time she saw Grandpa’s ghost. It always went the same way: “Well, I’m here to tell ya, I don’t care what anybody says, ghosts are real, and I know it ‘cause I’ve seen one with my own two eyes. I was right here on this couch, watchin’ TV one night, late, and I heard somebody say my name- But they didn’t say Kate, like most people- They said ‘Celestine’. And only one person on this Earth ever called me by my first name, and that was Jim. So I turned and looked down the hall- and I swear by all that’s holy this is true, if I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’- there stood Jim, just exactly the way he looked the day he died, wearin’ his best suit just like I buried him in. And I just know that was him lettin’ me know he was ok.” What happened next was unclear. Sometimes Grandma described it as him “fading away”, other times she said he stared at her like he was surprised she could hear him, and he just stared at her till she blinked and he was gone. Either way, Grandma was absolutely, 100% positive she had seen her dead husband Jim- who had died on his 25th birthday, leaving her alone with 3 small children- just a few days after his own funeral. Most of the family believed Grandma had nodded off and had a dream, or maybe just saw a reflection from the hallway mirror or something like that, but there were a few- just a few- who believed she just might have caught a glimpse of something else. One of those people who believed was her grandson James. James had been named after his grandpa, his mother’s father, and everyone said he was the spitting image of him. James had always been a favorite of his Grandma, and he’d been with her when she passed after a long illness. She’d finally joined her beloved Jim, the only man she’d ever loved, after 50 years. James was asked to help clean out Grandma’s house- the same house his mother had grown up in, the house Grandpa Jim bought for her in 1962, when they’d first gotten married. Grandma didn’t have much in the way of possessions, it was mostly cheap old furniture and old lady knick-knacks. The day of her funeral, on the way to the cemetery, James and his best friend Ronnie went by the house to take a look and see what still needed to be done. The house was largely empty already. His grandmother hadn’t lived here for years, instead being cared for in a nursing home and, ultimately, a hospice. Her passing hadn’t been sudden, and the family had long ago removed anything valuable from the house. “I think we can get this with my dad’s flatbed truck” Ronnie said, indicating the big old dining room table around which they’d eaten so many Christmas dinners. James nodded his agreement. “You think they’re going to be able to sell this house?” Ronnie asked. “I don’t know. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.” James acknowledged, looking through the mostly empty cabinets. “Probably can rent it out or something. Kinda sad. But nobody in the family really wants the place.” “Yea” Ronnie conceded, opening the refrigerator. James stepped into the hallway, examining one of the few remaining pictures. It was Grandma and Grandpa, probably in the early 60s. He’d seen the picture many times, every time he’d been here. But he’d never really stopped to consider exactly how much he really did look just like Grandpa Jim. In fact, James thought, he was probably the same age Grandpa Jim was in that picture. “Hey, didn’t you say your Grandma had some kinda really weird first name?,” Ronnie asked, “Like Sistine or something?” “Celestine” James responded without thinking. Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He thought something moved in the living room down the hall. He turned to face it, and there was a young woman, a girl really, seated on the end of the couch, where his Grandma had always sat, looking at him with wide, red rimmed eyes. James started to say something, then stopped. There was something familiar about the woman... Ronnie said something and James blinked his eyes rapidly, then realized the woman was no longer there. He stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter. Ronnie, seeing something was wrong, walked over to James. “You ok man?” James shook his head. “Ronnie, do you remember the story I told you? About my Grandma seeing my Grandpa Jim, years ago? How he called her name, and she saw him standing in the hallway wearing a suit?” Ronnie nodded. James looked down at his black funeral suit. “I don’t think it was Grandpa Jim that she saw. | 4,757 | 1 |
Subsets and Splits