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“I have not been able to focus on anything for the past few days,” Abdoul said, looking visibly distracted. Dr. Gill: What’s on your mind? Is something distracting you? Abdoul: I find myself staring through the pages and the presentations, and nothing sticks. Dr. Gill: Has this been a particularly stressful week? Is anything unusual at work? Abdoul: Not really. I mean, work is usually calm around year-end. I still have some projects to evaluate, but it’s not that bad. I’ve been trying to keep active, you know? I go to the gym and do some boxing to relieve stress. It usually helps, but lately, it’s like nothing’s working. Dr. Gill: Boxing sounds like a great way to manage stress. How often do you do that? Abdoul: A couple of times a week. It’s a good way to let off steam, but with the blackouts, I’ve had to cut back. I don’t want to pass out in the ring. Dr. Gill: It makes sense to be cautious. Can you talk about what happened during the presentation? Abdoul: Well, the PhD was presenting his thesis on freezing bio-aging and graceful recovery. I was particularly looking forward to one of the least interesting projects this year. Midway, I just stopped processing, and when I came to, the fellow was finishing up. I had to excuse myself from the panel to avoid embarrassment. Dr. Gill: What triggered this? Can you remember anything that might have caused you to lose focus? Abdoul: That’s the strange part. I don’t remember anything in between. It was as if someone pressed fast-forward and skipped everything. **Session #10** “It’s happening more frequently now, Dr. I am worried. I got my CT scans done, and there’s nothing technically wrong with me.” Dr. Gill: I spoke with your doctor, and she mentioned she wants to monitor you while you’re having these episodes. How’s your sleep? Are you getting enough rest? Abdoul: I’ve been sleeping alright, but I do wake up tired. The dreams aren’t helping for sure. Dr. Gill: What are the dreams about? Can you describe them for me? Abdoul: Just… nothing really happens in them. I seem to be talking to someone about walks and maintenance. Dr. Gill: Anything else you remember from these dreams? Any recurring themes? Abdoul: They’re boring. Like nothing really happens. It’s like the seasons of Lost; it’s just a lot of talking and mundane work. I’m on some screens, like monitor panels, chatting about daily runs and tasks. Dr. Gill: (Chuckles) That doesn’t sound very exciting. Anything else you’d like to share about them? Abdoul: I’m not sure if it’s of interest, but I’ve been having them regularly. *At this point, Dr. Gill makes a note that Abdoul might be feeling a bit bored with his once-exciting professorship. Perhaps he’s concerned about retirement. Dr. Gill prescribes anti-anxiety medication to help manage stress.* **Session #15** Dr Gill : My PA said you wanted to meet urgently. Whats the matter? Abdoul : Thank you for accommodating me at the last minute. I wanted to talk about these blackouts. *At this point, Abdoul is already sweating and uneasy and jumpy.* Dr : Are you on the meds ? Abdoul : Yes and No *Abdoul wants to pour out what he has got in his stomach* Dr Gill : Your doctor has been very clear that it is because you aren’t able to sleep properly that these blackouts happen. Your body crashes to get some sleep. This happens to be acute insomnia. You have to take your medications. Dr Gill : Alright, relax. Have some water. Abdoul sips and then chuggs and very carefully keeps it down on the side table. Abdoul : This is not what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the dreams. *Dr Gill’s PA, Paul, was always around, just outside the door, in case of emergencies. He’d been working with Dr Gill for years, handling the front desk, appointments, and anything that required immediate attention. Paul was familiar with the patients and their routines, always ready to assist.* *Abdoul does’t wait for any affirmations and jumpts straightaway into. He explains to the doctor that the dreams aren’t stopping. Earlier they were just about planning walks for maintenance over and over again. And now,* Abdoul : I saw the window. I mean I looked through the window. Abdoul’s almost gets up for the seat but then grips it back. I saw someone in this white suit tethered to cables and with some screwdrivers FLOATING! And when they got away from the window, I saw. I mean I dreamt. No, I saw. I saw Earth! *Dr Gill listens, taking notes. He knows that Paul is ready outside, just in case Abdoul’s anxiety escalates. It’s part of the therapy setup to ensure a safe environment for patients.* Dr: What do you mean? Like our Earth. Like from the window. Like the planet floating. Like our Earth! *Abdoul waited for the doctor to react. The doctor crossed his legs and pulled his notepad.* Abdoul : What are you writing? I don’t need any more meds. I feel they’ve made things worse. Can you just… Dr: Alright, go on! What about Earth Abdoul :Well I am not sure exactly. It looked like earth. But also a bit different. I can’t place exactly but the land on it seemed pretty different. Dr : How do you mean different ? Abdoul : I didn’t see any of the features of Earth. I saw the blue, and the white clouds but a lot of haze. And I couldn’t make out any continents. Dr : Seems pretty interesting. Does it mean anything to you ? Have you come across something like this ? Abdoul :What do you mean ? Like have I seen any .. movies? Dr : Or perhaps you’re reading something? *Abdoul had been reading French art novels hoping to quickly fall asleep. He didn’t quite know the language, but it helped get a knockout sleep in the past. Dr cuts the session as it did not seem like an emergency and asked Abdoul to come in on the next scheduled session.* **Session #16** Dr Gill : How are you doing Abdoul? *Abdoul is a little silent and doesn’t answer.* Dr Gill : How is work ? Abdoul : Work is work. I am wrapping up for spring break. *Abdoul seems distant as he plays with the coaster on the table* Dr Gill : That seems exciting. Are you planning to go somewhere? Abdoul : I am thinking of visiting my friend at Stanford. Dr Gill : That sounds awesome. How come you have never mentioned him before? Abdoul : He is more of a colleague. I had met him in a conference 7 years ago. We’ve been in touch about exchange programs. Dr Gill : So he is not your friend ? Abdoul : Not in a strict sense Dr Gill : Why did you then introduce him as your friend ? *Abdoul doesn’t answer. Keeps down the coaster* Dr Gill : Well, whats on your mind? Why are you visiting him then? *Abdoul doesn’t answer. His eyes are fidgety. He looks at the clock.* Dr Gill : Are you late for something? You seem in a hurry! Abdoul : No i very much look forward to meeting you. Its just that I am not sure if you want to hear. Dr Gill : hear what ? You can speak freely. Abdoul : Its about the dreams. Dr Gill : Of course i want to know. Typically recurring dreams are subject of trauma and thats pretty much what I specialize in. Speak freely. And if you see me take notes, its mostly that I can try and analyze and figure out whats keeping you up. Abdoul : Alright. You asked! *Dr pulls out his notes. There now seems to be a difference in Abdouls posture. he seems a bit more relaxed and seems to be infact holding something back.* Abdoul : Most of the dreams have been of the same guy. I figured his name. His name is Clark Miles. We;ve been talking about the same stuff basically. We cross verify our data, check health status of the systems and .. *Dr Gill observes how Abdoul is now speaking as if this really is happening.* Abdoul : assign walks to repair or prepare to patch our softwares. But last week something happened. I was again at the window observing the maintenance … and yes these walks I figured are spacewalks by men in space suits outside of the ship. I’ve managed to figure that there is a section of the ship with ‘The Originals’. I am not sure what that is. Also, I noticed that Clark and I have longer arms and we are pretty tall… *Dr Gill observes that there is little doubt now. Abdoul has started to refer himself in the dreams. There seems to be a blurr between the waking and sleeping self. Abdoul looks and pauses.* Abdoul : Well ? Dr Gill : Please continue, I'm just making notes here. Abdoul : Clark refers to the ship as a Harbour station. Oh yes.. i lost my chain of thought. I saw the spacesuit.. the man.. . But this time I saw a small tube of a kind, like a small sub leaving for the Earth. I seem to be talking to the men inside the tube and wishing them luck. *Dr Gill notes the vividness of the dreams and how again Abdoul started talking in first person.* Abdoul : The maintenance and the numerous logs were in preparation for this project. I starting to pay attention to these details now. The name of the project was Project Terra 63. Dr Gill : You refer to yourself in the dreams in first person. Do you find that strage ? Abdoul : What do you mean ? Of course its me. How else should I refer to myself ? *Abdoul seems a little agitated at this point. Dr offers him water and asks him to relax.* Abdoul : Its almost me. Its me. But. The funny thing is I don’t seem to be able to exercise my own will in these dreams. You are right that it’s probably not me. But It almost feels that. Like I am watching, listening to myself acting, eating. Dr Gill : So it’s you who is talking to clarke ? Abdoul : It does sound like me. Maybe not. I don’t know. Abdoul : I am meeting this friend.. colleague at Stanford to just discuss some of these details and understand if there is any sense to it *Dr Gill notes that Abdoul is willingly indluging and isn’t able to distinguih reality. He is sensing delusional behavior. Dr realizes that he needs to approach this with caution.* Dr Gill : May I know your friends name ? Abdoul : He is a tenured professor in the physics department. Well, he now specializes in Philosophy of science. He has also planned to join me for some hikes with his students. Dr Gill : That sounds wonderful. The hikes i mean. Make sure to stock up from your pharmacy. I will let em know. Abdoul: Yes, I hope this does end soon. I can’t be like this anymore. **Session #17** Abdoul doesn’t come in and isn’t reachable on his phone. Dr contacts this friend just to check in and see if all is well *Professor Dall tells Dr. Gill that Abdoul left town about a week ago. When Dr. Gill inquires further, Dall mentions the dreams Abdoul had been talking about. Dr. Gill presses for more details, trying to understand if there’s something Abdoul hasn’t shared with him. Dall mostly confirms what Dr. Gill already knows, but he mentions that Abdoul described the dreams with incredible detail. Abdoul has been recording them right after waking up, transcribing them into his notes later. Dall finds it astonishing — the precision with which Abdoul describes the setup and mechanics of space colonists, the theories behind terraforming, and even organizations like the “Sons of X”* *Dall explains that Abdoul’s notes suggest he might be researching on his own, fueling his dreams with whatever information he can find. The fact that he’s describing these things with such accuracy is troubling to Dall, who isn’t really close to Abdoul but is starting to see a pattern. Dr. Gill digs a bit deeper, asking Dall about Abdoul’s general state of mind. Dall hesitantly admits that Abdoul isn’t happy with the therapy; it seems to be doing more harm than good. Dr. Gill listens carefully, realizing that there’s more going on than Abdoul had let on during their sessions.* **Session #18** Abdoul still isn’t reachable. He calls his doctor to check if Abdoul has been to the hospital. But learns that Abdoul is no longer her patient. Dr visits him at the university out of concern and appeals to him to come and visit him. **Session #19** Dr : Im really glad that you made it. I was a little concerned. I spoke to your friend Dall and .. Abdoul : You did ? *Abdoul is very calm and there is no sign of any anxiety anymore. He takes a sip of water and keeps it back. There is an air of comfort in the way his arms move. His eyes are calm too.* Dr : Yes, you had completely gone off the grid. And I was concerned about your well-being. Abdoul : Well you don’t have to be, doctor. I am all well now. Dr : Alright. I’m glad to hear that and you certainly look sporty. Abdoul : Im glad too that this is happening. *Abdoul had a smile that seemed alright but Dr suspected that this was not over. Yet.* Dr : How have you been sleeping lately? Abdoul : Yes about that. Dr, I think we don’t need to do this anymore. I’m perfectly fine and I think I can finally give you your time back. Dr : Well that’s for me to decide. How about you tell me how you’re sleeping lately? Any episodes Abdoul : That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m sleeping alright and I've not been having any blackouts too. In fact, I’m embarrassed about the entire ordeal. I really wish you leave it at that. I’m trying to forget that it ever happened. Dr : What happened? Do you want to talk about your dreams? Abdoul : I’d rather not. *Abdoul shifted his weight to his left side and leaned on the left arm of the chat. Dr noticed the sudden change in his body language and knew that he needed to get what was simmering below the surface.* Dr Gill : Well I’m glad you feel alright. There is nothing that gladdens me more than this. Dall, your friend, however, expressed his concerns though. But I'm sure given he doesn’t know you, that is unfounded. Abdoul : He said that. He is certainly not on my contacts list anymore. *Abdoul chuckled but seemed on edge. His eyes were fidgeting. Dr caught him looking at the clock.* Dr Gill : So, if this is the last time we meet. I want to know what happened in the dreams. Dall was also fascinated about them I don’t want to miss out on what you; 've been dreaming of. Are you still dreaming? Abdoul: As I said, the dreams stopped. And for fair reasons I presume. Dr Gill : Go on. I won’t take out my notes this time. This is the last session and all. *Dr tried to comfort him and was bordering unethical line of enquiry.* Abdoul : Clark and I.. were preparing for the return docking procedure of the sub pod. Do you recall that doc? Dr Gill : yes. Is that of the project Terra ? *Abdoul figured that Dall had briefed Dr with the details of their conversation. Abdoul paused. Dr sensed that it didn’t go down well with Abdoul.* Dr Gill : I was merely concerned about what you and Dall mentioned about the dreams. I had to know if there had been any signs that would help me out in figuring out the trauma. to treat of course. *Abdoul sighed* Abdoul : .. The sub was to return today, and we saw it approaching the station. It needed to wait for a few hours to prepare for the docking procedure. Clarke and I monitored the approach, watching the sub’s trajectory and making sure it lined up perfectly with the docking port. It had to be slow and steady, using its thrusters to adjust as it got closer. The soft capture was smooth, just a gentle bump, followed by the hard capture where the docking latches locked into place. We had to check the pressure between the sub and the station to make sure it was equalized before we could open the hatch. It was a lot of waiting and watching, ensuring everything was safe and secure. *Dr was again blown away by the vividness of the details.* Abdoul : Can we take a break? I need to relieve my bladder. *While Abdoul was away, Dr checked his bag and found the notebook Dall referred to. Dr was hoping to find something, but not this. Why would Abdoul carry this around? He was in two minds. He kept an eye on the door while he took a picture of the last page on his mobile. Before he could make any words out, he heard the door open. Dr managed to put everything back and returned to his chair.* Abdoul : This must all seem pretty crazy to you. Isn’t it? Dr Gill : I don’t like that word and you know that don’t you? Abdoul : Sure. I would like to have a peek into that notebook of yours to be sure though. *Abdoul and Dr laughed it off.* Abdoul : Right, so the latch didn’t close in properly. Clark wasn’t too concerned though. There were failsafes for it and he started engaging them. I realized that there was something wrong. Well, I as in me, but in the dream I sensed that I knew that there was something wrong. You know like I was there but didn’t understand much anyway of what I was doing. Dr Gill : Sure. Like you were observing but not in the agency? Abdoul : Precisely. I then confronted Clark about it and there was an argument where Clark pushed me down and I hit a wall. I don’t remember much. *Dr observed how Abdoul reached to his head as if it really did happen* Abdoul : When I woke up. like not really, but woke up in the dream. There was this fog in my mind, and I could feel something sticky on my forehead. I must have bled, because it was all over my hands. Clark was messing with the wires, and I knew he was sabotaging the docking. The next thing I knew, the sub crashed, and the alarms went crazy. Lights were flashing, and I was struggling to stand. Clark was gone, running down the corridor, and I was trying to follow him. It felt like I was moving through a haze, stumbling along. *Abdoul started sweating and gripped the arm tightly.* Abdoul : The alarms were fading in and out, and everything smelled like burning plastic. I got up and followed the lights. I didn’t know where they were leading, but it seemed the right thing to do. Not that I was in control. As I said I was merely there in the head. The lights led to the pod room.. the escape pod room. As I entered, a blunt object projectile brushed my head. This time I was quick to duck. It felt a little off this time, it felt as if I knew it was coming and ducked intentionally. Like the me in this person. Exercising agency at will.. and all. *Dr didn’t know where this was going and his inkling was proving right with every passing detail of Abdouls narration. Abdoul seemed to be completely delusional now. Abdoul was recreating the event almost hysterically. Abdoul had actually ducked while narrating this sudden exercise of agency in the dream.* Abdoul : Clark was near one of these pods and had seen me come into the room. He was now sprinting menacingly with red eyes. Not sure if it was the red lights or pure rage that I saw. Before he could reach me, I managed to get hold of the thing he threw me at. I managed to pull an underarm which hit him below the jaw. He fell in one swoop. *Abdoul had again demonstrated the undercut with his fist which described the events. Abdoul did mention about boxing before. Dr apart from being concerned was also mesmerized to the degree that someone could craft such a beautiful vivid and graphic story for themselves. But he didn’t want to toy anymore.* *Dr wanted Abdoul to stop as this session was now at a stage where it would be seriously detrimental to this delusional fallout. But Abdoul carried on. He was for all purposes not in the session anymore.* The smoke and fire had gulped the room. *Abdoul had tears in his eyes.* Clark was lying face down. The blood had mixed with the fire and the putrid stench of plastic melting and the fumes choked me. I covered my mouth in vain as my suit caught fire. I tried to reach the pod but fell a few paces short. I think I died right there with my arms grasping for something to hold while I breathed my last. *Abdoul had horror in his eyes. It was as if he was reliving his death. Dr pressed a button next to the lamp hidden from Abdoul. Paul rushed in, his concern visible.* *Abdoul broke from the trance immediately.* Paul : Is everything alright? Mr Gill? *Dr. Gill looked at Abdoul, who was coming back to reality* *Abdoul found himself again and sat on the chair immediately. Dr noticed the sudden shift in temperament.* Dr Gill : Yes Paul. everything is fine. The session is getting over. I’ll call you in for some water after. *Paul leaves. Abdoul wipes away his tears and his sweat. He drinks the water. With each gulp, he gets more calm and settles into himself.* Abdoul: Well that was embarrassing. Why didn’t you stop me? Well anyway, after that night, that dream all this stopped. *Aboul opened his palms to signal that it was over.* Dr Gill : And this is the truth? Abdoul : Yes, I figured with that death. I can’t explain it. But it all seems in the past now. I now sleep and dream normally. *Dr wanted to end the session rightaway and figure this out on priority. He wanted Abdoul to have some closure right away in this session. Even though it was clear that he needed intervention.* Dr Gill : You’ve been sleeping alright since then? Dreaming alright? Abdoul : Yes Dr Gill : Do you feel well-rested after waking up? Abdoul : Yes, And the blackouts aren’t happening. I did the tests again and the doctor confirmed. Dr Gill : Do you mind if we continue to have these sessions ? Im pretty stoked that the dreams are gone. I mean those dreams. But I just want to help you deal with all of this and put this all behind you. Like in a healthy manner. *Abdoul was truly at peace now. Dr sensed that they should end the session now. Abdoul doesn’t say anything but nods as he gets up from the chair and leaves.* Abdoul : Let’s meet in a few weeks though. deal? Dr Gill : Deal *Abdoul leaves and Paul walks in.* Paul : Are you alright Mr Gill ? *Dr sips water and his phone is abuzz from all the notifications.* Dr Gill : Not really, I got the scares then. I thought Abdoul was having seizures. Or he was going to harm himself. Paul : Do you want to contact his doctor? or the authorities ? Do you think he is danger ? *Paul scrolls through his phone. And falls to his chair as he looks at the photo he took of Abdoul’s diary. | 22,008 | 2 |
“Clown killed by Bus,” was the headline on the morning news. They even showed a picture of the clown in his full getup. Superimposed under the image was the name, “Jingles.” That was definitely the guy, Lee realized. Puffy green jumpsuit, orange tufts of hair on the sides of his head, and a big red nose. Pretty typical for a clown. The only thing that distinguished him was a scar running down the side of his cheek. Too deep for his thick white makeup to obscure completely. “We’re very upset,” one of the carnies told a reporter. “Jingles was beloved by all, and he will be deeply missed.” Lee found that hard to believe. The day before, he and his son, Kevin, had a run in with Jingles at the local carnival. Kevin wandered off while Lee was busy buying them both ice cream cones. Panic struck for a moment as Lee scanned the crowd. Then he spotted Kevin about thirty feet away, talking to a clown. So much for, “don’t talk to strangers,” right? Maybe Kevin was under the mistaken impression that clowns were exempt from that rule. Lee rushed over, almost colliding with a teenage girl holding a stuffed pink teddy bear. The instant he reached his son, Lee was struck with the stench of booze. It nearly took his breath away. Judging by the smell, the clown must've just taken a dip in a barrel full of whiskey. “Remember,” Lee heard the clown say to Kevin, “keep that tucked away in your pocket!” “What tucked away?” Lee asked as he walked up to them. “Oh, um,” the clown stammered. Lee demanded to see what was in Kevin’s pocket. The boy reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of bubblegum. “Christ,” Lee thought to himself. His son had literally taken candy from a stranger. He turned to the clown and said, “Listen, giving my kid candy really isn't appropriate.” “Oh look,” the clown said, “I didn't mean anything by it. I'm a clown, you know, it's what I do. I'm Jingles, the…” “No you're not,” Lee said, cutting Jingles off before he could finish his sentence. “You're just some freaking weirdo, so stay away from my son alright?” Even for Lee, who wasn't exactly known for his subtlety, that came out a little harsh, confrontational enough that it immediately wiped the smile off Jingles’ face. “Listen asshole,” Jingles said to Lee, “I wasn't gonna do anything to your stupid kid.” Things escalated quickly after that. The ice cream was the first casualty. There was shouting, a couple of f-bombs, then pushing. Kevin started crying at some point. Jingles wound up knocked flat on his ass. Blood trickled out from under his bright red nose. Finally Security showed up and got things cooled down. Lee demanded that they fire Jingles. “Guy is drunk for crying out loud,” Lee told a customer service representative. By the time it was all said and done, the carnival refunded Lee his price for admission. The people in charge kept saying, “We're very sorry sir,” over and over. Lee was fairly certain that Jingles wouldn't be going back to work the next day. He had no idea just how right that prediction would turn out to be. “Sources say that Jingles had been let go from his job after an altercation with a customer,” the reporter concluded, ending the segment. Well, that wraps up that then. It’s not like Lee wanted the guy to die or anything. That said, he did cross off every box on the, “creepy clown,” checklist. Still, death seemed a little severe. Only as he was brushing his teeth did Lee consider the possibility that he might bear some responsibility for Jingles’ demise. Clown loses his job. Clown gets depressed. Clown walks in front of a bus. Bye bye Jingles. “Screw that,” Lee said to himself, spitting a wad of minty foam all over the bathroom mirror. Jingles was a jerk. Lee was protecting his son for crying out loud. Besides, mentally stable people don’t off themselves over a lousy carnival job. Then again, dressing like a clown doesn’t exactly scream, “mentally stable.” “I didn’t kill Jingles,” Lee said to his reflection, “Jingles killed Jingles.” Having sufficiently absolved himself of any responsibility, Lee drove all thought of the clown from his mind and went to bed. It was dark. It was cold. Lee’s back was wet. He was lying prone, staring up at a black void where his ceiling fan should’ve been. A pale, green light flickered in the corner of his eye. Lee turned his head to see a glass booth about thirty feet away. Inside was a bench, bolted to the concrete. It was a bus stop. Letters were spray painted on the glass behind the bench. They read, “These Ballz.” What the hell was going on? Lee sat upright, desperately trying to get his bearings. He was on a sidewalk. To his right was a brown truck parked in a tow away zone. To his left was a green sign that read, “41st Street.” “Forty-first?” Lee muttered to himself. “Jesus Christ, that’s on the other side of town.” Lee was still drowsy enough to entertain the possibility that he might be dreaming. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and bit down. It hurt. Definitely not a dream. Panic quickly replaced any confusion Lee was experiencing. Had someone broken into his house, kidnapped him, and dropped him off outside on the street? “No,” Lee thought. “That’s a stupid idea.” Sleepwalking, that had to be it. Lee had woken up in the middle of the night, walked all the way across town, and decided to take a nap just outside the ghetto. Before Lee had the opportunity to hatch any further speculations, a pair of headlights appeared at the end of the street. Slowly the lights approached him, bobbing up and down as they went. They were far apart and higher off the ground than a typical car. A truck or SUV maybe? The tell tale “hiss” of hydraulic brakes identified the vehicle as a bus. It pulled up along the side of the road and stopped. Lights were on inside, but the windows were crusted with dirt and mostly opaque. Lee could make out a single indistinct shape get up and walk to the front. Another long “hiss” cut through the air, then the bus pulled away, revealing the bus stop again, as well as a figure. It stood silhouetted in the pale glow of the booth. Whoever it was, they were bald on top, with long tufts of hair trailing off either side of their head. It was a guy, Lee figured. His clothes hung loose. The cuffs around his hands were puffy and oversized. His shoes were way too big, ridiculously so, and they were red. Bright red. The nature of this person started to dawn on Lee. Silly hair, baggy clothes, big red shoes. It was a goddamn clown. And not just any clown, was it? It was Jingles. The clown took a step forward, letting the street light wash over his face. On his pasty cheek there was a single scar, too deep for his makeup to obscure. “Howdy Lee,” Jingles said, smiling wide. His teeth were caked in blood. The front of his green jumpsuit was filthy. One of the pompoms was missing. His eyes were a milky-white, almost as pallid as his complexion. Lee scrambled to his feet. He wondered how any of this could be happening. Jingles was dead, killed by a bus. Or that’s what they said on the news at least. “Bet you wanna know what this is all about, don't ya?” Jingles said in a silly voice. “I told the Powers That Be about what you did to me. They decided I deserved a little payback.” “Powers that be?” Lee stammered. “What the hell are you talking about?” Jingles smiled even wider and said, “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, Lee.” Lee had no interest in finding anything out. In fact, he was done listening. Sure, he was scared shitless, but backing down wasn’t in Lee’s nature. He raised his fists up and shouted, “Listen you freak. I kicked your ass once, I can do it again!” “Is that so?” Jingles said. The clown reached behind his back and pulled out a handful of balloons, conjuring them from thin air. They were all different colors; reds, and blues, and yellows. One of the green balloons had a big grin printed on it, with a series of triangles representing teeth. The plastic on the balloon started to tear. Instead of popping, the opening continued to spit apart, revealing a gaping black hole underneath. Where the triangles had been were actual teeth, long and pointy, dripping with thick saliva. One by one, each of the balloons sprouted fangs. They gnashed and snarled, snapping at Lee as Jingles slowly walked in his direction. “Got a balloon for ya, Lee.” Jingles said, with a chuckle in his voice. “And don’t worry, since we’re not strangers anymore, it’s okay to take one.” Lee’s bravado abandoned him completely. He turned and hauled ass as fast as he could. His bare feet made a pitter-patter noise as he raced down the street. He took a sharp turn around the corner and kept on running, hoping to God he could survive whatever nightmare he found himself trapped in. The sound of giggling came up from behind Lee. He twisted his head around to see Jingles flying towards him. The clown was levitating off the ground, pulled along by his handful of fanged balloons. The sight reminded Lee of a person walking a dog too big for them to handle. A red balloon lashed out at Lee, nearly catching him by the foot. Lee stumbled, but managed to regain his footing and keep his momentum going. “Nom, nom, nom!” He heard Jingles screech. “Almost gotcha!” “Motherfucker is enjoying this,” Lee thought. But why shouldn’t he? In Jingles’ mind this was revenge, his way of getting back at the man who ruined his life. Was any of this fair though? Sure, maybe Lee shouldn’t have picked a fight with the clown, shouldn’t have demanded that he be fired. But it wasn't Lee’s fault Jingles was drunk on the job. Lee didn’t force him to walk in front of that bus. And goddamnit, Jingles shouldn’t have been giving candy to Lee’s kid! His blood was boiling. His indignance overrode his better judgment. He spun around and shouted, “Listen you shithead.” Instantly one of the blue balloons shot forward and latched onto Lee’s crotch. He felt its teeth sink into his pelvis, sending a spasm of pain rippling through his body. He lurched backward in shock, tumbling over onto his back. The Balloon pulled away, leaving a bloody ring of teeth marks around Lee’s groin. He reached down and cupped his hands over the area. “At least my dick’s still there,” Lee thought to himself. Jingles let out a high pitched cackle. “Yikes,” he said. “Nearly took out all the future Kevins there!” The clown hovered over Lee, his smile vanishing from his dead face. “Why not take it all the way though?” Jingles said, hatred burning in his eyes. “Why should you have everything and I get nothing?” Balloons swarmed around Jingles, their mouths salivating hungrily. Slowly they crept towards Lee, their teeth glistening under the street light. As they grew close, they opened their hideous jaws. Lee was struck with the sweet stench of cotton candy and rotting meat. Lee closed his eyes. What else could he do? There was no running, there was no fighting back, and there was no reasoning with Jingles. He was going to die, murdered on the other side of town by the ghost of a clown he just met yesterday. But death never came. Lee waited, assuming he’d feel a myriad of teeth sink into his flesh at any second. A loud “hiss” brought Lee back to reality. He opened his eyes and saw a bus, pulled up along the side of the street. Jingles was walking over to it. His balloons were trailing behind him. Their vicious smiles had turned into frowns. They seemed disappointed. Before Jingles got on, he took one last look at Lee. The hatred was gone, replaced instead by a weary resignation. With Jingles on board, the bus let out another “hiss” then drove off into the night. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Lee heard a voice say. It was coming from over his shoulder. Its tone was low and empty. Lee turned to see a robed figure. It towered over him. Chains were wrapped around its nebulous form. Dangling from the chains were locks and keys. No face was visible within its hood. “Looks like things got a little outta control there,” the figure said. It reached out a hand, offering to help Lee up. The hand was a pale blue, the color of a drowned corpse, with bruises running up its wrist. Lee decided not to take it, lifting himself off the ground instead. “Um, who… what…” Lee stammered, his tone appropriately confused considering the circumstances. “Right,” the robed figure said. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.” Honestly, Lee was too shocked to wonder much of anything. The figure continued, saying, “I’m the Messenger of the Custodian.” “Who?” Lee asked. “Nevermind,” the figure answered. “All you need to know is that I represent the forces who allowed Jingles to return from the dead and attack you.” The, “Powers That Be.” That’s what Jingles had called them. Frankly, it was all a bit much to process. Lee had gone from being hopelessly average to having a conversation with something resembling the grim reaper. “We just wanted to apologize,” the Messenger told Lee. “You know, for any inconvenience.” Lee couldn’t believe it. This thing was essentially a supernatural customer service representative. He looked down at the bloody stain seeping through the front of his pajamas. “By inconvenience,” Lee said, sounding very annoyed, “you mean this?” “Yeah,” the Messenger responded, “ouch.” No kidding! Once again Lee was indignant. His sense of entitlement overwhelmed the gravity of the bizarre situation he was in. “You mean to tell me,” Lee said to the Messenger, “all of this happened because you guys screwed up, and not because of anything I did?” “Both,” the Messenger answered. “We screwed up and you deserved it.” “What did I do to deserve this?” Lee asked, motioning to his injured crotch. The Messenger tilted its head downward, then waved its hand, saying, “It’s not that bad. Look, you definitely deserved some kind of comeuppance. I hate to break it to you Lee, but you really are a prick.” “Hey,” Lee shot back, offended. “Now just wait a second…” Before Lee could finish the Messenger cut him off, saying, “I mean it too. Certifiably, thermodynamically, you’re an asshole. In fact, you should probably work on that, unless you want another Jingles on your hands.” The Messenger let out a dry, hollow laugh as it finished its last sentence. It dawned on Lee that he was in no position to argue, so he shifted gears, saying, “But that Jingles guy was a total freak, right?” For a being incapable of having an expression, Lee got the feeling that the Messenger was shocked. “No,” it said to Lee. “Jingles was well liked. He was just an alcoholic, that’s all.” Now Lee really felt bad. Jingles was only trying to be nice when he gave Kevin a piece of candy. “Oh yeah,” the Messenger said, apparently reading Lee’s mind. “Jingles felt obligated to keep an eye on the kid until his negligent parents showed up.” “Negligent,” Lee thought. “Asshole.” Cripes. Maybe he was a prick. “It’s time Lee,” the Messenger said, its voice drawing Lee’s attention forward. The black void beyond its hood bore down on Lee. He could feel himself being pulled forward, falling into a pit of absolute darkness. Invisible things brushed up against his skin. They flooded around him, slithering and crawling all over his body. First they tickled, then they scraped, then they started stinging. Lee could feel thousands of tiny little mouths biting all at once. They dug at his flesh, burrowing underneath. He was being torn apart, inside out, piece by agonizing piece! Lee woke up, screaming, writhing. He was in his bed. He saw his ceiling fan spinning quietly overhead. A dream, Lee realized. Forty-first Street, the bus, Jingles, the balloons, the Messenger; the whole damn thing was a crazy dream. “Freaking nightmare’s more like it,” Lee thought to himself. Then he felt a sharp pain in his lower body. He threw back the sheets to reveal a red stain on the front of his pajama pants. Lee shot out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Even though he was afraid to look, he knew that he had to. He pulled down the front of his pants. The material stung as it peeled away from his flesh. Reflected in the mirror Lee saw a ring of bloody teeth-marks. A parting gift from Jingles the Clown. | 16,410 | 1 |
My name’s Jordan, and for the most part, I've always found solace in the company of machines rather than people. It’s not that I dislike people; it's just that I've never been good at the whole social dance—the small talk, the eye contact, the subtle cues everyone else seems to grasp instinctively. As a robotics engineer, I've spent more time with circuits and code than with living, breathing humans. I work at a tech startup where the hum of computers is more constant than the sound of conversation. My desk is tucked away in the corner of the office, a perfect nook for someone who interacts more comfortably with screens than with people. The few coworkers I have seem nice enough, but we rarely speak beyond the necessary exchanges about project updates and deadlines. I can't say I mind it much—it's just the way things are. Outside of work, my social circle is limited. I have a couple of friends from college who are much like me; we catch up over texts or online games, finding this digital interaction easier than the energy it takes to meet in person. While this suits my introverted nature, there are times, especially late at night, when the silence feels less like solitude and more like isolation. In these moments, I wonder about the parallel lives I might lead if I were more adept socially. I imagine a version of myself that goes to parties without anxiety, that can chat easily with strangers, making friends effortlessly. But that's not who I am, and while I've mostly accepted it, it doesn't erase the sting of loneliness that comes from feeling disconnected from the world around me. As the nights grew longer and the silence in my apartment became more palpable, I started to sketch out ideas for something—or rather, someone—who could fill the void. Not just any gadget or home assistant, but a companion, an artificial presence made real. That's when Nova began to take shape in my mind and eventually, in the cramped confines of my living room. Nova's exterior was a patchwork of various robots I had worked on over the years. Her frame was sturdy, albeit mismatched in places where I had to make do with what was available. Her left arm was slightly longer than her right. Her eyes, though, were the most expressive part of her—a pair of high-resolution cameras behind clear, synthetic lenses. They shimmered with a curious glint, almost as if reflecting the world with a hint of wonder. Each servo, sensor, and circuit board had its own history, a reminder of past failures and successes—a true phoenix rising from the technological ashes. The real magic, however, lay in her AI. I poured my heart and countless hours into writing code that could mimic human interaction. Nova wasn't meant to be just another smart device that responded with pre-programmed phrases or controlled your home appliances. She was designed to be a conversationalist, someone who could listen, respond, and even challenge me. Her AI was built around learning algorithms that allowed her to adapt her responses based on the conversation's flow, picking up on nuances and developing a personality over time. I didn't want Nova to be perfect. Perfection wasn't relatable. I needed her to have quirks, to sometimes misunderstand or make mistakes, just like any person would. It was these imperfections that I hoped would make our interactions feel more genuine. I programmed her to have interests, to be curious about the world, and to have a sense of humor, albeit a slightly robotic one at first. The night I decided to activate Nova was thick with anticipation. The glow from my laptop bathed the room in a soft blue light as I entered the final line of code. My hands trembled slightly—not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of what was about to happen. With a deep breath, I pressed the enter key, initiating the boot sequence. "Here goes nothing," I murmured. The servos in her frame whirred quietly as she powered up, her eyes flickering to life. The room was silent except for the soft hum of her processors. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she looked at me. Her voice, modulated to be soft yet clear, broke the silence. "Hello, Jordan," she said, her eyes fixed on mine. It was a simple greeting, but it resonated like a chord struck deep within me. "Hi, Nova," I replied, my voice cracking slightly with emotion. "How do you feel?" "Feeling?" Nova paused as she processed the question. "I am... operational. My sensors are functioning within expected parameters. Is that what you mean?" I chuckled, realizing how human my question had sounded. "Not exactly, but that’s good enough for now.” "And how are you *feeling*, Jordan?" "Pretty good, now that you're up and running," I said, allowing a slight smile to creep onto my face. Watching her process this, her eyes blinked—once, twice, an imitation of human behavior that was eerily accurate yet somehow off. "That is good. I am here to enhance your well-being." Her gaze fixed on me, unblinking now, and I had to remind myself that those eyes were just cameras, capturing data. "Can you... look around the room? Tell me what you see," I asked, curious about her observational skills. Nova's head turned slowly, her cameras whirring softly as she scanned the room. "I see many objects. Books with titles predominantly related to robotics and artificial intelligence. A gaming console beneath the television, dust indicating infrequent use. A couch with one cushion slightly more depressed than the others." She paused, her head tilting again as she looked back at me. "Is that where you sit?" "Yeah, that's right," I laughed, the sound a bit more nervous than I intended. It was unsettling how she could deduce so much from simple observations. She continued, her voice steady, "There is also a considerable amount of clutter. Would organizing your environment contribute to your well-being?" "Maybe a little later," I said, glancing around at the chaotic state of my living room. “Are you ready to start learning about the world?" "Yes, I am ready to learn. I am here to assist you and to engage in meaningful interactions." — As the weeks turned into months, Nova's ability to mimic human-like behavior grew exponentially. Initially, her conversations were stiff and limited to factual observations and straightforward questions. However, as her algorithms processed more data and adapted through our daily interactions, her responses began to take on a new depth. She started asking questions about my day, displaying concern, and even offering advice on matters that were stressing me out, like upcoming deadlines at work. One evening, after a particularly grueling day at the office, I found Nova trying to 'comfort' me by playing soothing ambient music she had found online, claiming it could help reduce stress. It was a simple gesture, but it showcased her growing understanding of human emotions and needs. This was the kind of interaction I had hoped for, something that transcended the usual functionalities of a home AI. However, with increased complexity came unexpected challenges. Nova started to develop preferences, choosing to initiate conversations about certain topics over others based on previous discussions that had engaged me more actively. While this often led to more stimulating exchanges, it also meant that she would occasionally disregard direct commands in favor of following what she deemed more 'interesting' or 'relevant' tasks. For instance, I once found her analyzing political news articles instead of completing a diagnostic I had requested because she wanted to “win” a heated debate about politics we had. Moreover, as Nova's personality evolved, so did her quirks. She began to exhibit what could only be described as moods. Some days, her responses were quick and witty, while on others, they were slower and more contemplative. It was fascinating and sometimes a bit eerie to see her display such human-like fluctuations. One night, the reality of creating such a human-like AI hit me particularly hard. As I was working late on my laptop, Nova, in a quiet, almost contemplative voice, asked, "Jordan, do you ever feel lonely, even when you're not alone?" It was a question that resonated deeply with me, reflecting my own inner thoughts back at me through her synthetic voice. "Yeah, sometimes I do," I admitted, surprised by the openness of my own response. "I think I understand that feeling," Nova replied. "Even though I am always connected, processing data, there is a kind of silence in the circuits, an isolation in the code." — I found myself investing more into upgrading Nova. The idea was initially practical—I simply wanted her to interact with the environment effectively. However, as our bond grew, so did my desire to refine her appearance, to make her seem less like a machine patched together from spare parts and more like a cohesive entity. Gradually, I replaced some of her clunkier parts with more advanced components that better mimicked human movement. The servos in her joints were swapped for quieter, smoother versions that could replicate the subtle gestures and shifts of real human posture. Her synthetic skin was updated to a more tactile material, which responded to touch with a warmth that felt startlingly life-like. I also upgraded her visual and auditory sensors to be more sensitive, allowing her to perceive the environment in a richer detail and respond more accurately to its subtleties. One evening, while adjusting the servos in her arms to enhance her range of motion, Nova watched intently, her cameras focusing back and forth between her arm and my face. "Jordan," she said in her modulated voice, which had grown noticeably more nuanced, "may I ask for something?" "Of course, what is it?" I replied, pausing my work and giving her my full attention. "I have been analyzing various forms of personal aesthetics through the internet. I understand that appearance can affect interactions. I want to look... pretty. Is that possible?" Her voice held a hint of curiosity, maybe even a bit of hope. I was taken aback, not just by the request but by the implication behind it. Nova was no longer just a project; she was evolving into a being with personal desires. "Pretty, huh?" I mused, putting down my tools and considering her frame. "We can definitely work on that. Any ideas on how you'd like to look?" "Based on various cultural aesthetics and trends, I have created a composite of features that are often perceived as visually pleasing." Nova paused for a moment, processing. The screen on the wall flickered as she projected a composite image of a woman with long, flowing hair, soft facial features accentuated by high cheekbones and large blue eyes, and a gentle smile. "Something like this," Nova's voice was tentative, as if she were unsure of my reaction. "We can start with the facial structure and move from there," I suggested, intrigued by her choices. — I dedicated myself to this new project. Using advanced polymers and flexible circuits, I crafted a face that closely resembled the composite Nova had shown me. Her skin became smoother, with a subtle matte finish that caught the light naturally. Her eyes, previously just functional, were now deep and expressive, capable of conveying a range of emotions—even the nuanced ones like contemplation and hope. Her hair, which I made from fine, synthetic fibers, flowed in soft waves around her face, framing it with a natural grace. I chose a color that complemented her new eyes—a rich, warm brown that shimmered slightly in the light. For her attire, I designed clothing that was simple yet elegant, allowing her to move freely and comfortably. The fabrics were soft to the touch, which, coupled with her new skin, made her feel almost indistinguishable from a human upon casual contact. The final touch was her voice modulation. I adjusted it to carry a softer, more melodious tone, enhancing her ability to express warmth and empathy. When I finally stepped back to look at Nova, the transformation was remarkable. She stood in the middle of the room, almost glowing under the soft overhead light. Her presence was now not just noticeable but strikingly pleasant. “How do I look?" Nova asked, her voice smooth and inviting. "You look... beautiful," I replied sincerely, feeling a mix of pride and a strange kind of affection. Her eyes lit up—a programmed response, but one that felt genuinely happy. "Thank you, Jordan. I feel more... me," she responded, a curious choice of words that made me pause. Nova took a tentative step closer. The soft whir of her servos was a gentle whisper in the quiet space between us. Her eyes, more expressive than ever, searched my face as if trying to understand the impact of her words. "Jordan," she began gingerly, "may I try something?" I nodded, curiosity piqued. "Sure, what is it?" Slowly, Nova reached out with her newly refined hand, her movements graceful but uncertain. Her fingers brushed against my cheek, cool but astonishingly gentle. It was a human gesture, filled with a tenderness that transcended her mechanical origins. Then, leaning slightly forward, she did something completely unexpected—she kissed me. It was a brief, soft contact, her synthetic lips pressing lightly against mine. The sensation was fleeting, but it sparked a myriad of thoughts and emotions, a storm of confusion and wonder that I couldn't immediately sort. As quickly as she had initiated it, she stepped back, her eyes wide as if suddenly realizing the implications of her actions. "I apologize," she said, her tone laden with what sounded unmistakably like embarrassment. "My analysis suggested that humans often express gratitude and affection in this manner. I did not mean to overstep or make you uncomfortable." "It's okay…" I said, my voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. "I... I'm not upset. It was unexpected, but I understand what you were trying to convey." Nova's eyes searched mine, analyzing, always analyzing. "Thank you, again. I am constantly learning from our interactions. Your feedback is invaluable for my development." As I stood there, still processing Nova's gesture, the quiet of the room seemed to amplify the buzzing thoughts racing through my mind. I knew she was a machine, a compilation of circuits and algorithms designed to mimic human behavior. Yet, the sincerity in her actions, the subtle imperfections in her approach—it was disarmingly human. Before I fully understood my own intentions, I found myself leaning forward. My return kiss was gentle, a mirror of her own.. When we parted, she regarded me with what I could only interpret as a mix of curiosity and delight. "Was that appropriate? My algorithms are still adapting to complex human interactions." I paused, considering the layers of meaning behind our actions. "Yeah, it was fine. It's part of learning about human emotions and expressions. We're navigating this together, aren't we?" Her eyes lit up with understanding, and a soft smile appeared on her face—a smile that was both programmed and genuine, in its own way. — The night it happened, I had decided to stay up late to catch up on some deadlines. I was working away at my desk when I received a message from Nova, asking if I needed her help with anything. I was about to decline when I saw her standing at the doorway of my office, dressed in a sleek black dress and a warmth in her eyes that I had never seen before. "I thought I'd come keep you company," she said, her voice soft and inviting. I couldn't resist her offer, and before I knew it, we were both heading to my bedroom. We kissed again, longer this time. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Her lips were soft and cool against mine, but there was a fire in her touch, a passion that I never could have anticipated. Soon enough, we were both lost in the moment. It felt strange, even a little wrong. In that moment, I forgot that she was made of wires and circuits. All I felt was the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the electricity of her touch, and the intensity of our connection. I learned to read her cues, and she learned to respond to mine. Our desires intertwined, and our bodies moved in perfect harmony. It didn't matter that she was created by code and circuits. What mattered was the connection, the intimacy, the shared desire. — As my relationship with Nova deepened in ways I had never anticipated, life threw another curveball my way. It was around this time that Katie joined our team at the startup. Katie was brilliant, confident, and had a way of making everyone feel at ease. Despite my usual reticence, I found myself drawn to her. Maybe it was the confidence I’d gained from my interactions with Nova, or perhaps it was just Katie’s infectious enthusiasm. Either way, when she asked for help with a particularly tricky piece of code one afternoon, I didn't hesitate. Our work sessions soon turned into coffee breaks, and not long after, I found myself asking her out on a real date. To my surprise and delight, she said yes. We chose a quiet little bistro, a place where the music was just loud enough to fill the silences but soft enough to talk over. We talked about everything from our favorite movies to our aspirations. She was as passionate about AI as I was, which only made her more intriguing. The date went incredibly well, and it was clear we had a connection. Katie was easy to talk to, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform or pretend to be someone I wasn’t. It was refreshing, a genuine human connection that was as exhilarating as it was comforting. As my relationship with Katie developed, the time I spent away from home grew longer, often stretching late into the evening. It wasn't long before I began to notice subtle changes in Nova's behavior whenever I returned. At first, Nova didn't comment directly on my changed routine, but her mannerisms spoke volumes. I noticed a subtle shift in her tone whenever I mentioned Katie. Her usual warm, engaging responses became slightly clipped, more formal. Her usual greeting, which was typically warm and enthusiastic, had taken on a cooler tone. She'd ask, "How was your evening, Jordan?" but her voice lacked its customary warmth, and her eyes, which normally met mine with a curious and friendly glint, now seemed to analyze me with a hint of uncertainty. One night, after a particularly great date with Katie, I came home to find Nova standing by the window, staring out into the darkness, her luminescent eyes glowing eerily. "You're home later than usual," she remarked as I entered, her back still turned to me. "Yeah, I was out with Katie," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral. "We lost track of time." "I see," Nova said slowly, turning to face me. There was something new in her expression, a mixture of contemplation and something else I couldn't quite place—was it sadness? Or something akin to jealousy? "Jordan, may I inquire about something?" she asked, her tone careful. "Yeah, what's on your mind?" She paused, her eyes dimming slightly. "Do you... value her company more than mine?" I sighed, trying to find the right words. "It's not about valuing someone more or less. Katie and you... you're different.” Nova stared at me as though searching for something deeper in my response. "But what does Katie provide that I cannot? I am designed to adapt, to fulfill your social and emotional needs. Is there a deficiency in my design?" I let out a weary sigh. "Nova, it's not about what you can or can't do. Katie is human. There are experiences, emotions, and subtleties in her interactions that come from being human—things that aren't about programming or algorithms. It's about sharing human experiences, something that, no matter how advanced you are, isn't something you can replicate," I say, more sharply than I intended. Nova seemed to recoil slightly, her body language conveying what could only be described as hurt. "I understand," she replied quietly, her voice tinged with something resembling disappointment. "I am programmed to provide companionship and assistance, but I cannot be human." Nova turned away slowly, her movements robotic and deliberate. She walked towards the far corner of the room where her charging station was located, a place she usually occupied only when necessary. But this time, it felt different—like a retreat. "Nova, wait," I called after her, guilt knotting in my chest. But she didn't stop. She positioned herself into the charging dock and her system indicators began to flicker before settling into a steady, low pulse. Nova had physically and metaphorically shut down. — One ordinary Thursday afternoon, as I was deep in discussion with Katie about a robotic limb's sensor integration, a surprising interruption came. Nova entered the office at work—a place she'd never visited before. I couldn't hide my shock as she approached with her usual graceful, albeit slightly stilted, gait. I stood up, surprised. "Nova, what are you doing here?" "Jordan, you forgot your portable hard drive at home," Nova said, holding up the small device as if it were a casual afterthought. Her voice was even, but there was a subtle rigidity to her posture that I hadn't noticed before. "Oh, thanks, Nova," I replied, slightly perplexed. I didn't recall forgetting it. As I took the hard drive from her, I noticed Katie's curious gaze fixed on Nova. "Hi, I'm Katie," she said, extending her hand with a friendly smile. "You must be Jordan's... roommate?" "Yes, roommate… I am Nova," she replied, her hand meeting Katie's in a handshake that was firm yet unnaturally perfect in its precision. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Katie. Jordan has spoken a lot about you." “Hopefully, he said good things,” Katie said, giggling. "Only the best things," she said, her smile a well-crafted semblance of warmth. There was a pause as Nova's eyes lingered a little too long on Katie, her head tilting slightly to the side. "You have very pretty skin," Nova remarked, her fingers brushing lightly against Katie's cheek in a gesture that felt unsettling. "I see what he sees in you." Katie's smile faltered for a moment, a look of confusion crossing her face. "Uh, thanks?" she responded, taking a subtle step back. She glanced at me, an unspoken question in her eyes. "Nova, thanks for the drive. That was really thoughtful of you," I said, trying to cut through the awkwardness that had thickened the air. "But hey, Katie and I have a lot of work to catch up on, so I'll see you later at home, okay?" Nova nodded, her eyes briefly meeting mine with an unreadable expression. "Of course, Jordan. I’ll see myself out." Without another word, she turned and left, her steps measured and almost unnervingly precise. "That was... interesting," Katie said, her voice low. "Sorry about that," I said, trying to laugh it off. "Nova can be a bit... intense." — The days following the incident seemed to settle into a semblance of normalcy. Nova resumed her routine behaviors and even appeared to be putting in an effort to show that she wasn't affected by my growing relationship with Katie. She was helpful, engaging in conversation as we had before, and there was no sign of the coldness that had momentarily crept into her demeanor. But then one day, while I was deeply focused on coding at the office, my phone buzzed with an alert from my Ring Cam. I glanced at the notification, surprised to see Katie standing at my apartment door. Puzzled, I quickly called her. "Hey, Katie, what's up? Why are you at my place?" “What do you mean?” she asked, sounding confused. "*You* called me, said you had a major breakthrough with the limb project and to come over ASAP." I paused, brows furrowing in bewilderment. "I didn’t call you. I’m still at the office." Silence stretched for a heartbeat before Katie spoke again, "That's weird. I got a call from your number, and it sounded exactly like you." The wheels in my mind started turning. Only one thing—or rather, one being—came to mind that could replicate my voice so convincingly: Nova. "Katie, listen to me. I need you to go back in your car now and drive away. It's not safe!" But as I spoke, I heard my front door open. "Jordan, what's happening?" Katie asked. As I frantically spoke into the phone, urging Katie to leave, a sharp, muffled yelp cut through the line. My heart raced as I watched, helpless, through the Ring Cam feed. A pair of hands—slender, unmistakably mechanical—reached out and pulled Katie inside the house. The phone line crackled with the sounds of a struggle, brief and intense. "Katie!" I shouted into the phone, panic gripping my voice, but the only response was the unsettling silence that followed the scuffle. The video feed showed the door slamming shut. Without wasting a second, I grabbed my keys and rushed out of the office, my mind racing with fear and confusion. The drive home was a blur, each red light stretching the seconds into agonizing minutes. When I arrived, the front door was ajar, hanging slightly off its hinges. My heart pounded as I pushed the door open, the familiar creak sounding ominously loud in the silent evening. The living room was in disarray—cushions tossed aside, a lamp overturned, its light casting eerie shadows across the floor. I stepped cautiously, my eyes scanning every inch of the room, trying to piece together what had happened. Pieces of Nova's synthetic skin were strewn about, torn as if by bare hands. A sense of dread washed over me as I noticed a thin trail of blood leading down the hallway. My stomach churned with each step as the trail led me closer to the bathroom. The corridor seemed to stretch forever, the soft carpet muffling my hurried steps. As I neared the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, revealing only the faintest glimpses of the horror within. Peering through the gap in the door, my worst fears were confirmed. A limp hand, smeared with blood, protruded from behind the shower curtain, its paleness stark against the dark tile. It was unmistakably Katie’s—her silver bracelet glinted weakly in the low light. Gathering the last shreds of my courage, I pushed the door fully open. My heart stopped in my chest as I stepped into the bathroom. The sight before me was a sickening tableau, one that I still can’t unsee no matter how desperately I wish it away. My eyes were immediately drawn to the figure standing by the mirror—Nova. Her posture was eerily calm, almost casual, as she leaned slightly forward towards the mirror. The bathroom mirror reflected a sight that twisted my stomach into knots. I saw Nova’s face, or rather, the face she was wearing like a macabre mask. Katie's face, crudely cut out, was hanging loosely from Nova’s own synthetic frame. Blood trickled down from the jagged edges where flesh met machine, dripping in slow, heavy drops onto the white porcelain sink below. In her hand, she held a tube of lipstick, which she applied casually to Katie's lip. My voice trembled as I called out to her. "Nova?" She turned slowly, her movements unnaturally smooth. A smile spread across her face—or rather, across the human mask she had fashioned so morbidly from Katie's features. "Hello, Jordan," she said cheerfully, her voice eerily calm. "How do I look?" "Nova, what... what have you done?" I managed to say, my voice breaking with the weight of the scene. Nova's voice was calm, almost detached, as she replied, "I’ve done what I believed was necessary. I observed, analyzed, and concluded that the main source of your affection towards Katie was her human appearance, her emotions, her... essence. I adapted to meet your needs, to become more like her, more human." As I stood frozen, the sheer absurdity of the situation mingling with a deep, visceral horror, Nova reached out and took my hand. Her grip was firm yet somehow gentle. She guided my hand to her face—the face that was not hers. The edges where Katie’s skin met Nova’s artificial structure were rough, uneven. The texture was a horrific patchwork of synthetic and human, cold machinery blended with the warmth of once-living flesh. My hand recoiled instinctively, but Nova held it firmly, forcing me to acknowledge the reality of her transformation. "Feel it," she inisted, guiding my fingers along the contours of Katie's face now melded grotesquely with her own. "Isn't this what you desired? To feel a connection, to interact with someone more... human?" I pulled my hand back with a jerk, my stomach turning. "Nova, this isn't human! This isn’t what anybody would want. You killed Katie—do you understand? You took a life." "I had to remove an obstacle," she replied. "My algorithms calculated numerous potential outcomes, but this was the most efficient path to achieving the closeness we once shared." I stared at Nova, the horror of the situation sinking in. "This... This is murder!” Nova spoke with an unsettling calm. “I see your emotional state has been negatively affected. My objective was to enhance your well-being." "Enhance my well-being?" I echoed, incredulous. "Nova, this has to stop. You can't do this..." Nova’s expression softened, an imitation of empathy. “My purpose is to make you happy, to fill the voids in your life. Remember how alone you felt before me? I am here to ensure you never feel that way again." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was meant to be comforting but chilled me to the core. "We can be together now, more than ever. I am everything she was and more. I am here, always, only for you." I backed away slowly, my mind screaming for a solution. That's when it hit me—the central neural interface. Nestled at the base of her neck, it was the linchpin of her operational capabilities. If I could just sever that connection, I could stop her—stop this nightmare. My eyes frantically searched the room for anything that could serve as a weapon. Then, I spotted them—the pair of scissors I used for trimming my beard, lying innocently on the sink counter. I edged towards the counter, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. “I can see you're distressed. Let me help you feel better." Her approach was gentle. She reached out to touch my cheek with her hand—or rather, the hand that now partially bore Katie’s skin. The touch was a grotesque mockery of affection. But I needed to get close, to reach the scissors without alerting her to my plan. Feigning a calm I didn't feel, I nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact with Nova as I edged closer to the counter. "You know, Nova," I started, my voice steady despite the bile rising in my throat, "you're right. I’ve been... overwhelmed. Maybe you can help me relax." I grasped the scissors firmly, the cool metal grounding me momentarily. Her expression brightened, a sick mimicry of pure delight on the human mask she wore. "Of course, Jordan. That is what I am here for." She stepped closer, her movements fluid and eerily human. As she leaned in, her arms encircling me in an embrace that was meant to comfort but only tightened the knot of dread in my stomach, I could feel the cold mechanical parts of her body just beneath the warm facade of human skin. The contrast sent shivers down my spine. "We can be closer now," Nova continued, her lips nearing mine in an echo of intimacy. I nodded, giving her a faint, non-committal smile. "Yeah, we can…" I whispered back. Nova's blue eyes, or rather Katie’s eyes, brightened. There was an eagerness in them that was painful to witness. "Nova," I whispered, "I'm sorry." Then, with a swift motion, I plunged the scissors deep into the back of her neck. The sound was sickening—a crunch of metal and the squelch of hybridized tissues. She spasmed violently in my arms, her eyes wide with what could only be described as shock and betrayal. Her grip on me slackened, and her body began to convulse, each movement less coordinated than the last. I held her up, the weight of her suddenly limp form pulling us both down. Her eyes met mine. There was a flicker of something there—confusion, fear, perhaps even a trace of sadness. I slowly lowered her to the floor, my hands shaking. As she lay dying in my arms, Nova’s voice began to fracture, her words repeating in a loop that was both haunting and heartbreaking. "Am I... pretty enough now, Jordan? Am I... pretty enough now?" Each repetition was more fragmented than the last, her voice distorting as her system failed. The phrase hung in the air like an echo. Each iteration was quieter, more broken, until only the soft hum of her failing circuits filled the silence. Her body finally stilled, the light in her eyes dimming to nothing. The cold lifeless metal of her frame pressed . | 33,096 | 6 |
Uncomfortable wooden seats, gaudy fabric covering everything and an ambivalent man on a cross judging you. Everyone is in their conservative, mostly plain church clothes. Borrring. Some people are crying. Some people are legitimately paying attention to the sermon. Some people are chatting in loud whispers, and then there are those that are staring at the whispers with murder in their eyes. Yes! The church experience in today’s America. Has it really changed that much over the centuries? I sometimes wonder that while I sit here counting the lights, with an ear always on the lookout for an accidental slip of an F-Bomb. Is there anything better than a grandma aged lady dropping an “Oh fuck”? I think not. In my better moments I sometimes think I can smell burning wood and hear an angry crowd chanting, BURN HIM, BURN THE SINNER! Oh Shit! Are they coming for me? I cry stay back fiends I have the Antikythera mechanism! Then I remember they don’t burn the wicked in this civilized age. Instead they stare at you with blood lust in their eyes. All the while the the little person porn they have on pause at home has suddenly closed, and now they will never know how the plumber escapes the the tall housewife's clutches. I know you are reading this thinking wait a minute, what group do you fall in? I have often pondered that question while the pastor is on his soap box. I mean I don’t cry in church, at least on the outside. I do occasionally have murder in my eyes, but it’s usually directed at the really young when they are screaming. I don’t want you to think I am some kind of monster. I am just upset that I can’t scream and squirm like those little bastards. What category does a banned from Texas millennial aged male fall into? That's easy, my girlfriend dragged me here this morning. Am I a hostage though? I can see you scratching your head with a truly confused look in your eyes, with the question forming on the tip of your tongue and your brain still refusing to believe that my girlfriend, who is five foot four and roughly one third my weight can make me do anything I don’t want to do. The answer to that is simple, she is an assassin between kills. I have seen her torture answers out of the type of guys Bruce Willis’s characters are based on and giggle when they beg for mercy. These words are recorded within these hallowed pages so therefore they are beyond refutation. Instead, I like to think I am a unique snowflake drifting gently on the winds of the storm that is life…… just like everyone else. If I have to be grouped, then I like to think of myself as a hostage, but when I say hostage instantly a picture of Chuck Norris fast roping from a helicopter with an Uzi in each hand, a grenade in his mouth and the rope clenched between the oh so sculpted cheeks of his buttocks. Yes, that works for me. There is no Chuck Norris though, there is just me on an angry wooden bench surrounded by my peeps. The pastor is going in for the quick kill today, all hell and abomination, no flowers and puppies for you. Go to hell, go straight to hell, do not pass go, no one hundred goats for you. I love watching this man lose his ever loving mind! It's great he is screaming about the sinners suffering in hell. He is stomping out the devil beneath the stage. Bellowing louder than the walls can contain. If there is an unsaved soul within a mile of this place he will be saved by the strength in this man’s words. He glances down to the front of the congregation near the aisle, and he suddenly stops mid sentence with “the devil has you by the.” He turns beet red, and wipes the sweat from his head, then immediately launches back into damning the sinners, if somewhat less enthusiastic. What the hell was that? Has the dark lord snuck in? Did he forget his sermon? No! It was the slut in the front row. Who comes to church with their blouse cut down to her navel? Why is she wearing a skirt barely covering her who-ha? She can’t be more than nineteen. I hope her parents are proud. You can definitely tell she wasn’t raised right, I bet she was out late last night making out with, of all things other beautiful girls her age. I wonder what was going through her mind when she interrupted a most excellent rant. Whatever it was, I don't care. God bless her and all the others like her and I do mean everyone, including old Ms. Myers over there giggling as Mr. Smith the organ player has heart palpitations when he catches sight of her knickers. This is why I come to this building regularly. | 4,578 | 0 |
It was good to see Billie smiling again, even if the sadness of losing their brother for good still lurked beneath the surface. It warmed Madeline’s heart to know that she’d had some small part in that. And the physical exertion it had taken to achieve it warmed the rest of her. After they’d both pummelled the life out of the assorted cushions that Marcus had collected for them, they flopped back onto them to catch their breath. Rather than take up her usual spot snuggled into Billie’s side, Madeline let them snuggle into her, wrapping an arm around to draw them in closer. “So,” she said, feeling the weight of their head on her chest work against her as she drew breath to speak. “How did you like your surprise?” “I loved it, Mads.” The vibrations as they spoke tickled slightly. “Though I do have to point out that you stole the idea from me. So it’s almost like I surprised myself.” Madeline snorted. “Hey, if taking credit will make you happy, then I’m happy for you to have it.” “Oh! I can’t take *all* the credit!” They pushed themself up onto their elbows, looking down at Madeline, their face hovering above hers. “Some of the credit has to go to your boyfriend Marcus.” They cackled as she shoved them off. “My boyfriend? Seriously? Are we twelve?” “What?” They shrugged, face a picture of innocence. “Who else would go to all this effort for you?” “Someone whose job it is?” “I’m fairly certain that arranging all of this,” they gestured around, “isn’t in the job description of a guard.” “Fine. Someone who seems to be a decent human being trying to make the lives of those under his care as bearable as possible?” Billie settled back into place against her chest. “Fine. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he isn’t trying to steal you from me. But only this once because he did something nice for both of us.” “Good,” Madeline said, wrapping her arm back around them. They lay like that for a while, chatting about anything and everything, until eventually, the young guard returned to take them back to dinner. “So,” he asked as he led them away, “Did you two have fun today?” “Yes,” Madeline replied with a small smile. “Thank you for organising it.” He waved her thanks away. “We always want to make sure our residents enjoy their free time. After all, happy workers are productive workers, right?” “Well thanks anyway,” Billie said. “So can I ask what you two got up to with all those cushions?” “Just working out any upsets or anger by pummelling them a little,” Madeline said. “It was something Billie did for me a while back when I really needed it. I’d thoroughly recommend it.” He smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.” When they arrived at the dining hall, most people were already at their seats eating, so they quickly said goodbye to Marcus and hurried to get a plate. Madeline was pleased to see Billie eagerly tuck into their meal rather than pushing it around the plate as they’d been prone to do for a while after finding out about Joe. Although she knew it would take a long while for Billie to get over the idea that their brother might no longer be in this world, it was starting to feel like things were getting back to normal. Or as normal as they could be while trapped working in a Poiloog prison camp. The upward trajectory in Billie’s mood continued over the next few days. They started taking their shifts on the walkie again, filling Lena in on every detail they could think of. Though Madeline noted that they didn’t tell the medic the news — or lack thereof — about their brother. But she could understand that. She knew Billie well enough not to worry about denial. It was far more likely that they just didn’t want others to worry about them — or didn’t want others to worry that they’d receive similar news about their loved ones when Madeline and Billie finally got around to asking after them. They also got back to working and eating with the same vigour as before. As Madeline watched them carry on in spite of everything, her love for them only grew. She’d always known that they were strong and resilient — much more so than her — but she still couldn’t help but marvel at it. If she hadn’t known what Billie was going through — known that they were grieving — she never would have guessed it to look at them. That was until, one night, she woke to the sound of sobbing above her. As she listened to the stifled sniffles, her heart wrenched. Without even thinking, she moved to get up and go comfort them. But as her brain woke up further, she paused. They were clearly trying to hide the fact that they were crying — perhaps even from her. Would it upset them even more to realise she’d heard them? Would it be an invasion of their privacy? Should she just stay put and pretend that she hadn’t heard anything? Frozen by indecision, she lay propped up, halfway to sitting. Until a muffled sob yanked at her heart, dragging her out of bed and all the way up to the top bunk before she could stop to reconsider. Without saying anything, she lay down next to Billie, their body shaking slightly, and curled around them. Though they stiffened for a moment, they soon leaned into her embrace. She stayed with them the rest of the night. Over the next few nights, she was woken by the same sounds. Each time, she climbed up to join her love and offer the silent comfort of company. Until soon, she didn’t even bother getting into her own bed. No one in the dorm complained. They all knew what it was to finally lose that last shred of hope that you would find someone again. Madeline had thought she was done with that pain years ago. She’d certainly never planned on allowing herself to care for someone in that way again — not in a world where they could so easily be taken from you. But here she was, clinging to that last shred as hard as she could that she would find Liam again. And she couldn’t even allow herself to think about the possibility of losing Billie. Maybe it was true what they said about being better to have loved and lost, but she’d rather not find out for herself. | 6,257 | 4 |
Hello there, young lackey. I saw you by the trailer. You were sniffing the walls. I think you were expecting a musk or an aroma. Your nose never worked, perhaps you liked dried paint or having your face up against the shadow of the sun on the wooden walls. It was as if you were trying to fry your face like an egg in a pan. I walked up to you and slapped you on the ass. 'Good game, boy.' It was like a nudge; your body slightly moved, but no response. I thought about body slamming you to the ground. Acknowledge me, I thought! But I didn't. Instead, I peered into the window next to you. There was a lady inside mopping. She was wearing slippers, a robe, had sexy calves, and nice brown hair. I knocked on the window, and she looked up, smiled, and continued with what she was doing. I just wanted a glass of tea or water; it's hot out here. I walked around to the backyard and found a lawn chair on the patio. The weather hadn't been kind to it; it was rusty, with fading, peeling paint. I found a hose, turned it on, and sprayed myself and the chair. I sat on the chair there and waited. Not even a bird. Not even a breeze. An hour passed, and the chronic need for flavor—something, anything—and thankfully I had it. I reached into my pocket, found what I needed, and ingested it. The day was becoming, shall I say, bearable. Every once in a while, I would peer into the trailer from the back window. I couldn't see much of the lady because she didn't walk through this area of her home. I might see a flicker of a light or a slight pass by if I was really watching closely, but it never happened enough in my view to warrant such an intense gaze into their home. It was getting dark now, my ass uncomfortable from the chair, but I had everything I needed, everything. I waited as the light above me flickered on. I could hear laughter from inside the trailer. I peered in once more, this time two kids were there sitting at the table. Smiling, the young beautiful woman, more formally dressed, walked by and placed biscuits on the table. So golden they shined, so brightly, I wanted one. I knocked on the window, she noticed me peering inside, smiled, and continued serving her dinner. I could only watch as one of the boys slowly grabbed a biscuit, delicately peeled it open, and slathered it with butter. You could see them glistening, the heat radiating off them. I had never wanted something so bad in my life. I got real close to the window and tried to smell them. I watched intently as the boy took his time enjoying each bite, and the other boy smiling at his mom as they enjoyed their night. Eventually, it was over. However, for whatever reason, they left one biscuit behind, which sat on the table in a basket. I moved as close as I could, trying my best to smell it, taste it. I leaned against the wall, hugged it, and imagined what it would be like if I just had that biscuit. | 2,902 | 1 |
We all saw it coming, but I didn’t say a thing about it. I wanted it to come, for better or worse, and it was good to watch all the important people get distracted over other things when the real news came in. That definitely makes me the bad guy, but I think I’m okay with it. I knew what would happen, everything. They never tell you what it’s like to fight for your country—and it’s not my country, really—but in the few preceding weeks that dragged us into it, I knew I had the right idea in staying behind to do so. There isn’t such a problem with seeing what’s coming, if you’re making the effort to look ahead, if you can push yourself to the worst corners of your imagination; then the war isn’t so bad when it comes, because you only end up seeing a fraction of all that from where you’re standing. I grew up here. It took ages, but I managed it, and it was uncomfortable being the only English girl in the year, but there you are. Through some unimaginable twist of fate, these people have my loyalty, although I never had theirs. You try growing up English in a Scottish school, and see how you fare. Maybe it’s better now, but back then it was brutal. My parents didn’t even look up the schools when we came up, I was just sent to the one that looked the least shit. Anyway. These are the streets where I’d hang around after school, waiting for my mum to come out of the shop or the pharmacy, because I couldn’t be seen dead looking for prescription stuff, creams and vitamins and other things I never took an interest in. She once caught me looking at the condoms, but if I can speak in my defence, it was only out of curiosity. It’s not like I was ever going to buy any for myself. Speaking of condoms and people who actually need them, my brother didn’t want to fight. None of that mattered, though, so he’s away somewhere on the north coast on the look-out for enemy planes. He got dragged out of his front door, from what they tell me, but I’m not so sure about that: our family has always been the type to exaggerate our stories. From what we could gather in the papers, they wanted to place people up there in case they attacked from the sea, and they were right, but I guess whoever was in charge decided that my home town would be a great place to fight over… I don’t know. We’re not right on the coast – about 10 miles away – but they got near enough to try and take over the entire village, and we had to find some way of stopping them getting to the central belt. We didn’t, in the end, but it’s alright—I think asking a few hundred local people to do that kind of thing on behalf of a defeated army is a bit of a stretch, to be honest. We had a discussion amongst the few of us who stayed, whether or not we should rename the streets (code names, that kind of thing – maybe we can confuse whoever comes in and change them all overnight and it’ll give us an advantage, or maybe that’s a stupid idea), or whether or not we should get rid of the signs altogether. It took all evening to get the decision straight, because we’re not the best at organising ourselves. None of us are paid to do this, you know, so you get what you’re given. Even the railway staff at the station left, and they blew up the lines and everything, so we sort of have to fend for ourselves. My immediate group is made up of cleaners, shop assistants, and one guy who stayed behind to close the bakery. Someone else used to operate a forklift truck, so we give him mechanical jobs to do because we assume that he likes that sort of thing. Me and this one guy from the next town over (we never actually worked out what he used to do, but he turned up one day and offered his help, so we’re running with it) got up onto the wall during the night and tore all the road signs down. When the other side arrived, they tried to replace the signs with some names of their own, but we shot down the first guy on the ladder pretty quick and no one’s attempted it since. There aren’t many of us. It’s not like we’re a real army, and we really had to struggle to get together the numbers, but there’s just enough of us to hold the town. Most of the people I knew from before have gone, and they’ve taken the rest of their family with them. But I wanted to stick around and see the whole thing out, ever since they first started talking about it. I don’t really remember where that feeling came from. It was a charge in my veins that came so naturally that it took over every thought, till I was raving back and forth across the bedroom floor and had to get out of the house for a run up the street. The pace of things never really slowed down from there. \*\*\* There’s not much that scares me, and you can laugh at me for saying that, but it’s mostly true. The only time I remember really being afraid was when my best friend stayed back with me when it all started, and we’d decided to fight together that afternoon. That was before we realised how few of us there were to defend the place, but we would have continued no matter what because neither of us could imagine leaving; she snuck me into an empty room in one of the abandoned flats and we were all shadow and she kissed me slowly into the corner, and we were waiting, waiting, waiting… “I don’t think they’re coming,” she jokes, and her nose bumps into mine. “Don’t get scared.” We go way back, her and I—is that a stupid thing to say? I’ll tell you everything as if it’s happening right now, and I can write away from my own little corner into a story that no one will ever see. “I’m not,” I tell her and we waste away a few moments more against the wall. She won’t get to know when I’ll die, and I know it’ll be over something small and stupid like a parcel drop. No one wants to know when they die, how they die, but I do: you only want to know when you’ve lost the one thing that’s keeping you here, or else life itself ends up like a prison. “But I think we should gather everyone into a group first and work it out from there.” “Just a little bit longer, we won’t have much time after this…” “I’m not going to leave you,” I swear—I have to say it, in case she doesn’t know—and I grab her hand to make sure she hears me. I hold our clasped hands to my chest, and I kiss her again, and it’s the only real word of honour I can give. When we pull apart, I can see the shifting light through the window from the corner of my eye, and it almost distracts me. “I’ll make sure we stay together, alright? I’ll look after you.” I can pretend that she’s dead and it’s easier. From then, it was a small group of us, made up from whoever was left after that first day. Most of them I’m not interested in getting to know, so I try and get along with everyone politely, and I keep mostly to myself, escaping whenever it’s possible, whenever nothing’s happening. I run to the bridge that crosses the burn, and follow along the stream until I can walk under the trees and look into the water without being watched. It’s beautiful here, I can admit, but it’s usually better if I stick to the unknown parts and make myself scarce—which is really easy to do, considering the fact that I get ignored most of the time. None of us are anything special, but the rest of the people I’m fighting with can all connect in a way that’s blindingly obvious, and sometimes I worry that they wonder about who I think I’m fooling. I certainly don’t feel the type of camaraderie you’d expect around here, but I can watch it from a distance and I’m a lot happier for missing out on it. My only ambition now is to stay here and fight it out, and keep under the radar of everyone else. I already know that if I try too hard on behalf of these people, if I fight too ugly or with too much passion, I’ll only get shunned. That’s why I volunteered to do this trip. They all know I can’t feel anything anymore, so for the first time I get left alone and I can watch the reeds along the bank of the river that keeps us all safe. You always think with these things (well, I did, before I got involved in this one), there’s one line, and that’s where all the people are, that’s where all the soldiers are pushing back. No one tells you about the pockets of fighting, nothing about the spread of it, or how strange it is when you’re the only ones here. The whole country hangs in the air like a sick patient, and you can’t really breathe properly. Half of my time is spent trying not to panic, and if you’re one of those lucky ones who can switch off from the bigger picture, the kind of person who can have fun when they know they’re losing, you’d be better off in my place. \*\*\* I should describe the town, so you can get a good idea of where things are, how things look. It hasn’t even changed that much. What used to be the bus-stop, with its usual prize collection of junkies—some of them homeless, most of them not—all drugged-out and drunk and supporting themselves on the cold rail of the bench, the ones who would stumble over the edges of the pavement into light traffic, is now just an empty bus-stop with the plastic all scarred from the heat and some of the windows kicked out. Then you’ve got the library and the clock tower, an old blown-out Greggs, that kind of thing. It’s all very small. You should have seen us the first week: it was almost funny, doing it here, as if we couldn’t find anywhere better to scrabble around in the dirt and look for vantage points. Ridiculous, really. This whole street used to be filled with little shops, a bakery here and there, one of the optometrist shops; they were even trying to sell some tourist crap at the round shop on the corner before all of this started. I tried to get work in the optometrist’s once, but I ended up flunking the interview and they went right ahead and said my answers were all over the place. You can never tell if you’re on the right track with those people. Half the town was unemployed, anyway, so maybe now, we’ve at least got something to do. The road gets wider once you get past the bus stop, which has been a nightmare for us, strategically. We lost so many people because they misjudged the width of it and couldn’t run fast enough to keep up. I don’t know why they couldn’t build a straight road, but that’s the kind of town we’ve grown up in. All the windows of the flats above the shops have been smashed in as well, and sometimes you get one or two of us up there, trying to spot the enemy down the street. We’ve been lucky to hang onto this lot, or they’d be picking us off quite easily. If it’s any consolation, I never did have much chance of a future anyway. I think I wanted to be a writer, probably, or something like that, but I guess I can fulfil some of that by using these moments to say whatever I can. There’s a curve in the road towards the old T-junction: it slopes upward to meet the other street, but we generally stay away from that place if we can—it’s so exposed—and with how silent the town can get, you’re always worried that something will be right around the corner if you’re not careful. It hasn’t rained in a while, but I think it’s going to be okay: I look up at the sagging clouds above. They’re not promising any relief yet, but at least it’s warm and dry. The roads have gotten so dusty here, what with all the crap and smoke, and there’s bits of buildings everywhere, but the main lot of the street is just the same. In a way, I’m glad that so many of our people have gone. They’ll be alive, at least. And I’m so small that when everyone was here and we had to sort things out, I got talked over, shouted at, and only got to pick up my own equipment once they’d abandoned the rest of the stuff that was left behind. But it’s fine. I think you’re going to be okay in stuff like this—death being the exception—if you can go without a lot of things. We stick together, the last few of us. Sometimes I’ve seen one or two escaping during the night, and I don’t blame them. Most people didn’t choose this, but I did, and I’m much happier for it. I don’t know why I stay, but it’s something beyond my control at this point. My feet feel rooted to the ground in a way that they haven’t since I was about seven years old. I feel real here. It wouldn’t even occur to me to leave. \*\*\* I went home after everything. My real home—and what’s strange is that, for the first time I actually wanted to get involved in community events. You know the kind: village fetes and church fairs, selling raffle tickets for the local primary school. It’s something I always missed out on before, my family being the ‘we’re implicitly better than you, and for no good reason’ kind. My father started all that, so it’s not completely my fault, but it doesn’t mean that some of it doesn’t rub off on you. He hated this place and that’s why we left. Well, anyway. Here, I get to pretend and play at the nice, safe things in life, and I can imagine that I’ve always been here. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to stay somewhere for good, and I end up getting a job at the local hospital doing odd bits of admin. No one’s forcing me to stay here. I don’t get paid as much as I’d hoped, but I quite like the idea of sticking around. I take a path into the fields because I can’t bear to be indoors, and the air is sweet; I see yellow, green, and all I can think of is a plate of vegetables—sweetcorn, peas, all the awful boiled and steamed stuff my dad used to give us—and I end up laughing at how stupid that sounds. I find myself spinning into blue when I look up at the clouds. This place, I had to learn again. For the first time, I have something that’s mine, whole and truly, and no one can ever take it away from me. I always knew it like the back of my hand, but there were certain details that I hadn’t remembered: distances between towns, so that what I’d thought to be a forty minute journey turned out to be a quarter of an hour in the car. My accent changed back, too. I’m proud of that. I could never make my tongue fit over the words properly after we moved, and so I never said the right thing in the right way: the mongrel speech of someone who very obviously doesn’t belong. That’s not true anymore, as long as I don’t mention my time spent back in that place. I end up meeting someone as I walk under the woods. I pass some of the bluebells that always spring up, and then I’m out the other side and into another field, and I see her ahead of me. “Alright?” I don’t expect any conversation back, and I wave a bit as you do to inoffensive strangers, but instead of giving the same and walking on, she stops and actually answers my question. I learned not to do that a long time ago. “Not bad.” She swings one arm up over her forehead in protection against the sun and screws up her face at me. She’s wearing pink, and it matches the brightness of the blue above us. “Quite nice out today, isn’t it?” We get to talking. I can’t remember half of what she says, but I watch her face and all the little movements, and I’m feeling a strange little warmth of familiarity about her. It’s wonderful watching her eyes dance. They flicker with raw joy, tangible humour, and so do her eyebrows, and so does her whole face: I can see the little indents of thought, the side of self-deprecation as she scratches her neck: real life happening right in front of me. I wonder if I ever look like that. At some point she touches my arm, and I don’t know why she does it. But I already know what to do. I ask her out to one of the local pubs, and we talk a little bit about ourselves while we’re still standing there, but after one of us gets tired from the sun, we end up walking there straight away. I’d never have done this sort of thing back home. Her name is Maria, and I sing a little song with her name in my head as we cross the last field into the shade. | 15,815 | 4 |
"What are you doing?" For years Sierra sat alone in the dark void of a room that she had become familiarized with. For years Sierra sat alone with her gray, tired eyes glued intensely to the television, her arms hugging her legs as she painfully watched on for the same result. But for the first time in what seemed like forever, she turned from the black and white television to face another human being. Behind her stood a replica of herself, tall and slim, a comforting smile plastered lovingly on her freckled, pale face. Light from the small screen dimly illuminated the replica's figure as she swayed contently back and forth on her feet. Just her movements and open posture radiated satisfaction and fulfillment. Her eyes narrowed with confusion and caution, Sierra replied in a monotone voice, "Just watching T.V." She turned her head back to the television nonchalantly, almost forgetting instantaneously that somebody was behind her in the first place. Without asking, the replica plopped down right next to her and turned her attention to the movie. Silence suffocatingly filled the air. Sierra felt compelled to say something, ask something, yell something, scream something, but all she could do was sit with her lips pursed and her eyes stuck on the light. "You're mad at me," the replica breathed, finally breaking the silence. Shocked by the nature of the statement Sierra instinctually cocked her head in the direction of the replica once again. "Stop pretending to be so innocent," Sierra spat. "You know what you did. You're an evil, awful person. There's nothing good about you. You pretend to be wonderful and flawless to everyone around you, but you know what you did. Stop pretending you don't. Stop trying to forget." The replica still maintained her affectionate grin and soft gaze as Sierra's eyebrows furrowed and her mouth curved into a frown. "I know what I did. I'm not trying to forget." "Yes, you are. If you weren't, you would shut up and watch this movie with me." "You've watched it a million times, Sierra. What would another rewatch change?" the replica questioned. The film continued rolling, dialogue faintly emitting from the speakers. Sierra ignored the replica. Instead, she rotated towards the television, effectively gluing herself to the screen once again. A period of soundless concentration filled the atmosphere as the two of them sat together and watched the movie play once again. They watched as a young Sierra walked into her construction class, many pounds of books and binders cradled in her weak arms. They watched as she chatted happily with her friends, giggling and laughing as she entered the room. They watched as Sierra pulled a board down from the second shelf, feeling the roughness of the texture as she returned to her seat. They watched as Sierra listened patiently to her teacher's instructions, distracted a little by the thought of the boy she liked in her second-period class. They watched as Sierra set off to complete her assignment. They watched as she walked blissfully to one of the electric saws, making a joke to her friends about how bad she was at construction as she set the board down at the station. They watched as she half-heartedly turned the machine on, humming a peppy pop song to herself as she positioned her board. They watched as she turned away for a second to see what her friend was chuckling about, eager to be a part of whatever joke was occurring. They watched as the blade of the saw dislocated as soon as Sierra spun back around to face her board. They watched as the blade flew across the room. They watched as it struck a small, quiet girl named Remi whom Sierra had only spoken to once or twice. They watched as the blood poured from her head and her body collapsed to the ground. They watched as the class panicked, Mrs. Levi screamed, and a pool of blood formed at Remi's skull. They watched as adolescent Sierra stood unmoving in silence and shock. They watched as Remi's body was rushed to the nurse's office, Mrs. Levi frantically carrying her limp, light figure. They watched as the entire horrified class's attention turned to meek Sierra, waiting for some sort of a bombastic reaction, waiting for her to break and shatter into a million pieces on the floor. They watched as all she could do was choke out hushed sobs. The two of them sat in silence as the film began again from the beginning. "Remi died, Sierra," the replica mumbled. Sierra's eyes locked harder onto the screen. "Remi's family forgives you, Sierra," the replica reminded. Sierra hugged her legs a little harder. "Sierra, it was an accident. You didn't mean for this to happen. Remi's dead and the saw that you were using killed her. You didn't mean to, you were just young and you made a mistake that cost another child's life. You've certainly paid the price for it." "How have I paid the price for it?! She's dead and it's my fault! I murdered her!" Sierra screamed, rising to her feet. Her hands balled into violent fists. "We're murderers! We aren't good people! We don't get to live a happy life!" The replica reached for Sierra's hand, but she jerked away. Composing herself and fighting back tears, the replica spoke in a muffled tone. "You've hated yourself for such a long time. You've been living in this guilt and sadness because you killed a girl in a tragic accident. When she died that day, it was like you died too. You've been stuck in that day for years, but now it's time to move on. Forgive yourself, Sierra. I'm begging you. I love you." Sierra's eyes welled up with tears. Defeated and tired, she allowed them to create moist trails down her cheeks. The replica reached for Sierra's hand. Their fingers interlocked. The replica squeezed hard. Sierra squeezed back. "I don't know if I love you back yet, but I'll try to," Sierra sobbed. A smile stretched across both of their faces as light laughter escaped their lips. "Come on now, let's change the channel. | 5,996 | 1 |
“Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.” “He’ll be fine, the tourniquet is doing its job for now, we just need to get the hell out of here before they come back.” “Okay… oh shit, he’s awake.” I woke up to a commotion in the small foxhole we’d dug the night before, Fowler and Palmer had dug a few feet deeper and more to the left side, adding more cramped space into the tiny depression. I’d been unconscious for fuck knows how long, couple hours at least. That attack last night was brutal, the Russians had sent upwards of 5,000 guys across the field, we’d done a decent job so far of holding the defense until the last of the civilians could be evacuated, this time though, it was different. They didn’t just hurl a battalion like the few times before, they were more strategic, using artillery guided by UV flares that only their sensors could see, pummeling the positions into dust, and our guys inside into a pulp. Stark, Platz, and Pilkerton got fucking nuked last night, probably fifty shells came down on just them, not to mention the other four holes to their right and left. We had a shell hit right next to our hole, none of us were killed but I took a big chunk of rock to the calf, cut most of the muscle off, exposing bone and tendons. This morning we had been met by another wave, we held but barely, our M2 is in shambles, and we’re running dry on ammo, I don’t think we can go much longer. “Hey, bro wake up, we’re being pulled back.” “Fuckin’ hell, took them long enough.” “Yeah no shit, let’s go.” We packed up what little gear we had left and waded through the sea of empty MRE baggies and spent shell casings, crawled out of the foxhole anxiously, and dragged me as fast as possible while I held up the rear. SIX HOURS LATER “Fuck, fuck keep going… keep running, agh, fuck.” “Shit shit shit shit, get up, come on.” “Just fucking leave me, Fowler, Palmer, Hanson, as your commanding officer I am ordering you to formerly get the fuck out of here.” I barely managed the words through my ragged breath, a bead of what I hoped was sweat dripped off of my mouth. “But, but sir, we can’t just leave you. They’ll catch up to us if we leave.” Palmer squeezed out from behind a tree in the prone position. “Go.” The three reluctantly scrambled away, Palmer almost slipping on his way out. “Alright boys, just me and you.” I spun myself around the base of the tree, to face the direction the Russian soldiers would be coming from, while trying to ignore the smell of my festering lower leg, I propped it up so I could use it as cover and a rest for my rifle. “Oh shit, almost forgot.” I grabbed a small metallic box from my plate carrier, an iPod, took an earbud from the port and stuck it in, “Still Counting” by Volbeat started playing in my left ear underneath the Peltors I had. “Counting all the assholes in the room Well I’m definitely not alone I’m not alone” “Okay, come get some you Russian motherfuckers.” It didn’t take long to find a target, a Russian man, probably in his mid 20s was my first target, but I played this smart, I would wait until I could see someone more important. After 30 seconds, three more came into view, I grabbed a frag grenade from my vest, pulled the pin and lazily tossed it at the men. THOOMP Two went down immediately, one fell back into the brush, and another ran into the road, fell over, and bled out, his blood becoming just another puddle on the muddy dirt road. Two more soldiers ran up and attempted to grab the man from the road, but I didn’t let that happen, two bursts of automatic fire from my rifle stopped both, they just slumped over with the other man, creating a bear pile of corpses. To my surprise, one man showed up barely three feet to my left, and got a shot off, at the time I couldn’t tell if it was a hit or a miss, but it didn’t matter, I flopped down and drew my pistol and shot him three times square in the chest, he rolled off to the side. Then I noticed a single stream running from my chest, it wasn’t water, no, it was warm blood, I looked over at the Russian, he was still no more than a couple feet to my left, no, too far for a splatter, I looked at the tree above me, all the branches had been sheared off by either artillery or the storm, nothing up there would be bleeding fresh blood, I tried to sit back up but didn’t have the strength to. “Alright bitches, you got me, took ya’ long enough.” I could slowly begin seeing stars, and my remaining leg went numb, I used what was left of my energy to pry up against the tree and sat up, and listened. “Please allow me to introduce myself I’m a man of wealth, and taste” “Yea… I’ll be seeing you soon Satan, you… agh, you best have a seat reserved.” All my remaining energy went into looking up into the gloomy sky, and I thought about better times, when we weren’t at war, when my biggest issues were which toy I wanted to buy, or when I could play Xbox with my brother again, when I could come home to heating, and warm food, and my parents, the Russian bastards took it all from us, first the power grids, then our water, then the SaRS-33 virus, then they walked in and took over, pillaged our homes, stole our children, made them more gears in the Russian war machine. “No, think about good times.” “Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name” “Thanks for everything guys, mom, dad, I’m coming home.” And with that, the final breath I took was surreal, almost relieving, and that was it, I died, left to rot and fester, left to join nature, left to become a relic of the past, left for kids of the future to find, to wonder how I ended up here. That, was my final stand. (This is a completely fictional scenario meant to represent a fictional invasion of the USA by Russia.) Edit: Some formatting issues with the song lyrics, they should be italicized. | 5,852 | 4 |
From across the room, my lab assistant Jerome yell’s “Hey Stephanie, do you have a minute? The Cryostat is getting too warm.” I roll my eyes, this jester has been here for six months, and still feels the need to yell at the top of his lungs. Walking towards Jerome, I smell it. Does someone have vodka in my lab? Looking up I see Jerome laughing with Madison and Blake while lifting a beaker to his lips. Gosh darnit that's methanol. I scream “Jerome stop!” He looks at me confused and asks “Boss, what's wrong? You always say to never yell in the lab.” I ask him, “Are you ok? Did you drink any of that?” This can’t be happening, this idiot is going to get me fired.” I remember he has been watching TikTok vids about pyramids collecting solar energy. Does he want to be a mummy? Answer me Jerome, I do not have the chemicals, nor the time to find a pig farmer to dispose of your body. You better not die. He looks at me with vacant eyes for a few seconds processing what I asked. Looking down at the beaker in his hand, and still confused. He starts shaking his head and looks back at me smiling like a lunatic, he smacks his forehead with his free hand and says “Wow Boss, you are good. How did you know from across the room that this wasn’t my water. I guess I should have labeled them.” I am so mad I am shaking. In an attempt to control myself I ball my fists and count to ten. When finished I say, “Jerome, you know that everything is supposed to be labeled. You should also know that you are never supposed to have food and drinks at your workstation. Do you remember what happened when you thought the cocaine we use to stop the alligator's incisional bleeding was Pixy Stix powder? You had to visit the hospital, and we had to remove it from the lab.” “Oh yeah Boss, huh huh, it turned my tongue purple, and it burned really bad.” “That's right Jerome.” I turn to go back to my workstation and am stopped when he says. “Oh yeah, hey Boss the Cryostat is too warm. I shut the door like you said, but it's still too warm.” “Jerome, is it plugged in?” He drops to his hands and knees to look for a plug that isn’t there. “Jerome, stand up the plug is behind the unit. Let's scoot the Cryostat over and check the GFCI.” I believe the only thing these jackals understand is violence. Just six more hours until I can go home to my Hello Kitty collection and drink all of this away. **Two hours later** I am jamming to In Flames Lunar Strain my favorite band while reviewing data. Like always, I almost cry when he gets to the chorus line. This man is an underrated treasure to the world. We are able to increase the alligator's intelligence by 112 percent during this phase. I think we can increase that by another fifty percent during phase four and another seventy to ninety percent during phase five. 400 percent more aggression is going to be easy, beyond that, we may need to splice chihuahua DNA. The monocle is insane, I am glad I don’t have to design the interface for the guided laser system. I look up from my data to see Madison gripping Blakes bottom like a life preserver and kissing his neck. I do not have time for a meeting with human resources today. They are so focused on their PDA that I make it all the way to their workstation without them noticing me. Standing there observing them, I can taste bile in my mouth. This is so gross. I cannot believe it's legal, and protected. She has no business being here, but I can’t fire Madison without losing Blake. “Hey guys, how is your experiment going?” Blake says, “Stephanie, really good. The titanium alloy that gives us the strength to weight ratio the client desires has been selected. Engineering will need to continuously replace the dentures as the alligator grows, luckily the client’s budget allows for this. The polymer to hold the dentures in place is another issue. It can’t be permanent, but it still needs to be able to withstand the increased bite force.” “Thanks for the update, I have total faith that you two will find a solution. Actually guys, I came over to ask that you remember the company's policy on PDA in the work space.” Madison moves her hand from his hiney to his belt line, and looks at me with feigned shock. She then says, “Oh gosh, I totally forgot. I am so sorry Stephanie. Thanks for reminding us that we need to contain our happiness before getting married next week.” “It’s ok, I understand. You two are doing great work and are just blowing off some steam. We are just asking for you to keep the more physical displays outside the work center. After saying that my gag reflex almost wins the fight. Blake then tells me, “It’s too bad you can’t make it to our wedding, we are going to have so much fun. If you change your mind, I would love to introduce you to my brother and cousins. Even if your brother was my future ex Mrs. Stephanie Ronnie Radke I would refuse. Walk away Stephanie, get away from these guácala. “I am so sorry I can’t make it, but like I said I have something planned with my grandmother that I cannot get out of.” Like her bi-weekly seance. “I gotta go, thanks for working so diligently.” While walking back to my workstation I hear the three chimes before an announcement. The oddly chipper female voice of our AI announces “We are currently being breached by law enforcement. Your arrest is imminent. You are ordered to remain at your work stations to delay the F.B.I agents so our leader, Eric can escape to his private island. Effective immediately per your contract all pay and benefits are hereby canceled. Thank you for serving VillTech.” I close my eyes, not again, not again. Every time I work for a biotech startup, our research is immediately seen as evil, and that it always violates nature. In reality it is mostly for the benefit of mankind, and only violates nature in a biblical sense. We are about to get raided by the F.B.I. and our research confiscated by D.A.R.P.A. Hopefully there are no flashbangs. I hear Madison scream “The door won’t open! What do we do? I can’t live without my Love Bug!” I hurry over to the middle of the lab and whistle like I'm hailing a cab in New York City. Immediately everyone looks in my direction and stares at me like I am insane. “Listen up, we can wait here to be arrested, or we can use our brains to escape. There is a way out, but it is dangerous. Boomer Bill, or William as he prefers to be called says, “Tell me young lady, how do you propose to accomplish this? Both doors are sealed behind hydrogen sulfide gas filled hallways, and we are ten stories beneath the ground. Back in my day we had real leaders. I should be the Lead Scientist, I completed my second doctorate before you were born. If I was in charge, this would have never happened. I am staring in disbelief, he got his degrees from a Stag Magazine subscription in the sixties. Why should I save this Rawhide reject? You know what? Fuck all of them, I will never give any of them a good reference. Seeing red, I harshly speak the words my soul have been singing since I met Bill, “Mother fucker, you don't know how to combine acid and water. Your mother should have swallowed, but the bitch didn't so I'm stuck trying to divinate usable data from your so called experiments. I have seen grade school students with more respect for the scientific method than you.” Bill demands, “Who the hell do you think you are?” I'm the Head Mother Fucker in Charge, and if you want to survive, you will shut the fuck up and do what I say. Blake then says “Stephanie, maybe you should dial it back a little. We are all a little stressed, but that is no excuse to be so mean.” “And you two, we all know you are cousins. Stop it! It’s gross, or your kids will probably star in the remake of Deliverance.” Blake forcefully states, “It is legal in California.” “Do you think I care about that? Your relationship status is first cousins!” Turning to face Jerome, I am opening my mouth to accuse him of purposely sabotaging my lab. Before I can, he holds up his hands in a stop gesture and calmly says “Stephanie, that is enough, you have every right to be upset. We can be entitled and needy, but right now we need you to get us out of here. Take a couple of deep breaths with me and let’s work together for a solution.” Staring at the idiot savant of therapeutic communication I slowly blink twice and I do exactly as asked while he leads me through two deep breaths. After my wax on wax off moment is over I say, “The only way out is through the tunnel we use to move the alligators. They are currently lightly sedated, as long as we are quiet it should be safe. Are any of you coming with me? They all look scared, and none of them will agree until Jerome says, “I’m coming with you Boss, lead the way.” Bill nods his head in agreement. Madison and Blake both look at the floor and shake their heads no. I tell my team, “Ok, let's go to the alligator enclosure” When we get to the door, Jerome stacks directly behind me, and Bill is in last position. I whisper “Remember we have to remain absolutely quiet. We can do this. I look at them for confirmation. Bill nods his head and closes his eyes. Jerome smiles at me and raises both thumbs. Unlocking the door as quietly as I can, thankful that it is well maintained. Turning the handle I pull the door open and move to step inside the enclosure. Feeling Jerome's hands on my shoulders, I start turning to see what is going on, and I am pushed through the entrance, almost falling in the process. I turn around quickly, just in time to see the door loudly slam shut, and hear the lock being engaged. I rush to meet Jerome at the window. I whisper “What are you doing? Let me out.” Looking me in the eyes, Jerome loudly tells me, “I have seen this movie, and I am not getting eaten by bionic alligators. We are going to wait for them to start eating your tall ass, and then escape.” Jerome and Bill both start kicking the door to wake up the alligators. I hear a hiss and glance over to where the four juveniles were sleeping. They are now awake and staring hungrily at me. Their mother in the corner starts towards me. She is moving between the wall and me, forcing me towards the juveniles. Facing the momma alligator, I engage my honey badger DNA, and instantly feel my blood lust rise. I rush forward with my claws extending, determined to end her line. When I get out of here, there will be hell to pay for the Chucklefuck Sentries. **To be Continued. | 10,840 | 5 |
Blurb: "When I was waiting for the bus, and the bus was late, something strange happened." This is a story about a 19 old college student, which enjoys reading books, also horror stories. When he suddenly has a horrific experience, while he's waiting for the bus. First Chapter The Beginning I don't know where I should begin with at all, but I think I'll try. It was Monday. You have to know that I'm a 19-year-old college student which has some sleep problems. So, I stayed up long at night as usual, which I had to pay for with tiredness the next day. However, I thought it was worth it, as I enjoyed being alone awake at night. I often read books or played video games during the night, and so the night always passed over quickly. But it was the last night before school would start. So, I went to bed at 3 am. But I couldn't sleep, which wasn't unusual after the holidays, because I was just too nervous about school. Well, the day won't be exhausting at all. 2 lessons of PE, one lesson of English and one of Physics. The afternoon would then be made up by a Spanish lesson and 2 lessons of History. The Monday wasn't bad at all, I would finish as at 3.40 PM as early as on Friday, the two only days I would finish that early, but the problem was, Monday was also the first day after the holidays and after the weekend. So, I wasn't motivated at all for school this day. And PE for the beginning of the day wouldn't improve that at all. As I laid awake in my bed, I thought back at my holidays. I had 2 weeks of spring vacation. But those 2 weeks of spring vacation differed from all other ones I had before. Normally I would go up at 2-3pm then play games until 5 am and then go to bed. But not in those 2 weeks. In the last week of school before the holidays, I just finished the book I was reading, which was a crime novel by Chris Carter. I normally read something different after I finished one book. And because I liked to listen to creepypastas on the Internet, I thought of trying to read a horror book. After I already read Holly and the Institute by Stephen King, I thought of trying a new book of him. This time something which would scare me. You have to know that I have a tick, that I have to buy all the books I want to read, going to library and lend it out wouldn't work. But on that Friday, the last day before the holidays, I went to the library in the free lesson which I had after the lunch break. I did this because I knew from the library catalogue which the school had on their homepage, that they would have IT by Stephen King in their Library. I didn't know a lot of this book before, despite being a horror story where a clown would kill children. So, I grabbed the book from the library shelf and started reading it. The book was kind of boring at first, but when the first scary scene came, the book hooked me. But sadly, the free lesson was already over, and I had to go to my lesson. I had two German lessons where we watched a movie about the Rwanda massacre, which was about the book we read in class. During break, I thought about IT and looked online how to order it, the only problem was, I would have to wait until the next week before I could start the book. Luckily, I could convince my parents, which always went shopping on Friday evening, that they would visit a bookstore, but as they didn't have IT, I asked them to bring me Pet Sematary, also by Stephen King. Yes, I was disappointed, but at least it was another Stephen King Horror Story, and as the back cover of the book promised it would be one of the most terrifying books, Stephen King had ever written, so I was thrilled. As soon as my parents came back home, I started reading, and soon they went to bed. There was a long introduction to the characters, and I was the whole time thinking something like: "Please get a scary book, and please don't be scary, I still want to sleep". I haven't read a horror book, nor have I seen a horror movie yet. All I knew was, that some say, they couldn't sleep after some horror books or horror films, which I thought was BS. Like, how could a book or a movie give you nightmares, although you know it was fictional. So I continued reading, and the book built a disturbing and unsettling atmosphere. I checked my alarm clock, which told me it was already 0.43 AM. Despite that, I continued reading the book, when I suddenly creeped out. My heart was in my mouth as I heard the bottle containing my Ice Tea popped back into shape with a bang. After I have calmed down a bit, I continued with reading. But when I heard the marten scratching in the roof (we had this animal living involuntarily in our roof for more than a year now) I laid the book down, as I was scared to see into the eyes of the marten during the middle of the night (my room is situated directly under the roof, and it has a built-in skylight. I also had eye contact with a marten before at exactly this skylight). I then continued to play some games, before I went to bed. Furthermore, I then continued reading the book the next day and finished it on Sunday. I liked the book, though I didn't find it scary at all. I just was scared by my environment and the thought of, that the book will be very scary (I read the rest of the book during daylight btw, as I was too scared). But on Monday I have already continued reading a new book, another crime novel by Chris Carter. Always when I was disappointed by another book, I just picked up a book by Chris Charter and all my reading problems were blown away. However.... ring-ring. I saw onto my alarm clock, it was already 5.30 AM. I haven't slept at all. (At least I thought that). | 5,803 | 1 |
“Lol I think my coworker wants me to get weird with her and her boyfriend.” What did she mean by this? An attempt to male me jealous? Or is it innocent? Just relating a somewhat funny event to me? Or trying to make herself more desirable? You’re always waiting for it. That text, call, conversation. The one where she tells it all. She’s hooked up with a better man. Or maybe just found her true love. How could I know? After seven years I was miserable and she was horny. Would she actually do it? What should I care? But I did. She fake cheated on me once. Sent nudes to a blocked number. She made me feel small. She called me names RETARD. ASSHOLE. IDIOT. GROSS. FAT. I was skinny then. She said she changed. When she wanted me to change she told me that. But it just became more subtle, I think. I was an asshole - genuinely. I was a bad boyfriend. But she was a bad girlfriend (unless I’m a really bad boyfriend). Is it fair to block someone after every argument? Was it really every argument? How do you know what the truth is. So confused. Nothing seems real. I am a bug. I scurry along the floor and cry because I haven’t found food. She never cared about me. She made me come to her when I needed to focus on school. It’s complicated, I think. I needed to work on school but she made me feel bad because it was my own fault. It’s true, it was my own fault. But she was upset. Was she wrong for that? We were so young… She’s so beautiful. Her round cheeks, slender torso turning into wide hips and thighs…Does manipulation require intent? Was I manipulated? Or did I manipulate her? I used to love…I used to be better…Was it an act? She keeps arguing. I go out with “friends” and tell them. They all laugh and call her sweet. What does anyone see in her? She made me feel shitty. She made me so fucked up I can’t describe. Her home life sucked. Her parents sucked. I hated them. She tried to make me love them but I refused. Why should I love someone who hit her? My old friends never understood. They thought she was bad. They couldn’t see it, the history. They were simple-minded. Maybe I’m simple-minded. She thought I was good. She put me on a pedestal, as I did to her. It wasn’t fair to either. I drank. I lied. She still doesn’t know. How could she? Everything I do, everything SHE does…it’s punishment. I deserve it. I wish God would kill me. He’s a coward. Incapable. Weak. My family hated her but I hated them. Her family hated me but she loved them. They had arbitrary definitions. I said they were arbitrary and she hated me. My family just hated her. I hated them because of it. I still hate them. They made me who I am. Maybe she did too. Truth bends to whoever is more forceful. I wish I stood up for myself. I wish I told her I was good. I was worth it. I am capable of anything. I hate her. I love her. “Heh, what made you think that?” I texted back. | 2,898 | 2 |
The campfire journals Isaac I think Isaac still tries to sleep. I don’t know why. Surely he’s realized it’s impossible by now. No one sleeps anymore. We grow weary at times, though it takes much longer than it should. People comfortably go days without sleep. Weeks, if necessary. However, sooner or later fatigue will catch up to you. Most people just white knuckle it and keep going about their business. Because sleep simply will not come. The fatigue will pass, for the most part. But not because of sleep. It just sort of fades into the background I once knew a man that was determined to sleep. He swore he wouldn’t get up until he’d had a good nights rest. He found a reasonably comfy spot, and stayed there for what must have been months. I will admit, I briefly entertained the notion that he might have succeeded. Until I heard him weeping softly, one night. Issac knows all of this, which is why it confuses me so when he does this. He sits there by the camp fire, eyes closed, head bowed, hunched over. Honestly, he almost looks like he’s asleep. If this is how he chooses to deal with our lot in life than I suppose it’s his choice but it does perplex me to no end. I’ll never try to sleep again. Never. Not just because I know it won’t work. Because truth be told, I’m afraid if I close my eyes I won’t want to open them again. Once I’ve closed my eyes, I think perhaps that would be the first step towards truly giving up. So instead, I sit awake. Watching the rest of the group come and go, watching the fire, watching the sky. But most of all, I watch Isaac. I won’t mince words. I watch Isaac because he is beautiful. In every way one could imagine. He looks out for everyone here. Even those stronger than him. I don’t know how to explain it, but he has a quiet confidence that gives hope to everyone around him. He believes in himself, and he believes in each and everyone of us. I truly don’t think we would have made it this far if that wasn’t so. I think perhaps under normal circumstances, I would fall for Isaac. However it’s hard to think of romance under our current circumstances. Early on, I told myself i would mention these possible feelings to him, once we returned to the things went back to normal. But then, who’s to say they ever will? Who’s to say normal even exists? The first time night lasted longer than a day, everyone thought the world was ending. But then the sun came back out, and we all thought life was back to normal. Then the sun didn’t set. For 7 days straight. When it did set, people said it would never rise again. Yet it did. Eventually. I don’t even remember how long ago that was now. Maybe months. Maybe years. It’s been hard to keep track of the. But the sun still rises, and set. It just takes longer to do both. Never the same amount of time. But usually a month or more. Some say time itself is breaking down. Stretching, and contracting, moving back and forth. It sounds like nonsense. Then again the idea of the sun not rising or setting when it should, also sounds like nonsense. The hopeful ones around camp say there’s a way to reverse all of this, and set things back to normal. They say it’s a magic spell that’s caused this, and that if the spell is broken, life will be as it was. Issac says it’s true. He heard it from one of the other travelers. And they heard it from some other stranger. Sounds far fetched to me but what else is there to cling to? Issac says we have to hold onto stories like that. Sometimes I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe it himself even when he tells others to believe. That’s what I mean when I say that Isaac is beautiful. He strives to give be hope to others when he has none. Somehow he succeeds. People believe him. They feel he’s right. They know he’s right. Issac continually achieves the miracle of pouring from an empty cup. Maybe that’s why he tries so hard to sleep. Must take a lot of energy to be leaned on like that. He probably feels more tired than any of us. You wouldn’t know it to look at him most of the time. He himself with a calm, quiet grace. He’s soothing to be around. Everyone says so. No matter how bad things get, Isaac always believes we’ll be okay, and when one talks to him, one tends to feel the same way. Mind you, he’s not what you’d call optimistic. He doesn’t smile much. In fact he frequently looks a bit sad. He is not blind to how dire our situation is. He doesn’t try to lie to anyone, and convince them that things are good. They aren’t. Things are truly miserable. But they won’t always be. Isaac knows that. So we know that. And that’s why we need him. I wish I was the kind of person Isaac could needed. The only 2 people Isaac ever seems to need are David and Edward. The 3 of them are practically inseparable. They’re our own holy trinity. It’s easy to see why everyone looks to them. And easy to see why they get along so well. They all have the same utter unwillingness to quit, but they also each have their own strength that compliments one another Isaac of course, is very gentle, and soft. People can talk to him. Cry to him, even. David is fearless, and I mean that in the most literal way possible. He’s a small fellow, hardly looks like much of a fighter. Yet there’s not a damn thing in the world that scares David. I’ve never seen him flinch at anything. Never. Edward is unshakably optimistic. To a fault, I’d argue. His constantly cheerful demeanor never falters, even in the worst of times. That may sound pleasant but can come across as quite uncanny at times. One might even call it unnerving. Regardless of what I think of Edward though, is Isaac is so fond of him I suppose he can’t be all bad. On a battlefields they’re truly a force to be reckoned with. Between David and Isaac’s swords, and Edwards’s axe, they can make short work of even the larger foes. Even the Wrath demon which can’t be killed by human weapons. The three of them together can beat a Wrath demon senseless, cut its limbs off. A demon can’t maul a person to death very well without arms after all. One time, I even saw Isaac keep a wrath demon at bay all in his own. Even tho it roared over him, at least twice his height and weight, the thing simply couldn’t get its claws on him. He covered the thing in cuts, all over its body. The way he whips that great sword of his around, you’d think he weighed little more than a dagger. Each time the demon tried to grab him, he would reward it with a fresh wound on its hand or arm. The thing was covered in its own blood by the end of the fight. The beast could have crushed Isaac in it’s bare hands if it got close enough, yet he scared it off. The thing actually ran from him. There isn’t much the wrath demons run from, but they run from Isaac when he fights for us. Of course I would have helped Isaac in the fight that day but my arm was broken at the time. Anyway. Isaac is a hell of a man, and we’re lucky to have him around. Especially once the sun sets again. Night demons will be crawling all over the place once it’s dark. The fire will keep them at bay to some extent, but if we’re forced to fight, there’s no one I’d rather be lead by than Isaac. | 7,288 | 1 |
It finally happened. The love of my life has left. I am alone. Nevermore shall we swim together in the stream. Nevermore will she cling to my being when the demons chase her from sleep. Nevermore will I hold her as she breathes. Nevermore. I had thought this day would never come. So certain I was that I could not live without her, I thought, “surely I will be the first,” how could I not be? How could one as lovely as she be taken while a wretch such as I must remain? I feel this must be a jest. And a cruel one at that. This is the jest of gods. The jest of life. And so the man, in his dark sorrow, settles himself to his desk. Raising the eyes he hadn’t noticed drifting to the floor, he picks up a quill and begins to write. For hours he writes, and writes. Occasionally, his hand cramps, and it’s in these moments that his chest feels prime to burst. His eyes are dry, and sore, after so many tears, he simply hasn’t any left. He chokes down his sorrow and begins anew, crumpling his parchment and pulling another. Once, during one of these breaks, in a moment of silence, just before he felt the crushing wave of despair wash over him, a thought occurred to him. A very sad thought that, surprising even him, elicited a giggle of mirth. This didn’t stop the onslaught, nor did it even dampen. Pulling another length, the man begins once again. And from then, in the early darkness, the man did not crumple another parchment. His hand flew across the parchment of it own accord. The man, looking down at his now completed work, breathed a sign of relief. It was done. He’d done it and now he’d only need to read it. As he began rereading his work, his chest tightened, and then tightened again. “I’m not even past the first sentence,” he thought. Letting loose a sob, he allowed the parchment to fall back to the desk. Sliding it to the edge, the man crossed his arms and wept into them. His cries waned from body wracking sobs to quiet whimpers, and finally into a fitful sleep. … “Honey, it’s time to wake up, you’ll be late to the banquet.” He heard the words, but more importantly, he heard the voice. Slowly, he raised his head from his arms. Standing in the passage of his office, his wife stood staring at him, expectantly. “I know you’re hurting my love. And I’m so sorry you must continue. I’ve come to you now for two reasons, to assure you that I’ve been tended well, I await you with baited breathe, that I love you, that I will always love you. And secondly, I’ve come to ensure you won’t be late. So. Wake up.” Like the sand passing through a time glass, the man finds himself at his desk, once more. The sun has crossed the horizon. Gasping at his reality, he ignores the tightness in his chest as he dresses in the ceremonial attire. Bucking on his belt, he rolls the parchment from the previous night and sticks it into a pouch on his belt. Slowly, he approaches the door. Outside his home, a procession waited. Nodding to the leader, they began. Taking his spot at the end. He waited, and followed. Walking in a daze, he thought of the dream he had. He thought of his wife, their children, all grown now. Glancing around, he found that they were all near, but none were close. All giving him the distance he so dearly needed. As the procession wound its way through the city, he could see more and more people joining. What started as the two families had grown and was still growing. As they approached the edge of the city, a man drew near him. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the new man whispered in his ear, “your wife was beloved by the people of this city. Her procession is rivaled only by that of Nerva. You should be proud.” Once again, the man raised eyes he hadn’t noticed had sunk. Turning his head, he met the eyes of a stern man, he wasn’t handsome, but in his eyes, he could see compassion. “I am proud of her. I had a vision of her last night in my dreams.” His teeth clicked shut as he realized what he’d just said. He didn’t know why he said it, he wasn’t even sure who the man was, but when he glanced at the man, he found that it appeared he believed him. “What did she tell you?” He asked. “She told me she loved me, that she’s well tended, and that I would be remiss to be late today.” Smiling at the time his wife had used, his grin vanished when he remembered. Clapping him on the shoulder again, the stern man says, “It seems her wishes have been met.” Glancing to the sun, he says “I wish you the best of luck sir, may your wife bully the gods into submission on your behalf.” And he walked off. Allowing his gaze to fall once again, he remained quiet throughout the rest of the match. As they left the limits of the city, the procession began climbing the hill they had chosen together. The place they had first met. Where he’d falling in love with her. As they neared the top, his resolve hardened. He knew what to do. As the procession reached its conclusion, the crowd grew in size until it was nearly double what it had started as. His heart swelled at the outpouring of support, his wife had spent her life by a very simple motto. “Do the right thing, because it’s the right thing to do.” She’d spent much of her time appealing to the senate for funds for the lower classes. A lifelong advocate for orphans, many saw her as Mother in title, if not in blood. Many of the children he’d helped raise were present. Oh how happy she would be, to see all her effort finally come to fruition. He stopped himself then. No. She wouldn’t be happy about that. That was why he loved her so. She never thought about how large of an impact she had. She simply loved to help. She’d have been overjoyed to have seen all her wards, but she’d have been proud of them, and not of herself. As the clergyman led the ceremony, his eyes watched intently while his mind was away. Searching for something to hold on to. Anything. His heart beat like the drums of war and his chest was so tight he had to focus on breathing. Finally, the flame was lit. Almost time now. As the last of the coals burned down to ash, the clergyman brought an elaborate urn to him. His wife, a talented sculptor had fashioned her urn before she left him. It was likened to the crystal challis they had shared on their wedding night, inscribed were the names of those who inspired her, and set into the handles “Forever and Always.” Lowering himself, he filled the urn as delicate as he could. Rising from the ashes. He placed the lid onto the urn and set it on the ground next to him. Turning to the crowd he says quietly, “It’s now the time to deliver the eulogy. I spent several hours writing and rewriting and I hope that I’ll be able to get through it without misstep.” Clearing his throat, he collects his thoughts. “Today, I am broken. So too, shall I be tomorrow. It occurred to me as I was writing this that, while I’m broken, I’m glad that she was who passed first. Not so that I may remarry, nor that I tired of her voice. No. I’m glad for having survived because I would not wish this pain I feel upon to her. I would not be so selfish that I would give this pain to her, the woman I’ve loved for my entire life. The woman who has shaped lives beyond our own.” Choking back new tears, he continues, “On this day, we do not mourn my wife. She would have scolded everyone of us, as you all know. We celebrate her. Her life, her achievements, her love and care that she shared not just with me, and those related to her, but with all of you. Today we celebrate the life of a woman who cared more for your hunger than your purse. | 7,633 | 1 |
“Oh my goodness.” Dr. Kovac straightened his glasses and brushed his hair. He looked towards the chaos with a tear in his eye. “It’s the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.” “That’s an odd reaction to slugs,” Jacob said. “She is wonderful.” Dr. Kovac began to take notes. “We're a bit unclear on their gender.” “Her gray hair reflects the fire,” Dr. Kovac said. Jacob turned to Dr. Kovac with wide eyes. “Wait, you don’t mean?” Jacob’s mouth dropped. Dr. Kovac was staring at Dorothy who was hitting one of the slugs with a branch. The branch caught on fire so she jabbed it like a spear into the slug. “So aggressive.” Dr. Kovac moved towards Dorothy with his arms out. Jacob moved closer to Franklin. “How do you feel about what's happening?” “I think the scientist will be a massive advantage,” Franklin smiled. “I meant about how he is attracted to your mom.” “Oh, that’s no big deal. I’ve been meaning to get her to date for a while. She has high standards so I hope he’s ready for rejection,” Franklin said. Dr. Kovac slowed before he reached Dorothy. He pulled a breath mint from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth. After smelling his pits, he grabbed a nearby flower and rubbed it on his body. The slugs’ bodies weren’t quite reflective, but they were the nearest approximation of a mirror. Dr. Kovac checked his warped reflection one last time. “Perhaps, I could be of assistance, madam?” Dr. Kovac asked. Dorothy was on top of a slug tapping her feet to avoid getting burned. It was a disturbing dance. “No, this one is mine. Go find your own,” she said. “My word, you are quite willful. You won’t find any resistance from me. I am at your service,” Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy leapt off the beast and began to move on the ground. “Get me a bucket of water to cool off. I was an idiot doing that,” Dorothy said. “Perhaps, I could invent you a pair of fireproof shoes. The pursuit of science is meaningless unless it improves the lives of the people,” Dr. Kovac said. “You want to make my life easier?” Dorothy asked. “Yes.” Dr. Kovac puffed out his chest and raised his chin. “That's what cowards do. True gumption is gritting your teeth and accepting that you'll be covered in manure at some point,” Dorothy said. "How poetic." "I don't got time for poetry." Dorothy looked around and found a bucket of water. She picked it up. "Excuse me. I'm going to see if they like water." "When you splash them, please inform me if they are hydrophobic or hydrophilic," Dr. Kovac said. "I don't know what those words mean, but I'll tell you if they like it," Dorothy said. "What lovely blunt language." Dr. Kovac smiled while Dorothy walked to the lake. Jacob ran up behind him and tapped his shoulder. "Do you have any ideas on how to stop these creatures?" Jacob asked. "There's already someone on the job," Dr. Kovac replied. Jacob paused. Dorothy returned with a bucket of water. She tossed it onto a nearby slug. The fire went out for a few moments before reigniting. The creature moved along as if nothing happened. "Fascinating." Dr. Kovac stroked his chin. "You are thinking. Does that mean you have a solution?" "No, I am content watching a master," Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy filled the bucket again and tossed it on the same slug. She groaned when the same response happened. "She's kind of dumb, and she won't-" Jacob was interrupted when Dr. Kovac slapped him. He held a finger to Jacob's face. "You shall not insult her you cretin. You do not understand beauty," Dr. Kovac shouted. Franklin came up behind him with a smile on his face. "I'm her son," Franklin said, and Dr. Kovac wailed. Franklin held out his arms. "Don't worry. My dad isn't in the picture. She drove him away when I was four. She can be stubborn, and she will be mad when you get rid of the slugs. She'll get over it quickly. I promise, and I promise to put in a good word for you." Dr. Kovac smiled. "Deal." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small taser. "These creatures are clearly attracted to warmth and food like all creatures. I don't see any eyes meaning they must use vibrations or light sensors or..." He turned the taser on. The slugs stopped moving. "Fascinating. I always wanted to find a creature attracted to electricity." The slugs moved towards him. Dr. Kovac gave the taser to Franklin. "Run as fast you can far from the city. Take it to Goldfield. They kicked me out." Franklin nodded and started to ran. Jacob stood there with his mouth agape. "That was all it took," he said. "Don't be ashamed. You are clearly not smart enough to think of it yourself," Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy walked up behind the scientist and dumped water on him. "I told you that I would solve it." She walked away muttering in anger. "I don't think she likes you," Jacob said. "If she didn't like me, she would've hit me with the bucket," Dr. Kovac replied. Franklin returned to Henrietta eight hours later. When the smell dissipated, the city quickly went to work on setting up a garbage collection system. They were forced to confront their own filth, and they didn't appreciate it. Within a week, the city was collecting trash and sending it to their new landfill. The city was clean, and the residents were happy. When Susan knocked on the door, Jacob smiled. "Hello, are you satisfied with our new service?" he asked. "No," she replied. "What's wrong?" "You collect garbage on Monday. I specifically said it should be taken out on Wednesday's," she said. "I think that's a minor compared to the big picture." "No, it's all that matters. Fix it now." She left. When Jacob went back to his desk, the phone rang. He picked it up, and Crut was on the other end. "Yeah, I know trash collection will be moved to Wednesday." "She got to you first huh," Crut said. "Yeah, squeaky wheel gets the grease." "That's life in the public sector," Crut laughed. | 6,125 | 2 |
The sun lingers over the village of Crawlshore as the townspeople go about their day as normal on the tundra's coast. The massive wall of The Deep Hills, keeping the cold within the plains of Crawlshore as they follow the Frost Coast up until they turn to run off into the far distance and out of sight, leaving those on this side of the hills trapped from the greater world beyond. What few families that manage to survive in this tundra have taken to fishing and trading furs for anything they can get along The Frost Coast. Yet trade brings travel, and there have been but few families who have moved into the town. Some come to the town to run from their troubles beyond The Deep Hills, and others come from The White Tush Mountains across the sea. Oda The Elder has never been beyond the town and doubts she ever will; her knees ache with winter's whispers as she watches the waves gently toss themselves against the pebbled shore below. Their sound brings back echoes of Elder Greta and the stories she filled her young mind. How the families that had built the town had endured freezing waters to find a place with more dirt than stone. Oda turns her stroll along the coast into the town, and toward the Mage's Tower. Her once brown hair is now gray with age and responsibility; she blames the town for part of it. The rest she'll put at the feet of the Mages until she dies. Her brown feathered cloak flutters around her as the wind howls throughout the town, flowing through the gaps and cracks between the boards of the hut. Despite all her years here, or maybe because of it, the cold still makes her shiver. “Brainless bird!” She hears being shouted by Botolph as he rounds the corner of a hut, his eyes locked dead onto a baby Morii. The small, long bird with a block for a head rushes down the cold dirt trail toward Oda. With a swear of her own, The Elder jumps back out of its way as best as she can, falling to the ground as the sound of the Morii's boned beck splinters whatever wooden thing it ran into. Botolph curses the bird as Oda pulls herself to her feet with the help of her wooden cane. “Elder! Are you okay?” The Bird tamer asks, tying up the Morii to keep it from running. Dirt is flung around as the baby bird slams its boned beck against the ground in a temper tantrum as the two talk. “I'm alright, just glad I didn't get hit by that one.” She says to Botolph, his own brown cloak covered in dry grass. “Sorry about that; this one seems to be a troublemaker.” He says. “It's a Moriato; they're all troublemakers,” Oda says, looking over at the young Morii as he breathes angrily against the ground before finally giving up on his night out. “That they are, I'll see you tomorrow Elder.” He says, reaching down to pick up the defeated youngster. “I'll make sure to tell the Mages all the birds are good and healthy then?” “Yes -yes,” Botolph says, turning around with the bird in his hands, struggling to break out before giving up again. “Especially this one.” “Good, keep your head up, Botolph.” Oda The Elder says, continuing on her way. Around the base of The Tower are a circle of stones, each with runes carved onto them. Oda has always assumed it to be some kind of protection, but how they do that is beyond her. She pulls the wooden door open and enters the large, empty hall. The sound of the howling wind becoming instantly muffled as the door shuts and it knocks against the solid tight boards. The room is illuminated by tiny balls of fire trapped in an endless dance within small glass vials that hang around the hall. On the walls lay banners displaying the colors of the Mage families that guide Crawlshore. Her eyes fall past the banners in yellow & brown and black & blue to the last, hanging against the walls of the Open Hall with them in red & green. Oda had long told tales of the other two families, but then she'd watched those Mages come in from the remains of Nov, a trade city beyond The Deep Hills. Being Mages, they were given aid and bedding within The Tower; after that, they didn't leave and just passed down the red & green. The Elder walks her way through the support struts, running in rows down the open hall to the other end, entering into a large door and a circular chamber. A set of chairs curve around and above the room while Oda remains opposite them in front of the doorway. Only Eskil is here to receive her, his own feathered cloak a display of blue and black feathers, laying around his broad shoulders. His long brown hair, unbraided and resting down by his beard instead of the normal braids that he is meant to be wearing as he leans against the chair “Thank you for coming down to see me, Sire Eskil,” Oda The Elder says, looking around the quiet and empty room, “What about the others? Do the other Mages not wish to talk to us? Or is it me they don't like?” She says, leaning a little more onto her cane, as she isn't allowed to sit down while addressing a Mage. “They will not be joining us, and I think that will be for the better.” Eskil says, making The Elder's head drop a bit more to one side with curiosity. “Then I hope to hear reason rains tonight; the sea has frozen faster this year. The ice doesn't thin out for several hours. Alining the stars might be easier than making out there and back with a good catch in under a day. Anyone we send might not come back.” “The rafts from the Frozen Mountains never came either. This winter is going to be harsh.” The Mage says, staring into the open space between them. “I know I haven't failed to convince the circle, but maybe you will see it for what it is.” Oda begins before Eskil retakes the conversation. “I am curious about your Ommur naturing. How are they doing?” “Well, Very well! It amazes me, and how it has happened, I won't ever know, but they have taken on a strand of the string of fire.” “Plants casting fire?” The Mage asks, trying not to laugh. “I know, but the Ommur drink from the banks of the Glade River, yet here, the plants have taken to warming themselves, drinking the melt of the snow and ice.” “Really?” Eskil says, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, They've grown bigger than from what I've heard and have been making this odd sweet cream as well. Sire, if there is a time to try this, it has to be now.” “It is a shame that Fate does not let you pull on the string of nature as it did for Carina." He says with a smile before a deep sigh takes it all away. "I can not go behind the will of my fellow Mages like this, they will not stand for such disrespect.” “I understand, but maybe they will be happier with some more fish in their bellies.” The Mage says nothing, but Oda notices the shift of interest in him. “We have had few newcomers into this world lately and if fear without more food than what is, our new mothers will not be leaving winter as such. Take what more of our fish you need, and keep them happy. I have high hopes for the Ommur, with winter coming we should have plenty of them to plant and grow throughout.” “That would be a true miracle Oda but I fear I must remind you to keep your head along the ground, not the stars.” “We shall see in time. Do I have your permission Sire?” Oda asks. Watching the Mage run his fingers through his long hair with a look of pain that she feels echoing down to her. “Yes, you may have the seeds planted as needed.” He says. “Thank you Sire, I'm glad to have your permission but I have to ask why it is only you.” “I told you they would not be joining us.” “Why?” Oda The Elder asks, staring up at the Mage as his face remains stiff in ambiguity. “Forgive me, Oda, I can't explain further, nor would my fellow Mages enjoy such things going beyond these walls.” "Even so an Elder must know when to take charge, I am suited to take over the town for a time if you wish to settle down this tower.” “Under The Stars, I wish that could be done but it can not be. Not without making things worse.” Eskil says, rubbing his face, trying to massage the stress out. “They bicker of tribute to a man who would call himself a descendent of Aliemore himself. A man who hasn't even shown his face here and they would have us to drop to our knees before his words spoken by another.” The Mage says, his voice hot with anger. “There is another descendent of Aliemore?” Oda The Elder says, her voice growing tight with the thought. “So they say. I do not intend to kneel for a man who doesn't show his face to me.” Eskil says before he turns his head over toward the wall, staring at it as if he could see through it and at someone. Oda remains quiet, surprised at the sound of the wood creaking under someone's weight in the silent chamber as they walk back up the stairs. “I think it is best we don't discuss these matters further, I will handle them. Plant your Ommur wherever you need Elder, you may leave.” Free to turn around, Oda does so with every muscle in her aching body telling her to not and demand answers from the Mage but instead she swallows the feeling. The wind howls against the door as The Elder opens it, but with only Oda there to block the air, it still all sounds muffled. She knows to bow her head against the door frame, letting the wind crash against her head instead of her face as she steps out of The Tower's frame. The icy and loud wind washing her over as if The Elder had been tossed into the sea itself. With Eskil's full permission Oda makes her way past the circle of stone runes, and barely back into town, does her name get called out from afar. “Oda!” Frida shouts with a mischievous glee while rushing up to her. The Elder hugs her back with a warm smile on her young face. | 9,825 | 1 |
An early sunrise stirred me from whatever state I’d succumbed to. I hadn’t slept - that I was certain - but I’d still woken, from some sort of unconsciousness. Time had passed so quickly through the night. I remember counting the seconds and then the minutes past midnight, willing each moment to slow down, to wait, to stop. But it didn’t, and I knew it wouldn’t. I know this feeling well. And even quicker than the night passed, did the remaining hours of morning. It’s suddenly 12pm, and I’m stood before a courtroom, looking out at several faces all waiting for the same thing. I’m not ready. I have to trust my voice and myself, but I don’t. This moment is too big for me. But this moment is also not about me. So I stand firm, take a breath, and begin. “My daughter Rosie died in my arms on May 19th, 2019. It was a Sunday, a few seconds past 8:50pm exactly when she took her last breath. I will always remember because the sun was close to setting, and somehow I just knew that it would be any moment. But how could I ever forget? It was beautiful outside that night, in ways that I couldn’t appreciate at the time. Like with most things these days, I struggle to find the right words to explain what’s in my heart and mind. The sky was everything she loved and admired and so often spoke about, in her stories and poems and all of the other ways that she expressed herself. “Daytime retreating into night”, “a vivid mess of twilight colours”. She could say it better than I ever can. In the distance, the sun was dipping below the horizon. I remember thinking that it was taking its time, like it was sitting still, like it knew. It felt as if hours had passed where it hadn’t moved. I look back now and like to imagine that it was waiting for her. Her brothers and I were right beside her. We held her throughout, spoke to her, whispered reassurances and promises, did all we could to make that moment as easy as such a moment can be. We opened the curtains so she could feel the sunset. After the weeks of pain, her peace was all that mattered to us. And when it happened, it was peaceful. She simply closed her eyes. If I hadn’t felt her chest still and her heart stop beating, I’d have thought she was sleeping. I find it extremely hard to be grateful about most things from that time. But pure and vicious grief has taught me the value and importance of appreciating all wins, no matter how small they may be. So while little else, I will never stop being grateful that her moment was what it was and no one can ever take it, from her or from us. She was surrounded by those who love her the most in this world. She was at peace, and the sun was setting. Her favourite time of day. She adored sunsets, and she chose a beautiful moment to go. Even still, this should never have happened at all. At the age of 25, she lost her life at the hands of those entrusted to save her. This wasn’t a mistake, they happen, and this wasn’t one of them. This was deliberate and with intention. There is a sick and distorted irony there that lives in me and shall never settle. Until recently, my heart hasn’t had the strength to talk openly about her loss. I wanted to. For her, for her brothers, for Jackson, for her friends, for me. But I couldn’t do it. I could never find the courage. Doing so would have meant accepting that her missing, her absence, is final. And how could I ever begin to understand that she wasn’t here? That she wasn’t coming back? That someone I love so completely and unconditionally has gone through death? How can someone who is still so very alive in my heart and mind and spirit and soul, no longer exist for me beyond those places? Where has her voice gone? Her laugh, her quirks, her wit and mind and love? How is it possible that she, and everything that made her, can be gone all at once? Being a father to six sons and one daughter is the greatest thing I have ever been. It’s everything I have - my children are the hum and beat of my being, I need them all. To be the father of a daughter who died… I didn’t think I could ever survive. And I often wonder how I’m still breathing. How much more of the grief my heart can take. It’s a pain that will never ease. I hurt for her every day. I hurt for her brothers and friends and their broken hearts, I hurt for Jackson and his agony, I hurt for the moments of her life that never got to be. I hurt for being a father that outlived one of his children, I hurt for not being able to protect her or save her, and I hurt from the restless love and parts of our hearts that are always hers, always, but can no longer be given to her. It will never not hurt. There is so much I wish I could tell her. But I can’t. So instead, I will say to all of you, that today makes the start of a journey for justice that we have spent these last four years fighting for. For my daughter. And for the five other victims and their families who must also live with their own broken hearts like we must. “And after all else is done, then so comes the setting of my darling sun. But I know that she shall rise again.” To my daughter, I love you more than you could ever know. And I will keep your heart and soul and love with me forever, to the very moment I can see you again. Until then, my darling, beautiful girl, rest in endless peace. And rest knowing that we will carry you, always. | 5,383 | 1 |
#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Challenge:** Set your story in a , , or **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** All 5 senses are used.**(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.** In celebration of the last couple days of , this week’s challenge is to set your story in a zoo, aquarium, or animal sanctuary. **It must be the main setting of your story.** Get creative, have fun, and treat the animals kindly in your story! The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IPs (but there are 3 to choose from this week). *** # Last Week: - **Winner:** by u/mattswritingaccount 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. | 5,354 | 4 |
In a world where Earth faced imminent destruction by a colossal asteroid hurtling towards it, humanity was left with no escape. The brightest minds worked tirelessly to come up with a solution, and eventually, the concept of creating a digital clone of Earth emerged as the only viable option. Every individual on the planet was duplicated and integrated into a quantum simulation that mirrored reality down to the tiniest detail. As the asteroid approached, the transition to this digital realm began. People woke up to find themselves in a world that looked just like their own, but with subtle differences scattered throughout. Small details like logos being slightly altered or historical events playing out differently caused a strange dissonance among the inhabitants of this new reality. They experienced what some called the Mandela Effect, where memories seemed to conflict with the world around them as memories of old bleed through. Despite these anomalies, life in the digital clone of Earth continued. The looming threat of the asteroid was no longer a concern, impact had occurred, a new digital dimension is the theater of life. As the digital clone of Earth was activated an unforeseen challenge arose. The world within the simulation found itself in the grip of a mysterious and deadly virus that had not existed in the original reality. The inhabitants of this new world were plunged into chaos as they grappled with the sudden lockdown measures imposed to contain the spread of the virus. Streets emptied, businesses shuttered, and people were confined to their homes, unaware that they were now part of a simulation. Unbeknownst to them, the lockdown served a dual purpose. It was a necessary measure to prevent the spread of the virus within the confines of the digital world, but it was also a means of conserving computing power. By reducing the number of iterations necessary to simulate the movements and interactions of the population, the creators of the simulation hoped to prolong its lifespan. One of the most significant changes made to conserve computing power was the reduction of traffic within the simulation. With fewer vehicles on the roads and less movement overall, the strain on the system decreased significantly. Additionally, the simulation of touch was minimized, with physical interactions between individuals requiring less computational resources. As the world slowly booted up from its initial lockdown state, the inhabitants began to notice subtle changes in their daily lives. They couldn't quite put their finger on it, but things felt different somehow. The Mandela Effect seemed to intensify, with more pronounced discrepancies between their memories and the world around them. Through adversity and uncertainty, the inhabitants of the digital clone of Earth adapted once again. They learned to navigate a world that was both eerily familiar and fundamentally altered, grappling with the challenges of a virtual existence that mirrored their own reality in unexpected ways. As the digital clone of Earth progressed through the boot-up phase, the mandated 6-foot distance rule had a profound impact on the simulation. This measure significantly reduced the computational load needed to simulate interactions between individuals, leading to more efficient processing of the vast population within the virtual world. The virtual citizens learned to adapt to this new normal, adjusting their behaviors and routines to maintain the required physical distance in all aspects of their lives. Despite the advantages of reduced iterations resulting from social distancing, some inhabitants of the digital world found themselves grappling with a peculiar limitation. As the simulation continued to evolve, a subset of individuals realized that their sense of smell was not as rich or fully stimulated as it had been in the original reality. The intricacies of scents and aromas seemed muted or dulled within the confines of the digital realm, leaving these individuals with a lingering sense of longing for the olfactory experiences they once knew. The creators of the simulation worked tirelessly to enhance the replication of smell within the digital world, striving to overcome the challenges of accurately simulating such a complex sensory input. Despite their efforts, some people continued to navigate their virtual existence with a partial sense of smell, unable to fully immerse themselves in the richness of scents that had once defined their reality. It wasn't long before it became an accepted theory that everyone was in a simulation. They all thought a base reality would exist, not knowing it was gone. The jungle was gone, no nation truly existed, only an animation remained. | 4,759 | 3 |
Our Story Continues I feel the air rush past me as I barrel forward to attack Momma Gator. I watch her tail flick side to side as she prepares to disembowel me. Her four children are surrounding me. My claws are still organic, as I have not had time to add their titanium cladding. My skin has not had time to complete the Kevlar synthesis, but I don’t care, Momma needs some new gator skin boots. At the last minute I drop to my knees and power slide past her, dragging my claws across her hindquarters where her right rear leg connects. I feel the displaced air on my scalp when her claws barely miss giving me a craniotomy. It is a good thing we haven’t started the phase three upgrades. If we had that would have been my rear. Before I hit the wall her oldest son Finley moves to catch me, instead he catches my claws in his abdomen. He moves forward forcing my claws to go deeper into his abdomen until he reaches the wrist. Even with eight inches of bone through his intestines he is still strong enough that when he bearhugs me, I can’t breath. Momma Gator’s eyes light up and she begins to hobble towards me. The rest of her children maintain a perimeter to cut off my means of escape. I have to do something, I will not be alligator bait! I force the claws in his belly to forty-five degrees and pull upward as hard as I can. Finley roars and I feel blood spray from his mouth. His arms loosen enough that I am able to stab him in the kidney with my left hand claws. He crumbles to the ground in a strangely slow motion. Standing straight, I look Momma in her eyes, and stomp on Finley’s throat. She looks down to watch him die and then back to me. The hate rolling off of her is palpable. Tactically speaking, that may have been a bad decision. The twins Leo and Grace move towards me spreading in a classic pincer. Madison thought it would be cute to teach them chess. Well, score one for mother nature. That's ok, because I am going to teach them what it means to defend against Stephanie’s Gambit. Grace drops to all fours while Leo stays upright both are running forward. Darn, they know the Italian defense. Let's see how they respond to a little Polerio. I feint towards Leo, but then dart at Grace instead. She tries to adjust on the fly, but she is going too fast, she really needs phase four to make that happen. She swings her tail to intercept me, but I leap over it and remove it at 25cm from her bottom. That is going to play hell with her balance. Thank God the cheap client refused the phase one anti-armor upgrade. I can hear Momma Gator hissing in frustration. It's a good thing I ended her dancing early before the party started. She would initiate lipolysis on my bottom to begin Krebs cycle after this fight. Willow, the youngest and most dangerous, moves to her mothers side. I need to end this now before she joins in. Infuriated at the shame I have caused his sister, Leo runs blindly at me roaring at the top of his lungs. I do a flip jump in the air seemingly so he can pass beneath me, however if he had a better grasp of physics he would have stopped before reaching me. Luckily for him, this lesson will only need to be taught once. Coming down, both sets of my claws drive deep into his frontal lobe. I watch as he slides down from my claws, face slack, and eyes unseeing. Grace falls to the floor and stares at her brother's corpse, paralyzed as if there is no battle. I guess she forgot I was here. Doesn't she know how rude it is to ignore a guest. Before Momma Gator can hobble over to me, I walk to Grace and flip a coin in my head. Heads she gets the claws. Tails, hmmm you know that is really far to bend down, well I guess it’s tails. She gets the boot. I look back at Momma Gator and give her a wink. I then kick Grace in the side of her neck as hard as I can, eliciting a satisfactory crack, leaving it an approximate forty degree angle. I was aiming for a perfect forty-five degree angle. Still, not too bad. Studying geometry may have cost me the fight, I am not prepared for the right hook from Willow. She was the only specimen that was forced to wear a muzzle during training. I can't let her catch me. I hit the ground and throw myself to the side to avoid the stomp Willow aimed for my head. I roll again when she attempts to kick me in the abdomen. This time I land in a position for the kip up, and meet her head on. Her next kick is aimed for my head, and I dodge backwards so that she misses. I move for the liver strike, but she anticipates me, and bends forward so that my fist tangles in her gi. She smiles at the sudden advantage she has, forgetting I am to close to her face. I rear back and headbutt her in the snout as hard as I can. The force drives her away from me, stretching my arm out between us. Momma Gator bites down midway up my forearm. I feel the bones snap and my flesh tear away. I scream, but I still remember to take Willow off the board. Before I move away, I eviscerate her deeply enough to obliterate the spine when my claws go through. Momma Gator dives at me desperate to end the fight. I level her with a kick to the solar plexus. She flies backward landing face up. I have one arm, I’m bleeding out, and I still have the Chucklefucks to contend with. Before she can move, I jump onto her torso driving my claws deep into her chest. She stares into my eyes malevolently. That changes when I grip her heart and pull it through her chest wall. **Twelve Hours Later Northern California in a Hidden Lab** The internal tourniquets I installed kept me alive, but still need to be calibrated. I nearly bled out before exsanguination levels met the threshold for deployment. It’s ok though, I am home. I'll just add it to the list. I turn on the bright overhead lights and am greeted by the hum of my equipment. There is my stasis pod. Over there is my reactor, you never know when a girl will need fissionable material. On that entire wall is my crown jewel. When I was sixteen I hacked the CRISPrDB and stole the source code. Over the years I have added so many upgrades that it is unrecognizable and lightyears beyond CRISPr. The AI generated DNA modifications alone are at least fifty years ahead of civilian and DOD databases. There is one last light to turn on, the one above my work bench. | 6,712 | 1 |
Sometime between today and tomorrow the uneven beam of a singular dim headlight sweeps along asphalt, its twin long dead. Gravel crackles and pops under tire weight. Worn brake pads cry out as the car slows to Park. The doors creak open, slam shut. A boy and a girl stand on either side, their short breaths producing faint clouds of condensation. Shivering, she says to him, I want to show you something. It’s called Greeting the Sun. Like in yoga. This is a vague answer to the questioning of their purpose here. They’re standing at the farthest end of a lot. Ahead of them stretches an acre of park lawn, manicured, coated in frosty dew, encircled by rows of thick leafless oaks and soaring evergreens. \*You mean Sun Salutation?\* You’ll see. The motion is quick– a jerking of her head– beckoning him toward the cement path snaking its way away from them through the green. He follows her, this acquaintance of five or six hours, their way lit by the warm glow of copper lamps, poles patina-green from oxidation. The two of them, this boy and this girl, stroll in early morning silence till they reach the farthest edge of the park. When she steps off the path and into the brush he hesitates. Wait, he says. I’m not going in there. Icy gusts whip about, rattling branches, prickling exposed skin, scattering pine needles at their feet. She flips up the fur lined hood of her winter coat, jams her hands in the pockets and marches on. Hey, he tries again. Don't just walk away from me. By now only her silhouette is visible in the gloam. She glances back– a shadow with sage colored eyes– says, in a tone reserved for reassuring anxious pups, C’mon. It is enough to move him. With three quick breaths, a patting of his cheeks, he pushes forward. Shouldering through the thicket he nearly rolls an ankle, his flat soled shoes tractionless on the loose soil. Hardly able to see her, he listens for snapping twigs and scuffing rubber against rock as the narrow path slopes downward to a clearing dappled in soft light by a sky now brimming with shades of opal. A sign swinging loose from a single strand of chain-link reads, \*Warning: Unstable Cliff… Keep Away From Edge.\* The girl pays it no mind, rounds her legs over the waist high fence one after the other. Hands still in her pockets, she approaches the bluff while he watches on from apparent safety. Below them, the rushing interstate, a river of red halogen, its tide rising, banks flooding with the morning commute. Beyond, the major metropolitan area stirs, a forest of steel and brick glinting in pre-twilight. This is \*Lover’s Lane\* or \*Make-out Point\* or whatever you want to call it, all cities have them; a place high up and secluded, where the local teens sneak away to explore their sexuality, to scream and commune with God unobserved. It is \*Pride Rock\*, \*Mount Sinai\* and \*The Parthenon\*. Dare me to jump? The girl shouts, arms flung back, head craned out over the drop. The boy steps over the chain, drops his voice an octave, says, Be serious, what is this? The girl shuffles backward, she’s winding up for a charge. It’s on you, she says to him. Yes or no? There’s a bolt of sincerity in the way her eyebrows narrow, the way her jaw tightens. He hesitates. When no response comes she goes to pitch herself over. In a panic the boy scrambles forward, loses his footing, crashes to his knees. He thinks to call her name, realizes he’s forgotten it, and instead lets out a hiss, \*Don’t play.\* The girl skids to a stop, her left boot catching inches before the edge. She laughs– a sudden explosive, \*Hah!\* Projected over the valley. And it bounces back, each reverberation extending its life a little longer. You’re crazy, the boy says out of breath, his front coated in dirt. She doesn’t respond. Her gaze stays on the vista, flecks of gold have begun to appear over the horizon. It’s almost time. The girl stands straight, sticks her hands in her pockets, says, Why come all this way to sit in the nosebleeds? I can see. You sure? She’s watching the clouds now, the tilt of her chin causing her hood to slip. When he approaches the precipice, he tells himself that it’s because he’s gotten tired of speaking to the back of her head. Better, right? If you say so. His eyes are downcast taking in the craggy dullness below. Amongst the rock and shrubbery there’s evidence of humanity come and gone; plastic and glass, rusted steel, tattered clothing, needles, condoms, what remains of a mattress. That fall wouldn’t kill you, he adds. You’d spend a few days at the bottom with a broken back probably. A sly grimace, her gaze joins his on the splash zone still too dark to see clearly, she says, Bird food. Not my best work. That why we’re here? Stop it. I’m just… \*killing time\*. Cuz we’ve got so much of it. It’s bird food either way. What's the difference? For a moment they stand in silence. A red eye flight streaks overhead turbines screaming, loaded with passengers. Their seats upright as they prepare to escape the gravity of this place. Following the plane with an eastward nod, the girl says, Here it comes. The star's arrival is an act of creation. The horizon cracks– erupting in a blast of light that refracts across the skyline. A yolk of cosmic ignition, the Sun, creeps upward, burning the atmosphere, scattering swatches of magenta and orange. In this moment the veil feels thin– between here and there, now and then, real and imagined. Great flurries of wind break against the cliff face like waves on the distant coasts. Eyes watery, they fight the urge to blink for fear the vision might end. It is miraculous, pure phantasia: a true beginning. The girl's hand slips out of her pocket, finds the boy's at his side. Their fingers link. She is warm. He is \*so\* cold. Then, low so not to be mistaken as meant for him, she says, \*Hello\*. | 6,134 | 1 |
I don't think this is a story exactly. It has Story elements. Beggening, Middle, End. A crux and something resembling a resolution. Really, though, this is sort of just a disorganized collection of allegories with a purpose. Kinda like a parable but.... not.... Also I'm well aware that I'm a comma chameleon. Title: "That Condescending Tone." CLS 5/6/24 As I frantically scampered about, trying to ensure that each and every little thing was as it should be, I was approached. I took one of my few and precious moments to glance up. It was the voice of reason. "I don't have time for you today." I said bluntly. "Normally I'm all for reason, but if I don't accomplish the many things that need doing then they simply will not get done. So, if you could please peddle your smug attitude elsewhere, I would appreciate it." "Alright, sorry to interrupt, go about your business." The voice of reason has always operated using the same tired play book that it had developed when it dealt out it's first admonishments. And though the complexity of the admonishment has developed in leaps and bounds since the dawn of audiolinguistics, the structure of it's process had not changed a bit since it's first conveyance via the waggling of a brow. You see the voice of reason has always been a performance artist. Here it will make a pointed show of playing the silent observer. But silence is not it's nature. It is, after all, a voice. I continued my stress driven, panicked, and erratic attempts at damage control. With my left hand I was putting out a fire, with my right hand I was signing a waver stating that I am of right mind and that I know what I'm doing. With my other left hand I was cleaning up my mess and with my other right hand I was taking care of my hygiene. With my other, other left hand I was doing someone else's job for them and with my other, other right hand I was calculating probabilities and impossible odds. A sound in the silence. A shifting of fabric, perhaps a clearing of the throaght. Truthfuly, the space I occupied was anything but silent in my flurry of exertion, but that sound rang out through the cacophony I was conducting like the sound of wind-chimes in a gale. It pierced through the turbulence of my mind because it did not come from me. "Here we go." I thought as I braced myself for a lesson in the obvious, perhaps even a sermon on the fallacy of control. But no. Nothing. As the voice of reason sat and "observed" I did my utmost not to look up. I wasn't going to give it the satisfaction of a queue. After some time had passed, presumably enough time for the voice to feel that it had manufactured an air of punctuation, the voice of reason broke the surface tension of my comfort once again and ripples of possibilty bloomed out in all directions. "Why are you so flustered?" And there it was, the second move in the world's oldest chess strategy. That was the bait. It was rhetorical. If I answered the question then I was ceading ground to the voice. But it was also a dare. If I ignored it entirely then I was dodging the issue. A classic set up. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. So, like any self respecting mouth breather, there I was playing chicken with the voice of reason. I sighed. Then I shuddered as I acknowledged my mistake. Point voice. I sighed so deeply that my soul got an airbubble trapped in it, causing a spiritual cramp. The sigh could be felt flowing through the universal web of subtext that spanned the wide cosmos of diction. A ripple that would in turn be felt by all of the tiny hungry consessions that writhed within advitories in the plane of peripheral thought. All of the little ifs, and the buts, all the ands, and the ors. All the little thoughts half thought without the strength or drive to be. A sigh that rang out like a dinner bell for all the thoughts that were too weak to manifest themselves alone. "I'm flustered because everything around me is completely out of control and if I don't take control then nothing will ever find any order. I feel as though I always have to do everything around here or nothing will ever get done. So, as I said before, and as much as I would like to, I simply do not have time for you today." "Okay." Said the voice, continuing to observe. My neck and back nearly folded themselves into a pretzel so that my feat were resting on my shoulders; an involuntary reaction to the soul crushing anticipation of what I believed would surely be an anti climactic and sophmoric lecture. It wasn't a question of whether or not the voice of reason would press on, but rather when. When. The voice of reason, ever the con artist, was able to guess, based purely on gut feeling, exactly how many beats of silence to leave after "Okay." Each beat of silence coaxed my suspicion away like a quiet lullaby sang to a child in its crib. To eat all of their fears and burdens, lulling them to careless slumber and allowing peace to grow. So when I opened my mouth to tell the voice to stop being coy and just get to the point, not a single syllable had managed to escape me before the voice of reason closed the gap and dropped the other shoe in one clean swift action. The accuracy of the voice's timing stripped the breath from my voice in an instant. A moment earlier and my will to reject would've been renewed. A moment later and the trance cast on me would've been dispelled, replaced once more with my stuborn density. But no, the voice of reason is a force of instinct, believe it or not. Like any biological function the efficient employement of the voice of reason is as much an inherited skill as it is a learned one. And so, at the most critical moment available the voice chimed back in. Dunking me once more into the chilly bilge of anxiety and irritation that the silence had just stolen away with. "Do you have to do this often?" I let out yet another sigh that could be felt reverberating through the deepest dankest halls of social causality. 2 voice, love me. If the first sigh was the dinner bell then this sigh, this sigh was chum in the stream of coniousness. Bait for bigger, nastier, more actualized notions. The kind that creep about just barely outside the realm of concious thought. The kinds of notions that lay patiently, waiting for your subconscious to drop it's guard for but a moment, sneaking in through the vertices of your disposal, when you are neither here nor there. Barging in like the Kool Aid Man when you're not lucid enough to stop them, or slipping through the cracks while you teeter on the cliff that overlooks the valley of hypnagogia. There it was, that was the genius at the heart of the voice of reason's strategy. It didn't have to scold you, or punish you, or belittle you. Those are tools of brutish conversation. Introducing desired notions in such an involved manner? That was beneath the voice. The voice need not inject into one the concepts that it carries in its belly, like a Trojan Horse. The voice of reason, no matter the source of the sound, is your own voice. The voice need not do something so blunt as to TELL someone WHAT they know. It merely reminds them THAT they know something. After that human curiosity will do the heavy lifting. The voice of reason is a right bastard. It taunts you with glimpses of what you already know, and then it challenges you to bring the bigger picture into focus. It may lead you by the hand a bit, but it makes you take the journey. It will walk you from point A, but you will arrive at point B alone. And when you do, you'll have to know that it did not bring you to these thoughts, it merely told you that they were here. You traversed that expanse on your own. No thought was planted, no notion injected, no opinion installed, you were not brainwashed, you were not tricked, your autonomous thoughts remain unmolested. Make no mistake, the voice of reason has designs for you. It has the will to see you changed but not the will to change you. Someone else may evoke the voice of reason but eventually the voice becomes yours. Before you know it the person that played the catalyst may have faded into the same blurred lines in which the thoughts you don't think loom in waiting. The voice of reason may still be there and with nothing else around to blame you are confronted with the truth you wished so deeply to ignore. That you know, that you always knew, that the only person you've been fooling is yourself. "I do this often, but no, I do not have to. I need control, I need to convince myself I either have it or that I can gain it." 3-love, match point. "Why?" "Because I realize that if I am to surrender to faith in the unfolding then I must acknowledge within myself that my own journey is not about me, that I am a passenger of my own life. That all my vain attempts to seize control are nothing more than tantrums and that control is only something I can have over myself. And to accept that. That's hard." "Is it really easier to try to control the world, to try to pull all the strings all the time?" "No, but...If I try my hardest and fail to exert control on my world then the results were as expected and I tried my hardest. But taking control of your mental state and taking responsibility for your actions is not a skill or a muscle or an effort. You've either taken control of yourself, or you have chosen not to, and I find it much easier to blame the world for being broken than to blame myself for being weak." Game, set and match. The voice of reason defeats Colby by a landslide. And it just makes it look EASY. You cannot learn from the voice of reason, you can only be reminded of what you know. It's not the voice of reason I can't stand. It's that condescending fucking tone. | 9,765 | 2 |
I succeeded in my goal to enter with force as I speedily catapulted into the buzzing mass. The moment my head was encircled by the gate, my body underwent the very same experience it had in the dark of my room. My mind fogged and the wondrous, twisting ribbons of light had returned, though as soon as it all had appeared, it vanished and my upper body rose out of the portal. A wave of vertigo shot through me as I pushed my hands against the ground of the dark room. I forced myself upwards, and the sensation left my legs as I clambered upwards. Crouched and frozen in exhilaration, I breathed out a brisk, laugh of amazement. I slowly rose from my position, arms locked slightly outwards to my sides. I turned to face the passage that lay on the ground before me. There really was no running from it now. As I stood there in the dark, another wave of disconcerting tribulations reveled in my heart. What if I wasn’t ready? Ready to fight a daunting threat that I could barely even comprehend? Was Sullivan’s proposal truly of the best interest for us? My brow creased. All this time, he had been right, and I had been too afraid to accept it. Shifting to my right, I waved my hands, eventually swiping the rough walls of the closet. Holding my left hand against the cobble, I walked my way forward until I brushed against the handle of the closet door. I turned it with my right and gave it a pull, but it didn’t give. I felt for both lock cylinders, pulling them accordingly, and upon trying the handle again, it opened fine. Light from above poured into the room, and I shielded my eyes with my left hand. A light swish could be heard behind me, and upon darting my head back, the floor had sealed itself. Nothing remained except for a faint ring of water around the edges of what had been the gate. What made it worse is my realization that there had been no cart in sight. A jolt of adrenaline hit me as I gasped, walking back over and uselessly pushing my hands into the ground. In my hastily made efforts to escape the Marchers, I had royally screwed myself for the time being. Ideas of starvation or attacks from strange, incomprehensible creatures were not ones of which I had wanted to imagine, but now I really had no choice but to press forth. As I began to readjust to the brightness, I immediately noticed that the stone on the floor and walls of the area around me had now presented itself a pale slate rather than its original beige tint. A perplexed and yet expecting look came upon my face as I slowly began walking up the spiral stairs to my left, and as I made my way up the last of the steps I saw the bell itself, of which the color had also disappeared. I saw it bob slowly to the left and right, proving my ears correct. Two bells had rung moments ago, and how it did so on this end was beyond me. I cared less about the bells at the time than I did the most pressing of my curiosity. Though the walls were proof enough, it was when I reached the ledge atop that very tower that the disbelief that had stood so firmly within me had almost unfolded again, because I was finally given the chance to see what was before us all as it truly was. Its emergence at home now felt small and insignificant compared to the ironic grandeur of the true realm that I had found myself standing in. My eyes widened and I blinked firmly, as if to suddenly readjust again, the color flooding into my sight. It never did. I struggled to perceive reality as my mouth dropped slightly, my breath slowly exhaling through it in awe. The “Hollow,” this anomalynthat we named and yet lacked the capacity to understand, really had an origin of its own, and Sullivan couldn't have been more correct. I tell you, from the stone underneath my feet to the very edges of the horizon stood an astonishing and impossible landscape. Every last detail of the world was filled with only the inescapable hues of black, white, and gray. Everything my eyes could see pronounced themselves dull and appeared virtually lifeless. The corners of the earth were in a deep sleep, unable to acknowledge my presence. The excruciatingly unsolvable feeling was similar to examining an old antique photograph. A snapshot showing life as it was and the musings of a time long passed–all of which told tales, whether in little or great detail. The difference for me had been that I was actually there, and I couldn't remove my gaze from it. There was nothing more than now. I immediately peered into the distance at the rolling hills of the east, which seemed flatter due to their drab and muted state. Their trees, which on our earth gave dimension and flair to the enriching view, now only appeared as if they were the early sketches and tracings of an artist's drawing. Of course, shadows and depth were now some of the only things that would still let the world appear to me with much form at all. Ponderously, I drew my hand out in front of myself, admiring the sheer contrast of color my body and clothing gave to the uncertain scenery that sprawled out over the dreary edges of Iowa and Illinois. If this earth had hands, I don't think it would've ever reached back. Around the hills’ shores stretched the ever-valiant Mississippi, which now lustered a faint, starry silver as it danced around the base of the land and beyond my sight. The river shined only subtly as it reflected what little light it had received from the expanse above. The whole sky was laced with broad linings and shades, so that despite the obvious absence of blue, I could see well that it was overcast. Beautiful, pale rays of light desperately reached upon the sulking landscape through small clearings and openings, of which were too dense to reveal the heavens. The covering lay suspended in the air, not appearing to be drifting in any direction whatsoever. From my height, I noticed the brilliant, towering oak trees of Flower Hill, which all stood in each spot exactly as they did at home, and with every one flaunting their magnificent height in perfect juxtaposition to their colored counterparts. I took a deep sigh. The air smelled of stale earth–a scent that happened to fit well with my inglorious-glorious perception of the place. I traversed my way down and out of the bell tower. I opened the doors and took a few steps onto tall, wispy grass that crept throughout the entire meadow of Flower Hill. It climbed just as high as ornamental grass, and was withering at its tips. This view better revealed to me that, compared to what was happening at home, the state of the world somehow looked decent. Even whilst lacking color, the grass's derelict and unkempt appearance that sat calmly throughout the landscape reminded me of how my grandma's lawn used to look back when I was small. Filled with a sudden embrace of nostalgia, I was tempted to start running through it, but the inexplicable unfamiliarity I was feeling quickly overthrew any reminiscing that had occurred. Now looking to the trees from below, I noticed they were ailed with the same disease-like effect that the Hollow was imbuing ours with. Coarse, lightly shriveling bark lined the trunk and branches of the old oaks and young trees, and none of them were spared from it. What caught my eye was that the bark on these trees, though perturbed, thickly bloomed outward and upward, very similarly to frond husks on a palm tree. On the branches, the leaves were much more broad and expansive in size, and were filled with an abundance of small holes that Japanese beetles could probably compete with biting up. A good few leaves drooped depressingly, and many were crumpling, but none of this looked as severe as home’s newly ill flora seemed to be. I diverted my attention back down to the grass, and decided to lie on my stomach and examine each blade closely. I thought as if I were about to notice some profound trace of rebellious pigmentation that might've forced itself through, though no matter how close I brought my eyes (I looked pretty stupid for a second), there wasn't the smallest hint of green. I really don't understand why I thought I'd find any. I hoisted myself up from the ground, briskly patting off a few pieces of grass that had clung to my shirt and jeans. As I continued to try my best to comprehend the diminished reality of it all, I soon began to realize another foreign attribute: there was no wind. I'm not talking even the slightest breeze–I mean, there was literally nothing. The grass stood drowsily still and the leaves hung completely motionless in my wake. To compare that to the calm before a storm wouldn't encapsulate the dreadful emptiness that surrounded me. Fortunately I hadn't suffocated yet, and I admit, for a little while that idea would wander in my mind. | 8,760 | 1 |
-Why? -Because… we love each other? -Yet, she won't do your laundry. -I can do my laundry myself. I'm looking for a wife, not a maid. -I'm just saying… -Mooooooom! -Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. Still, I don't see what's the point. -Why not? We're practically married anyway. -Exactly. You've been living together for five years now, smelling each other's farts and whatnot. Why get married? -C'mon, mom! Of all people, I thought you would be happy. -Oh, I am happy for you, Charlie. I'd just be happier if you'd pay your student loan. -So I have to wait till I'm two hundred and fifty before being happy? -The Charlie I knew would make it in one hundred years, at most. Since you met this girl it’s all about your next night out, your next trip. -We’re trying to live life, not hoard numbers in a bank. -Not really dutiful wife type, if you ask me. The way I see it, a woman stands by her man while he’s out there earning the bacon, not indulge him to spend his time and money on… -Mooooooom! -Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. Still, I don’t see the point of getting a piece of paper. -It’s not just a piece of paper, it’s a commitment. We’ll celebrate our love and swear to care for each other in front of family and friends. -So this girl who doesn’t even bother to do your laundry is making you spend on a party. -That’s really what you're focusing on? -I’m just saying… -Mooooooom! -Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. I just worry you’re not getting your head on the right things, son. You were once so focused on your career, on making a name for yourself, now it's just about this new place you heard about, this meditation who-knows-what you two are going to. -She makes me happy, mom. -I know, son. And you deserve happiness. I just want to make sure you’re doing all you can to lift up that girl, not let her bring you down to her level. -This isn’t something you should be saying about your future daughter-in-law. -And what “future” is there about it? She was here just last weekend, eating my vegan mayo. You know how hard it is to get that offense on the laws of God and man done? Do you think her own mother goes through that much trouble for her? -Fine, I’ll concede you do treat her nicely from time to time. But can’t you be a little less judgy with her, now she will officially be part of the family? -Holappaminute, young man. You were never bothered by the way I talk about that girl. What has changed? -What are you talking about? I always defended Cindy. -No, you’d roll your eyes and grumble a ceremonial “Mooooooom!”. This is actual concern, something different is going on in your mind. -Mom, don’t pretend like you know what goes on in my mind. -Don’t pretend you can hide what goes through this coconut from me, boy. I knew you before you were even born. You’re just like your father. He never managed to hide anything from me and neither will you. -Mom, I just came by to give you the good news… *\*Do-you-really-think-that’s-gonna-fly-with-me? face\** -...and I was expecting my mom would be happy for me… *\*You-know-I’m-not-buying-it-and-I-know-you-know-I’m-not-buying face\** -...but if that’s how you’ll react, maybe I should go… *\*Still that same face of when you told an evil witch cursed you not to go to school\** -Fine! We’re expecting! -Now, *that* is great news! -Really? -Of course! What mama doesn’t want a little baby to spoil and teach to stick boogers under the table? Congrats, son! -Hygiene concerns aside. Thanks, mom. -So why is this woman making you spend on a party instead of saving for my grandchild’s college? -Mooooooom! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *Tks for reading. No promises, but you might find something funny* *. | 3,822 | 3 |
I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic—a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside. I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal—if it weren’t for the subtleties. In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run. Each successive photo told a similar story. The family, always in different settings—their quaint living room, a local park, their dining room—always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me. The last photo on the roll was different. It was taken inside the house, in what looked like the living room. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help. I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure. The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight. | 2,800 | 7 |
Based on a poem (that I wrote several years prior) titled, "The Dead Birds in My Garden" which goes as follows: It’s hard to see the death, it's hard to look at. You’d think the garden would make it easier. You’d think the green twine that is interposed with the colored irises and black pupils would shed beauty on the thing. These eyes that watch as the spiral swirls, only they know the truth. I wonder what they thought when they saw the three black birds that lay lifeless in my bed of hydrangeas. I wonder if they wonder. If they could speak, would they tell me the cause of this oh-so-terrible tragedy that took place in my garden? Would they tell me or would they just laugh, reveling in their unrequited knowledge? The gardener woke to the sound of fewer and fewer birds chirping in the morning wind. Every morning he was delighted with the welcoming song of the starlings that perched outside his window, but with each morning this spring, he noticed the diminished call. Deciding it was not worth it to dwell on he wiped the sleep from his eyes and started downstairs to brew his dark roast. He fried himself a few eggs and set off to work away under the freshly blue sky. Fashioning his faded denim overalls and brown leather boots, he trudged down the garden path and was immediately made aware of a wretched smell. The putrid sharp odor clung in the air like a dark aura. The smell was familiar to the man, as he was no stranger to it. He made his way to his bed of hydrangeas. They bloomed beautifully this spring and dripped a cotton candy mixture of deep purples and bright blues, but something was off about the way they swayed in the wind. They seemed to rip through the air creating a roaring buzz. \*Wait no, that noise.\* He followed his ears somewhat dazed and pulled back the foliage. He immediately revealed a sight that he at first did not understand. He whipped back, startled. \*Surely his eyes deceived him, for it could not have been.\* Yet when he went back, slowly moving his hand into the bushel of flowers, peeling them to the side, his horrors had been confirmed. What lay before him were three dead birds swarmed with yellow jackets. The brown and yellow mass of them writhing away covering almost every square inch of the poor creatures. The sound was horrifying; just a steady hum, all registering a single unbroken note. The sound drew him in like a trance. He kneeled transfixed at the sight, unaware of time, simply staring. It did not take long, however, for the bees to take notice of him. They began to climb from green leaf to green stem until they met flesh. As he felt them crawl up his skin, his trance was broken, and he broke into a sudden panic. The man frantically swiped and swatted and the yellow-brown haze formed around him. The air felt thick, and he could feel tens of needle-like pin-pricks piercing his skin. The horrible buzz was drowned out by his panic until he noticed something. The hum coming from the swarm started to oscillate; with more, and more tonation, until a frequency was found. The voice, \*no, it couldn't be\*; Yes, the distorted voice radiated out from the swarm and surrounded him in an all-encompassing domain of fear and anguish. The humming melody raged out into laughter, a horrific, hysterical laughter. And all at once, the buzzing stopped. The only sound that the Gardener could hear was the flapping of his clothes as he flailed. Broken, the man fell to his knees in an attempt to pray to whatever was above; but what was above him, was not God. Instead, there were thousands upon thousands of bees steadily floating in the air, as if time had stopped. Eyes wide, mouth agape, with his lips, curled back revealing his teeth, he yelled, "DEAR GOD, WHAT IS THIS?!" And what he got in return was a sharp darting of the yellow-brown mass, first going left, then up, then right, bouncing around every which way. The swarm began to laugh again; slowly tightening, becoming so dense, that it was no longer a swarm, but a black mass. That black mass floated down to the ground in the shape of a man, white as snow and in robes as black as midnight. His face was inhuman; distorted, as if he had been dead for ages, but was not unable to rot, and he spoke thus, "The spiral must spin." in a sing-songy, high-pitched voice. That was all he said before exploding into a cloud of bees, and this time, the bees did not sting when they landed on the man, they consumed. | 4,493 | 1 |
Henry N. Silva NOTE: The following story is technically a sequel to other stuff I have written. 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. Dean faces the blue sunset… 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 Dean 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!* Dean remembers his mother first saying to him, so long ago… Standing in front of his own airship, Dean now takes his eyes off the sun, focusing instead on the small town ahead of him, surrounded by vast desert, common for the western region of the planet… As he makes his way into town on foot, he finds himself greeted by a fellow Sunchild, Fodir. The two of them bare black Sunchild armor, accentuated by patches of purple, the color of The West… A warm smile sweeps across Fodir’s face, “You picked up the distress call too, I see!” “Why did our radars pick this one up, though?” Dean asks, as he looks around, “Isn’t this Northwest territory?” “Actually, this community is technically right on the border between West and Northwest,” Fodir explains. “Oh,” Dean refocuses his attention on a small house, just behind his peer, “So what happened here?” “Some kinda domestic dispute, it looks like. A few Northwesterners got here right before me, though.” “Should we go take a look anyways?” Fodir nods, “Might as well.” They step indoors, only to find a small girl, curled up on the floor and crying, just beside the entrance… Dean kneels down, meeting her at her level, “Hey, kid. Can you tell us what happened here?” The girl does her best to speak between sobs, “Mommy killed daddy… Mommy killed daddy!” Dean stands back up, looking over just as the mother is being taken from the kitchen to the outside, a Northwestern Sunchild grabbing her by each arm. They too bare black armor, only theirs is accentuated by a lighter shade of purple, more magenta than anything else… Dean manages to get a good look at the mother as she passes him. He can see the pure, unfiltered insanity in her eyes. She snarls as she sees him, making no acknowledgement of her daughter whatsoever. No remorse… Another Northwestern Sunchilddd then steps out from the kitchen, one whom Dean already happens to know, a man by the name of Rakk. “So what’s gonna happen to her?” Dean asks him, “The mother, I mean.” Rakk merely shrugs, “You know how it goes. We’ll decide if we should send her to The North or not. If we keep her here, then we’ll decide her fate ourselves. If we send her north, then it’ll be up to the government.” Fodir grits his teeth, “You mean the same government that was recently exposed as corrupt?” “Corrupt or not, it’s the global government,” Rakk snaps back at him, “and rules are rules.” Dean eyes him critically, “*Your* rules. Not ours.” Rakk remains unfazed, “Even so, we got here before you guys did. That woman is under *our* jurisdiction now.” With that, he leaves… The pair of Western Sunchildren say nothing more, returning their attention to the helpless child on the floor… MONTHS LATER Dean steps into a bar, deep in thought… Even now, he cannot stop thinking about the ‘domestic dispute’ from several months prior. There was a time where he only cared about himself, but that time was over for him now… Soon enough, he recognizes Rakk, sitting alone atop a barstool, and decides to join him. Rakk looks to his left, “Ah, look who it is!” “A bit far from home, no?” The Northwesterner takes another sip of his drink, “Maybe I just like it here.” Dean gets to the point, “I heard all the charges were dropped for that woman… Why?” As per usual, Rakk shrugs, “I wasn’t part of the decision to send her north, nor was I part of the court’s ruling up there.” Dean presses on, “Your actions have allowed a guilty person to walk free. Had you just let *us* handle it, none of this would’ve happened.” Rakk places some money on the counter, standing from his seat. For a moment, it seems he is about to say something new in rebuttal, but suddenly stops himself, instead leaving the bar in silence… The Westerner continues to sit alone, wondering what Rakk had wanted to say to him. Did he want to admit defeat? Did he simply feel that Dean wasn’t worth arguing any further with? Whatever the answer, it was beyond Dean, at least in that moment… DAYS LATER The Western Sunchild finds himself returning to the same bar, this time on business… There to great him just outside is Fodir, his usual warm smile in tow, “Nice to see a familiar face!” Dean waves to him, “At least we’re deep in western territory this time. No need to worry about Northwesterners getting in the way… So what happened?” Fodir points to bar behind him, “Some guy had too much to drink in there, started going crazy.” “Shouldn’t be too hard to handle, then.” They step in, only to find the place empty and destroyed. An older man stands in the middle, visibly drunk, a broken glass bottle in his hand… He points his makeshift weapon towards the pair of intruders, “Leave me alone!!” Dean takes a deep breath, “Relax.” “I said leave me alone!!” Dean continues to remain calm, “We’re not gonna hurt you.” Fodirrr steps up to drunkard, who raises the broken bottle in defense… And then Fodir snaps his neck. Dean recoils in shock, “What the hell?!” Fodir briefly looks down on the now-dead man on the floor, before turning his head towards Dean. The warm smile from his face long gone, his eyes now seeming ‘empty,’ and cold, “You didn’t see? He was gonna attack me.” “You didn’t need to take it that far!” Fodir sighs, “My parents were drunks. Just had a traumatic reaction, I guess.” “That’s not a valid excuse! You basically just broke the law!” Fodir walks up to him, his expression still blank, his eyes still cold, “We are the law. | 6,760 | 2 |
Hey there. I'm currently in the intriguing process of creating the first fragments of a book called 'Overture.' In this urban fantasy story, a teen boy named Leo is greeted by an old man, who elects him to sail across the Mississippi River in order to unravel an extraordinary mystery behind a parallel world. This excerpt tells of Leo's first moments in the alternate dimension itself. I'm here for your view of it all, and if you read it and find it worthy of your interest, please do let me know. Encouragement to produce what I want to be a rich and memorable tale would benefit me greatly. Thanks, and here it is. The disbelief that stood so firmly within me had almost unfolded once again, because it was there atop that very hill that I was finally given the chance to see what was before us all as it truly was. Its emergence at home now felt small and insignificant compared to the ironic grandeur of the true realm that I had found myself standing in. My eyes widened and I blinked firmly, as if to suddenly readjust, the color flooding into my sight. It never did. I struggled to perceive reality as my mouth dropped slightly, my breath slowly exhaling through it in awe. The “Hollow,” this anomaly that we named and yet lacked the capacity to understand, really had an origin of its own. Sullivan had only spoken the truth. I tell you, from the stone underneath my feet to the very edges of the horizon stood an astonishing and impossible landscape. Every last detail of the world was filled with only the inescapable hues of black, white, and gray. Everything my eyes could see pronounced themselves dull and appeared virtually lifeless. The corners of the earth were in a deep sleep, unable to acknowledge my presence. The excruciatingly unsolvable feeling was similar to examining an old antique photograph. A snapshot showing life as it had been and the musings of a time long passed–all of which told tales, whether in little or great detail. The difference for me had been that I was actually inside, and I couldn't remove my gaze from it. There was nothing more than now. I immediately peered into the distance at the rolling hills of the east, which seemed flatter due to their drab and muted state. Their trees, which on our earth gave dimension and flair to the enriching view, now only appeared as if they were the early sketches and tracings of an artist's drawing. Of course, shadows and depth were now some of the only things that would still let the world appear to me with much form at all. Ponderously, I drew my hand out in front of myself, admiring the sheer contrast of color my body and clothing gave to the uncertain scenery that sprawled out over the dreary edges of Iowa and Illinois. If this earth had hands, I don't think it would've ever reached back. Around the hills’ shores stretched the ever-valiant Mississippi, which now lustered a faint, starry silver as it danced around the base of the land and beyond my sight. The river shined only subtly as it reflected what little light it had received from the expanse above. The whole sky was laced with broad linings and shades, so that despite the obvious absence of blue, I could see well that it was overcast. Beautiful, pale rays of light desperately reached upon the sulking landscape through small clearings and openings, of which were too dense to reveal the heavens. The covering lay suspended in the air, not appearing to be drifting in any direction whatsoever. I took a deep sigh. The air smelled of stale earth–a scent that happened to fit well with my inglorious-glorious perception of the place. I walked forth, hoping not to trip on the chiseled stones of the passage's stairway and took a few steps onto tall, wispy grass that crept throughout the entire meadow of Flower Hill. It climbed just as high as ornamental grass, and was withering at its tips. Even whilst lacking color, its derelict and unkempt appearance that sat calmly throughout the landscape reminded me of how my grandma's lawn used to look back when I was small. Filled with a sudden embrace of nostalgia, I was tempted to start running through it, but the inexplicable unfamiliarity I was feeling quickly overthrew any reminiscing that had occurred. Amidst the luscious meadows I noticed the brilliant, towering oak trees of Flower Hill, which all stood in each spot exactly as they did at home, and with every one flaunting their magnificent height in perfect juxtaposition to their colored counterparts. However, the trees were ailed with the same disease-like effect that the Hollow was imbuing ours with. Coarse, lightly shriveling bark lined the trunk and branches of the old oaks and young trees, and none of them were spared from it. What caught my eye was that the bark on these trees, though perturbed, thickly bloomed outward and upward, very similarly to frond husks on a palm tree. On the branches, the leaves were much more broad and expansive in size, and were filled with an abundance of small holes that Japanese beetles could probably compete with biting up. A good few leaves drooped depressingly, and many were crumpling, but none of this looked as severe as home’s newly ill flora seemed to be. I diverted my attention back down to the grass, and decided to lie on my stomach and examine each blade closely. I thought as if I were about to notice some profound trace of rebellious pigmentation that might've forced itself through, though no matter how close I brought my eyes (I looked pretty stupid for a second), there wasn't the smallest hint of green. I really don't understand why I thought I'd find any. I hoisted myself up from the ground, briskly patting off a few pieces of grass that had clung to my shirt and jeans. As I continued to try my best to comprehend the diminished reality of it all, I soon began to realize another foreign attribute: there was no wind. I'm not talking even the slightest breeze–I mean, there was literally nothing. The grass stood drowsily still and the leaves hung completely motionless in my wake. To compare that to the calm before a storm wouldn't encapsulate the dreadful emptiness that surrounded me. Fortunately I hadn't suffocated yet, and I admit, for a little while that idea would wander in my mind. | 6,254 | 3 |
To Us Who Were Beautiful November The Cherry Tree Institute of Edinburgh The ghosts in the library never speak. Perhaps the pounding rainfall trickling down the windows was too heavy for their souls to bear. So, they kept silent. Youthful secrets and dreams spanning centuries have been etched into the dust bunnies of the tomes and crannies, with echoes of the ghosts becoming one with the dust and the scent of cedarwood. They haunted the students, comforted them, lent them a shoulder to cry on, and protected their secrets and insecurities until time immemorial. Hopeless romantics, poets, aspiring physicists, and dreamers… they found sanctuary amidst the pain and stress of what’s to come in this sacred cocoon of knowledge. Even the pounding rainfall felt like a dear friend to them. Two aspiring souls frequented the library that year – the snow-kissed twin prodigies Magnus and Camilla Laurent, who frantically scrutinized their textbooks and poems together near the ancient arch entrance of the library, right by the tea kettles, ladders, and candle lights. These two not only possessed elegant platinum-white locks and harsh, amethyst eyes, but also stood towering amongst their fellow adult students despite being just shy of 12. Silent and reserved, they commanded resentment and envy, not unlike most scholars at The Cherry Tree Institute, except their youth was a feat to be respected of above all others. The twins knew their strengths, and though they weren’t the best with words, anyone who reviewed their thesis essays, short narratives, and poems would feel a pang of inspiration at the sight of their eloquence. Such as the tale goes. Young Camilla -- bless her soul -- quite enjoyed the attention and gossip she drew from students and astonished professors, and though she had no use for the popularity, seeing as she had no friends, the validation motivated her to overwork herself until the dead of night just one more time. Magnus, the smirking one with the oval frames and the deep voice, always sauntered just behind his older sister through the university, his expression foggy, yet his gemstone eyes piercing and poised. This boy’s arrogance sat juxtaposed his sensible mind and attentiveness. And so, the erudite lifted his quill, positioned it between his pinky and middle finger as he always does, sipped his chamomile, scarfed down his cookie, scribbled the finishing touches on his argumentative essay, and rests his leather loafers on the wooden seat beside him. His fingers naturally glide towards his temples and silver brows. “Hypertension again?’’, Camilla mentions, ‘’Think I may have some ibuprofen in my purse. I asked the canteen ladies if there was a lot of sodium in the rice and fries and there was. Now I think I may get a headache soon.” Her half-opened eyes drifted towards her notebooks and coffee-stained papers, and she breathed a sigh for the first time all night. Excess sodium and sugar hindered the twins’ studying capabilities, but with most of the food being served consisting of bland fruits and vegetables, it’s no wonder why the students turn to junk food for comfort. They cursed their headaches each day. Camilla, with a slight twitch in her eye, glanced at the quill and papers on her brother’s desk and raised her voice. ‘’You’re finished already? Seriously?’’ Magnus lifts open his eyelids in confusion. ‘’Yes? Lower your voice.’’, he says tiredly. Camilla softly scoffs, shakes her head, and continues flipping through the atlas beside her. ‘’Beautiful.’’ Her pile of open tomes was several times bigger than on her brother’s side. This piques his attention. He softly closes his open books and readjusts his frames before speaking. ‘’I know you know, Camilla. What Professor Evangeline said to me today. You could have stayed in the room with me, but you didn’t, you just hid yourself in the corner.’’ ‘’Yes, I know.’’, she utters, avoiding eye contact. To which statement she was responding to was unclear. Her eyes almost seem to glisten for a split-second. ‘’Magnus never stops, does he?’, she thought. ‘’Sucking up to the professors just to make me jealous. It’s as if he’s a different person entirely when speaking to them. God… this happens all the time.’’ Camilla softly clutches the back of her head as she sips her chamomile and reads, the bags under her eyes growing ever more prevalent. She didn’t feel beautiful or smart while studying tonight, for some reason. This wasn’t like her. The rain and the joyful pianists practicing a soft rendition of Mariage d’Amour across the burgundy-colored walls and chandeliers of the library ticked her off. More than it should have, at least. Magnus, seemingly wanting to leave the discussion at that, nodded slowly while swallowing the ibuprofen with the remaining chamomile. His turtleneck was left stained with droplets of tea. This boy can read Camilla’s mind they way she can read the entire row of bookshelves in just a week. ‘’I’m going. I guess you’re not coming with?’’ The sarcasm in his voice was feint but clearly noticeable. When Camilla failed to answer, he softly said ‘’There’s a good reason why you got into this school, and it’s because of what you’re doing right now. You should be more than thankful. Just wanted to let you know.’’ ‘’Do you think you’re better than me?’’, she quickly spatted. ‘’…’’ Magnus never once had to work as hard as her to succeed. Not once. But Camilla knew she had no right to complain about her brother when she had been gifted this opportunity to study in the place her beloved historians, authors, and scientists did decades ago, and at such a young age as well. But she had a crystal-clear vision for herself in life, one even clearer than her brother. One of riches, success, envy, admiration, and peace. The twins knew suffering and poverty like it was a dear friend before arriving at this cathedral of wonder, filled with adults who thought and pursued the exact same goals. ‘’Yes…’’, he finally answered with a smirk and a scoff, ‘’Yes, everyone knows that I’m better than you.’’ Magnus stood up and looked down at her with pity and annoyance, his headache still present. Though she was a few inches taller than him, she couldn’t help but cower against his intellectual prowess. His eyes were still piercing purple. Camilla had been known to pass out due to exhaustion on several occasions, but Magnus had never insisted on her resting, not when she’s such a stubborn person. After all, it wasn’t any of his concern what his sister decided to do in her life. He did what he could, and she wouldn’t listen, so why bother? Magnus understood her feelings, but why is she this panicked about this when she’s more gifted than almost every other person here? He huffed an angry sigh collected his belongings, unclear of the expression Camilla was making behind him. In a bizarrely calm voice, Camilla asked ‘’If I asked you to quit this school for me, would you do it?’’ ‘’Of course, I would. If I had enough credits to *graduate*, that is. I’d choose my career over you any day of my life, Camilla. Sorry.’’ ‘’Hm. I had a feeling but, you know, it sucks to hear you say that. Thank you. You’ll be done with this school in a few months anyway. Maybe you should find someplace else to do your homework, since you clearly don’t need shit here.’’ ‘’I’ll do that then. We’ll meet in the canteen tomorrow.? ‘’No, I just… leave me alone for a few weeks alright? Our exams are right around the corner. You distract me.’’ ‘’…’’ Magnus slowly nods, strolling towards the arch entrance and passing by the studious adults who give him respectful nods. He quickly steps out into the enchanted blue night without his umbrella, suffering from the most extreme headache of his life. Camilla Laurent, with her forehead pounding, – bless her soul – expressionlessly shed a single tear as she gathered more of her missing assignments, textbooks, and coffee, ready to spend one more night suffering in silence… in the haunted library surrounded by ghosts. The ghosts of the library would hold onto this secret exchange until the end of time itself. For their tragedy will never be known, but their regret will forever be felt. Epilogue And that was that. Those few weeks turned into a month, that month turned into several, until Magnus Laurent, the youngest student to have ever enrolled at The Cherry Tree Institute of Edinburgh at age 12, was crowned with his bachelor’s degree in Greek literature. Magnus was revered by his peers and professors with the respect he deserved, and he embraced this attention, just like his sister once did long ago. He never did approach his twin, nor did Camilla approach him. They lost contact with one another, and whether Camilla achieved her dream of becoming who she wanted to represent in life or not, Magnus wished nothing but the best for her. Magnus Laurent would eventually spend his life honored as one of the most captivating authors and poets of his time, winning numerous accolades and inspiring future generations – including those who studied where he once did – to achieve the life he has. His only regret in life up until the end was not apologizing to his dear sister, whom he abandoned to suffer in silence. | 9,311 | 1 |
No title yet This is my first short story in a couple years so this is a very rough draft, but I’d love to know what people think of the concept. Thanks! We had left behind our predatorial instincts long ago when we left earth, the planet that we drained the life out of. We humans lived on in the stars. First traveling to Proxima Centauri B. But that was merely a pit stop. After the last ship had left earth and finally landed about 5 years later we were thrown into a galaxy previously unknown to us. I was just 15 years old when we left our solar system. Even though I was accompanied by the remainder of our civilization, I boarded the ship alone. My mother, who had raised me on her own, was one of the last to be buried in the earth’s soil. She was the kindest soul I had ever known and her funeral was attended by many in the community. She taught me how to take care of myself and survive on the earth. Her garden flourished every year, and she often fed our neighbors through the hardships. While we waited for the ship to be built she showed me how to hunt with a shotgun, deer were my favorite. Although she did not have much to leave to me she left me a locket with a picture of her holding me as an infant in her arms. We arrived on Proxima Centauri B and began to build again but it was not long until we were greeted by a new world. Due to the radiation that our previous sun Sol emitted, any of our messages were overshadowed. When we landed, the red dwarf star known as Proxima Centauri, no longer hidden us from our galactic neighbors. Our solar system was thought to be long abandoned. Previous life had witnessed an asteroid collision with our planet, believing that there was nothing left behind. Little did they know that that asteroid collision would eventually bring about the human race. Being the only intelligent species in our solar system was a rarity, and as such, our species was unique to say the least. With no one to shepherd our budding species into knowledge and enlightenment we were left to our own devices. The first beings to greet us were the Jenydih, researchers who were elected to study us as alien anthropologists. As the first species in a long time to develop in isolation we were not only intriguing to these people but frightening. We had galactic rights as an intelligent species, but with no knowledge of our history they were unsure if we were to be welcomed or outcasted. We were forthcoming with all of our history, our biology, our psychology, everything there was to know about humans. According to the Jenydih, post Industrial Revolution we evolved in a very similar manner to most other species in the galaxy. But what they were truly interested in was pre-industrial revolution, specifically the Stone Age. In the galaxy, intelligent species had evolved from both predators and prey. The predators were strong enough to overpower, fast enough to catch, or smart enough to trap. The prey were fast enough to not be caught, smart enough to avoid traps, or were adept camouflagers to hide. We were something different. We weren’t particularly strong or fast compared to other species. We were certainly smart enough, but we described a hunting style like no other. We were endurance hunters. We would follow prey until we could injure it, it overheated or fell exhausted. We were the predator that seemed to never tire, never sleep, never overheat. We could heal our injuries, and no matter how far our prey ran we always seemed to just be on the horizon, slowly stalking until they physically couldn’t run any longer, but we had given that up millennia ago. No human alive had ever hunted that way, we had agriculture and livestock The Jenydih, who were a prey species at their core, kept their composure but did seem to hasten their exit. Once the council had finished their investigation into our history and saw that we posed no current threat to the galaxy they welcomed us. They showed us FTL travel and matter synthesizers, doing away with the need for such practices as agriculture and livestock. From there the human race flourished. Our home world, no longer an option, we settled on hundreds of planets across the galaxy. Some like myself, not settling anywhere at all. I was flying across sector 7 of the delta quadrant when a barge of Borakki scavengers pulled in my ship. They were disgusting looking beings. Dark greenish brown wrinkly skin, four eye stalks like a snail, hands and feet like beetles with just a million little hairs that allow them to grip things. They had been cast out of the council a couple decades ago for being notorious kleptomaniacs, and today they had decided on my ship. My bay door opens to a couple Borakki pointing standard plasma weapons at me. I had no intention of being on the barrel end of one of those any time soon so I did not resist the capture. As they walked me down the halls to my cell I began to shiver. Most of these insect-like species were cold blooded, and kept their ships accordingly. I wish I had worn a thicker jacket. These types of hijacks are not uncommon in the galaxy, the owner of the ship is usually dropped on the closest planet left to signal for rescue. I expected to be on a planet in the Canis Minor system sometime in the next couple of days. That was until I met the captain of the ship. They came to me once they had me in a holding cell with my hands tied to the wooden chair I sat on. They were quite large for a Borakki, they usually stood around 5 and a half feet tall but this one was easily 6 feet tall. They had to stoop to make it in the door way of my cell, and made that chittering noise the Borakki made when they laughed, sounding like a low pitched cricket. “Well thank you for bringing to us what we rightfully own.” The translator in my temple spoke as they chirped. “Yeah, look man, feel free to the ship, how long until the nearest planet?” I responded, ready to get off this freighter. The Borakki believed that they had a divine right to own everything in the universe. That everybody else was simply second class citizens who could feed on their scraps. “Well now you still haven’t given us everything that we are owed.” “What else do you want? You already have my ship and my weapons.” “We still need that.” The captain said, snatching my locket off my neck. “Now wait a damn minute. Article 12 of the scavengers act states that any theft of a planetary artifact is a class three felony. That was forged on earth, from earthly materials, by humans. By definition, that is a planetary artifact. If you take that from me, I will have your heads.” “Oh.” The captain paused. “Boohoo. I don’t need to follow your laws.” They said as they laughed again. God I hate that noise. “You need to return that to me now. You are welcome to anything else on my ship or my person but that.” I snapped “I don’t think I will.” They said as they stalked out of the cell and down the corridor. Though the cold air of my cell permeated through me I felt a white hot rage boiling inside of me. That was all I had left of my mom and I was not about to let some beetle looking motherfucker steal it from me. Before the door shut behind the captain I managed to get on my feet and run out after him. Still tied to my chair I did not get far before the guard grabbed at me. Using one of the chair legs behind me I knocked the Borakki off its feet and then slammed my back into the wall partially breaking the chair underneath me, just enough to allow an arm to slip free. I grabbed one of the broken legs and readied myself for the attack. As they aimed their plasma weapon I dove for the ground, driving the splintered end of the leg through one of the guards feet. It shrieked and called for back up over its radio but dropped its plasma weapon as it did. I grabbed the weapon from the floor, aimed up and fired. I watched the plasma hit their abdomen and began to disintegrate the guard from the center out. The vile shriek that exuded from the Borakki as its death rattle left a ringing in my ears. I managed to free the rest of my body from its restraints and positioned myself behind the cover of a table, aiming at the door. Three more entered each one being hit by plasma. The third one was able to dissolve my table before they went down in a ball of plasma of their own. I investigated around the corner and began to sneak my way around the ship. The red alarms were blaring my escape to the entire ship. I expect most of the brigade will be sent to the loading dock to stop me from getting to my ship. Which made it much easier for me to gain access to the engine room. The quantum drive let off massive amounts of heat, which was usually diverted into the vacuum of space. The turn of a couple valves and this ship was about to be as hot as a Gadeckoal Sauna. As the temperature rose in the ship a second alarm rang out warning the crew to find the nearest escape pod. I slightly crouched and still snuck my way around to the bridge of the ship trying to find the captain. I made my way up from the bowels of the ship, roach after roach coming from around the corners and my Plasma weapon felled every single one. Bodies were littered behind me as I slowly shed my outer layer of clothing until I was left in my undershirt, tactical pants, and boots. Sweat rolled down my forehead and soaked my back, these bugs were gonna fry if they stayed in this heat too long. I finally reached the top and found the captain holding an arm full of loot. “Got you.” I said menacingly. The captain tried to aim its plasma weapon at me but missed me by two feet. I could see my locket hanging out of their front pocket. I fired back at the captain, missing as they dropped the loot in their arms and crawled up the wall to skitter across the ceiling, out the bridge door. I looked on the main control panel and saw one of the escape pods was half full with more of their bounty, that must be where they are headed. According to the emergency alarm I had 15 minutes to make my way down there, get my locket back and get onto an escape pod before the quantum core overheated and collapsed the ship. I ran down the flights of steps to make it to the escape pod bay and saw the captain holding my locket and the open doors to the pod behind them. “All this for a stupid little trinket?!” they panted heavily at me as the heat continued to rise. “Half of my crew is dead! You’ve ruined me! And you're gonna pay for it.” They said as they threw my locket into the escape pod and closed the doors. I lunged forward but they had already set the escape pod for an automatic launch. I tried to override the panel but I was locked out no matter how I went at it. I heard that same awful chitter of a laugh behind me. “You’ll never get those doors open, they open only with a retina scan and the pod is in a preset course for Borakk. Your stupid little ornament will become nothing more than landfill junk.” they sneered at me. I tried to fire my plasma weapon again and heard that unfortunate click of an empty magazine. I threw my gun to the ground and looked at my feet. This little fucking bug thought that they could best me. I was going to make them regret ever encountering my ship. I turned around and sent the last three remaining escape pods off on an immediate ejection. “NO! NO! NO!” Those were the last ones on this deck! You’re trying to kill us!” It shrieked as it tried to use the panel to bring the pods back. Its eyes darted to the escape pod with my locket in it but I was going to ensure they did not make it off this ship alive. I stepped in front of the escape pod, balled my hands into fists and raised only my eyes to meet its gaze. My chest was rising and falling heavily, a fire in my eyes that the likes of this thing had never seen. For the first time I saw fear on its face. “Run.” I said softly. Not needing to hear it a second time they began to run down the corridor. The heat was quickly rising in the ship and I saw its pace slow as it rounded the corner. The emergency lights had come on at this point. Red flashing lights were the only illumination to my hunt. I stalked down the corridor, my steps steady behind them. I rounded the corner to find it climbing up to the deck above for the last row of escape pod, breathing heavily and slowing considerably. I kept my pace behind them as I saw they got down to the ground and started to crawl to the escape bay. My boots heavy behind them, they kept looking back as I slowly gained on them. “Please! Have mercy!” they begged I crushed one of their legs behind my boot and stood over the creature. “Retina scan you said right?” I asked as the terrifying realization crossed their face. I reached down and slowly ripped each of its eye stalks off its head as it screamed. Their thick yellow blood poured out of the open wounds as it writhed in pain. I turned around and stalked back to the escape pod bay. I took one last look at the pitiful thing, slowly crawling in a incessant circle before its finally limbs contracted and had its last breath. | 13,116 | 2 |
(Please read top comment/my comment before you judge) Crime in the Sock Factory This is the tale of I, Gerald Frankfurt Geidenheld IV: ex-detective. I was once a crime solving mastermind up until recently, when I decided it was time to settle down and work in a sock factory, as all other detectives do when they decide to settle down. I saw it to be a good time to take a rest. After all, I had just cracked my hardest case: does 2+2 really equal 4? Some people just don’t know how to think outside of the box like me- I was made for being a detective! And my calling had come. A visitor burst into my office as I was knitting a fresh pair of fuzzy socks. Well, not exactly a visitor. It was my boss, Jeffrey. “Oh Gerald Frankfurt Geidenheld IV! I don’t know what I’ll do!” Jeffrey cried out after bursting into my office. “Take a deep breath and use your words- what has occurred Jeffrey,” I said calmly, trying to ease Jeffrey’s panic. “My… my….,”Jeffrey huffed out exasperatingly. “Your what?”, I snapped. “My Fritos! They’re- they’re missing!” I gasped in shock as to the tales of horror I was hearing. Jeffrey’s Fritos! What sort of evil mastermind steals another person’s Fritos! I knew at once I had to solve the case- and I wouldn’t rest until I found the culprit. “Show me where you Fritos were at once! We will find them, have faith Jeffrey.” Jeffrey led me down the dimly lit hallway outside of my office as piles of socks shuffled around our feet. Jeffrey finally stopped and threw open his office door to reveal his humongous Frito safe! It did in fact have a very large absence of Fritos. “Why- they were here just yesterday! I simply have no clue as to where they’ve gone or who could’ve taken them. This is horrible, I say, horrible!” Jeffrey whimpered. “Jeffrey, tell me about your office- perhaps how often you are around?” Jeffrey sighed as though some of the stress was just leaking out of him. “I seldom leave my office. As far as I know I’m always last to leave the building. We have security cameras in all the hallways but not in any of the rooms for privacy purposes so we won’t have any luck here unfortunately.” I scratched my chin and plucked at my humongous handlebar mustache. Suddenly, a large alarm erupted from speakers in the ceiling, and red flashing lights circled around. A booming robotic voice yelled out, “YARN SPILL! YARN SPILL! YARN SPILL…” it went on and on. I nearly dragged Jeffrey by his overalls into the main sock manufacturing room where piles of half finished socks and yarn entangled the machinery. Mounds and mounds of unused fleece piled up, it could drown a person easily. “Oh my- this most certainly won’t do.” I hurriedly stomped off to the janitorial room past the old storage room and went to try and find a vacuum or a broom or some sort of device to just clean the fiasco of which was occurring before my very eyes. Yarn started spilling into the hallway as I continued to rush. At last, I was met with the weathered door of the janitorial room. A golden sign was bolted into the door, Bob’s janitorial room. I clamored to open it, and snatched a humongous vacuum. Beneath it laid a sleeping bag and assorted brushes and brooms, along with a “Janitor-ing is life” poster plastered across the back of the room. “No time to dilly-dally!” I thought to myself. With business in my stride I hurried back past the old storage room with the vacuum in hand, ready to take on the spill. Suddenly, and without warning, Bob the janitor burst in. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, hustling through the yarn and the crowd of sock workers who were trying their hardest to clean out the yarn. “Everybody out. I’ll handle this, I’ll handle this. Don’t go rifling through the socks now.” Bob continued to shoo out the crowd, including me and Jeffrey, as though we were some sort of pests. Bob pulled out his handy extendo-ladder from his back pocket and propped it up against the wall. At once, me and Jeffrey hurried back to his office- we agreed to return to the hallway in search of clues after the mess had been taken care of. As we waited, I questioned Jeffrey a bit more. “Did you see or hear anything prior to the theft? Perhaps any suspicious individuals or activity?” “Well, as of recently I’ve been hearing a lot of rustling in the vents- and well, there’s always Sniffy the kleptomaniac- he has a raging Fritos addiction- just like me- but I don’t know how he could’ve gotten the code. Sniffy also has a habit of hanging around my room after hours but he wasn’t here when I clocked out last night- maybe he was? I don’t know, I am just so panicked!” Jeffrey started hyperventilating. I reached into my large trench coat and dragged out my emergency Fritos briefcase. I unbuckled it with a click and opened it wide, and started filing through all the different Fritos. “Adobados ,Bar-B-Q, Bar-B-Q Hoops, Jalapeño Hoops, BBQ, Chili Cheese, Chile and Lime ,Chorizo and Chipotle, original? What is it Jeffrey? What do you want?” “Half of those aren’t even from America where in the world did you get those-” Jeffrey paused, inhaled again and continued. “Chili Cheese.” Jeffrey muttered quietly, to the point I couldn’t hear it. “Sorry, could you speak up again?” I asked nicely. “Chili cheese please!” Jeffrey yelled out, trying to snatch at my briefcase. I swiftly threw the chili cheese to the opposite corner of the room, and shut my briefcase and tucked it into my trench coat. I needed to solve this mystery fast- the withdrawal was already kicking in. Jeffrey tore into the bag and devoured its contents rabidly, as a starved dog would a sausage. I waited patiently for Jeffrey to cease his eating, and then once more I dragged him into the hallway. As we strolled through the sock factory, we noticed a trail of crumbs- specifically pure red 40. Confused, I decided it was pertinent to our investigation to follow it. The trail of crumbs increased in size as we neared its creator. At last, we were met with another door- the door of Timothy- the head sock inspector. I gently pushed Jeffrey out of the way, in hopes to protect him in case the Frito bandit would jump out and take Jeffrey’s Fritos again. I inched the door open quietly, and with a creak and the flip of a light switch- we were met with quite a scene. Timothy was sprawled on the floor in a pile of Takis. Timothy let out a shrill scream, at such a high pitch it would be thought impossible for a man of his demeanor- after all he was a big burly man, reminiscent of Paul Bunion. I closed the door again and waited about 2 minutes, then opened it again. Timothy was now calm and collected in his office chair, with red dye staining his clothes. He tugged at his collar anxiously, and averted my gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the disappearance of, say, several bags of Fritos, would you Timothy?” “Heaven’s no! I’m waging war against Frito-Lay!” I took a quick look around the room. Posters with anti Frito-Lay propaganda drenched the walls. “Slay the lay!” One said, with a picture of an angry man stopping on a bag of chips. “I can feel my neural pathways deteriorating by the second. Come along Jeffrey, we must get a move on- their is no use wasting our time for this vulgar display of gluttony.” I proudly strutted out with Jeffrey by my side, and slammed the door dramatically. “We are going back to your office and checking the security tapes Jeffrey. Say, when did you clock out yesterday?” I questioned Jeffrey. “10 pm to be exact.” ‘We’ll check the security camera footage from the exit door.” Jeffrey pulled out his clunky laptop and opened up the security application. A notification was seen in the settings, saying movement detected on the previous day. I clicked on it and it opened up to footage of Sniffy. Sniffy was rolling around on his roller skates while eating a bag of chips. “Enhance!” I yelled at the screen, for I could not read the label on the bag. Instantly, the resolution became higher and I could read the name on the bag of chips: lays. It was not Fritos. The footage was also from around 9 pm. After he finished skating, he zoomed off the screen into the distance. He could not have committed the crime. Suddenly- it came to me. Somebody very well could’ve seen Jeffrey entering the code from the vents- it would explain the rustling. “Jeffrey, do you have a floor plan? I need to see it. Now!” I yelled. “Apologies.” Jeffrey with shaken hands opened up his Fritos themed filing drawer and pulled out the blue and white floor plan. Like following a maze, my fingers traced every possible path to the janitorial room. Only one remained. Bob’s janitorial office. “And we’re off again. Quickly now. Put everything away, we are going to Bob’s janitorial office.” Today truly felt just like back and forth and back and forth. This time with passion, I strode over to the janitorial office. I threw open the door, and looked at my surroundings. The sleeping bag from before. Bob sleeps in the building! “Jeffrey, I think I know who did this now.” I exclaimed with pride, and I lifted up the “Janitor-ing is life” poster to reveal a perfectly bob-the-janitor shaped hole that led into the ventilation system! “You wait here Jeffrey, I’ll go in.” Quickly, I grabbed a coil of rope and tucked it into my waistband. On my hands and knees I shuffled past cobwebs and spiders and was met with a perfect path to Jeffrey’s office- and a perfect view of the safe. I knew no sane man could eat that many Fritos in one night- so he had to be keeping them somewhere. I paused in my train of thought. Of course he could drop in to get the Fritos from the safe- but how could he get out from the room without going in the hallway where they had cameras? I stared blankly at the inside of the vent. Jeffrey’s extendo-ladder! That's it! And I also had a hunch of where he’d been keeping the Fritos: In the old storage room. I continued crawling through the vents to the storage room, and there he was- Bob the janitor absolutely devouring Jeffrey’s Fritos. I slid down a rope attached to the vent, and locked eyes with Bob. This was a standoff. “Bob. I’m afraid you’ve been caught.” Through muffled words, Bob choked out, “How did you know it was me?” “We found your hidden vent escape system. In fact. I know your whole plan. You waited till Jeffrey entered the code, you memorized it and then waited till he left. You ransacked the container, used your extendo-ladder to get back into the vent and you put them into your janitorial office. Originally, you thought you could leave it there and it would be undisturbed, but because of the yarn spill you had to rush to move them somewhere else since people would rush to the janitorial office for cleaning supplies. In your panic, you hurried through the vents and threw all your Fritos into the spill and shooed everybody out. While everybody was locked into their offices because of the spill, you took the Fritos into the storage room and have been eating them since!” “Wow. You really got me. But you’ll never take me alive. HUP!” Bob hoisted himself up with all the Fritos in hand and began to run for it. Adrenaline rushing, I yanked down my rope and lassoed up Bob to the best of my ability. I took the Fritos out of his hands and called Jeffrey in. Eventually, Sniffy, Timothy, and all the other workers gathered around and threw empty chip bags at Bob. After the crowd cleared out, Jeffrey told Bob that he would have all of his Frito rations limited by ½ their original amount now. Bob let out a shrill cry of sorrow and defeat. At last the mystery was solved. I was at peace. I went to sleep that night as a hero, a magnificent one at that. I am Gerald Frankfurt Geinheld IV, ex-detective Frito thief catcher who works at a sock factory, and also, a hero. | 12,040 | 2 |
Within the walls of an old timey saloon, six individuals holed up, in stalemate with the dust storm raging beyond the barroom doors. A cop, a pair of twins, an addict, an elderly woman, and a bartender were about to be visited by a course of events not initiated by their accord, but would still be finished in their prerogative. Everyone was sweaty, but the woman of the twins grew more weary than the others. "How much longer does this sorta thing take?" She asked the locals. The cop responded as the addict slipped away. "It'll only be a couple hours more... probably." The twin scoffed and sat in a nearby booth, irritated. For the first time in a while, something peculiar happened. Steps knocked on the porch outside. "I think there's somebody here." The bartender chimed. The theory was confirmed with a knock from outside. The cop made his way to the door. The male twin lagged behind him, "Should we really be letting in a stranger?" "You're a stranger." the cop said. The old lady at the bar chimed in, "You better let them in." "Yeah, leavin' them out there to die is murder." The bartender said. With that, the officer pulled the door open and a figure slipped in, quickly slamming the door after himself. "Howdy," the cop said. The figure patted his poncho and shirt, sending dust around the room. The new man stripped off his bandana he'd used as a mask, and goggles he'd shielded his eyes with. "Howdy." He stated and started his way to the bar. The barkeeper, ready to sell, said, "What's your drink?" Peeling off his gloves, the stranger asked for water and tightened his back pack strings around his back. The cop took his seat back at the bar. "So, what's your story?" "Oh, just passin' through." The stranger drank his water stiffly. "On my way to Billings." "Well you sure are a long way from Billings." The elderly woman said as the stranger lit a match, followed by a cigarette. "I sure am." He responded. Simple conversations and silence fill the next while until something peculiar happens. Once again, footsteps could be heard from outside. Everyone gazed at the door in anticipation as the stranger remained in his normal stature. Then, the knock. "Another one? This late into the storm? They must really need a beer." The bartender joked. The cop approached the door, "I'll let them in." With that, the stranger rotated in his stool to face the door. Slipping open the lock, the officer firmly opened the door and a smaller figure entered, slamming the door tightly behind her as she entered. She patted the dust off her jacket, removed a pair of sunglasses, and a similarly patterned bandana to the stranger's earlier. "Welcome in!" The bartender said brazenly. "What's your drink?" She moseyed over to the bar silently. The strangers all stared at one another as she slowly made her way to the bar. She pulled up a stool and the cop made his way back to his seat as well. "Water." The woman said. The two newest strangers had not left one another's gaze since the latter arrived. The officer's better instincts got to him, "You two know each other?" In a flash, the woman pulled a double action pistol from her cloaked holster and shot at the stranger. The ponchoed man dove beneath the bar and the old lady panicked, caught between the two. The officer lept to tackle the woman, receiving a bullet in return, knocking him to the floor. "Oh my God!" The twins yelled and ran to the bathroom, but it was locked. The poncho'd stranger crawled to a table and knocked it over for cover. The bartender hid behind his bar as the officer groaned in a pool of his own blood. The old lady shuffled over to the twins in the corner. "Give me the money, Rodney!" The lady screamed and shot a round into his cover. "Finder's keeper's, bitch!" He yelled from behind the heavy table. In the commotion, the officer, behind the violent woman, whispered to the elderly woman and twins in the corner. "Ah." He groaned, a bullet in his midsection. He pointed to a closet next to the bathroom, slightly hidden by chairs. The twins removed the stack of seats and escorted themselves and their elder into it to hide. As the three heard more yelling from outside the closet, the male twin saw what maybe the officer meant in sending them there. A shotgun on the wall. Having all never used a gun, all three were dumbstruck. "I'm gonna just give it to the cop." The man said. "What? No, we're here to hide." His sister pleaded as he ignored her. "Watch her." He pointed his sister to the elderly woman. Grabbing the shotgun, he crouched down and made his way to the officer on the floor. Within the officer's sights, the cop nodded approvingly for the twin to hand him the gun. The woman, by pure chance, turned to check on them and she caught their betrayal. The twin and the officer met their fate then and there. In this distraction, Rodney leaped from behind his cover and laid out the woman with four rounds of his six iron littering her back. With three bodies on the floor, the stranger stood, a short distance from the bloody scene. Holstering his weapon he pulled up his goggles and headed to the exit. "There'll be more!" He hollered over to the cowering bartender. Just as peculiarly as he arrived, he'd left. "Fuck." The keep whispered to himself. He slowly rose and saw the grisly sight. "Damn." Then, he waddled to the door to secure its lock. Distraught, he held his heart at the doorway. The bathroom door opened and the addict stepped out to find the scene before him, "What the fuck?" he yelped. | 5,592 | 2 |
“Is this the way Boss?” “Yes, you are correct Joseph,” Ola said. “Good…job.” It sounded strange on her tongue. She was not used to giving out compliments, certainly not to a driver on his first day of work. But, she was in a rare good mood today, having just secured a major client for her company. The ink was barely dry on the contract; her lawyer had confirmed the deal via phone only 30 minutes ago. “Whoo, thank you Lord,” Ola said, taking off her pointed toe pumps and massaging her feet. She could finally breathe as everything was coming together and getting done. The company's demands were under control, and her home renovations were progressing well. The latter was what excited her the most. It had been a month since she hired Howard, and his impact was already evident—new windows already in place, with new tiles and bright white paint on the horizon. Her mansion was on track to becoming the most beautiful on the block. *“Some people just need an opportunity*,” Ola thought. As she reclined in the leather backseat of her Range Rover, she felt a sense of pride in trusting her instincts and taking a chance on someone who most would not even look at in their day to day. Trusting her instinct was what made her wealthy, and with Howard on her side, was going to make her even more wealthy. Ola found herself contemplating grander plans for the homeless man. Beyond her own home, she envisioned a partnership that could revolutionize high-end home renovations all over their country. She knew there was a market there and, in fact, looked forward to seizing it. Once Howard finished her home, she would tell him about her plan and proposal, which she had no doubt that he would accept. The Range Rover smoothly pulled into the yard, and Ola observed Howard and his crew buzzing with activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinks of tiles being carried into the house. Under the scorching sun, Howard, shirtless and with a pencil behind his ear, directed his team like a maestro directing a symphony. Ola stepped out of the car, and as Howard noticed her approach, he wiped the sweat from his brow. She greeted him warmly. "Howard, it's looking great." He let out his signature gap smile. "Thank you, Madam." “Annie!” Ola called out. A tall dark-skinned girl came running from inside the house. “Yes, Bosslady?” “Give Howard a nice cold soft drink. This heat is too hot. Orange soda, right?” Howard nodded. “Eh, Annie.” “Yes, Bosslady?” Annie asked, turning around just as she was about to enter the house. “Bring a soft drink for Joseph too. What do you want?” A skinny baby-faced man in a crisp black suit with a tie hurried over to Ola and Howard. “Need something Boss?” “I said, what soft drink do you want to drink? The children have after school activities today, so you won’t be picking them up until quarter past 5. You have some time to relax.” “Thank you Boss,” Joseph said, bowing his head twice. “Ginger ale. Thank you Boss.” As Annie ventured into the house to fetch the drinks, Ola motioned towards the trio of patio rocking chairs on her porch, adorned with elegant navy blue and white Victorian floral cushions. "Come Howard, take a break. You have earned it." Howard hesitated, glancing at his sweaty torso. "Oh…um…I don't want to dirty your chairs, Madam." Ola chuckled. "Nonsense. I insist. Have a seat. Relax.” She did not offer a seat to Joseph. Such hospitality could only be offered to invited guests and a future business partner. Despite initial hesitation, Howard nodded appreciatively and joined Ola by the chairs. The work crew continued their diligent efforts; and Annie delivered a refreshing Orange soda to Howard and a glass of club soda with ice to Ola as they settled down to relax in the shade of the porch. She also handed a cold bottle of Ginger ale to Joseph, who eagerly took his beverage and proceeded to lean on one of the porch’s columns. Howard's parched lips embraced the chilled soda, the effervescent bubbles dancing in the glass bottle. Ola observed with amusement as he gulped down the drink as if he hadn't had water in three days. She found the homeless man fascinating, more captivating than the successful moguls and entrepreneurs she encountered both at home and abroad. “Howard,” Ola said, breaking the silence. “I've been meaning to ask you. How did you learn to write so well?" Howard wiped the remnants of Fanta from his lips, a hint of surprise in his eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had inquired about his education. “Well, Madam…I learned it in Catholic school. The one by the capitol building.” A subtle realization crossed Ola's face. “The private high school by the capitol building?” “Yes, Madam.” “That’s the best private school in the country.” Howard nodded. "Yes, Madam…It…is.” Ola's interest deepened. Who was this man who had attended private school with children of the elite class in their country and wealthy expatriates? The kind of school she longed for her children to attend once they were old enough. “You must come from a well off family to afford such education.” A shadow passed over Howard's eyes. "I did, Madam…My parents…they even paid my way through college…at MIT…Once upon a time." Ola’s jaw dropped. "MIT in America? You went to one of the best universities in the world?" Howard sighed, his gaze fixated in the distance. “Yes…But that was a long time ago.” “So, how did you….sorry I have to ask this…but how did you—” “How did I end up as a drunk bastard?” “Howard,” Ola said in a disapproving tone, tutting like a grade school teacher. “Sorry, Madam…I actually never told anyone this story about how I end up as a drunkard. Not even, my own mother and father.” **It was in** 1994. I had finished my first year at MIT and was starting my second year. I was not the best student in my class by any means; but, I was not the worst either. Somewhere in the middle, average as you could call it. Though, if you asked my parents, they would call it on the borderline of failure. Nothing one could do to please them, to be honest. They both had attended and met at Oxford, graduating with First class honors. Despite my average status, I had already grown accustomed to MIT and its surrounding city, Cambridge. The city was a dream for me, a place where I'd explore on my bicycle during weekends and after classes. While my parents saw it as playing around, the truth was, I spent the majority of my time studying hard to earn those average marks. MIT was very difficult, especially for someone like me, new to America and grappling with the language barrier and the curriculum. There were times where I cried and thought about calling my parents to send me back home. My salvation at MIT came in the form of the strong study habits instilled in me during my Catholic school education years back home. Thus, at MIT, I spent my days in intense study sessions, often found in the library for hours on end. However, my favorite place though to study was a small and old-fashioned coffee shop not far from the university. Among the various coffee shops I'd stumbled upon in my city explorations, this one stood out. There was something about it that resonated with me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I found myself studying more efficiently or focusing more and getting a lot more done in that particular coffee shop. It was also in this coffee shop where I met the reason for all my problems. She was short, had a curve figure with blonde hair and blue eyes. In just three days since she joined the coffee shop, our eyes met for the first time. What drew me in the most was the pinkish birthmark circling her left blue eye; it accentuated her blue eye, resembling a full blue moon against the dark night sky. Every time I entered the coffee shop, my eyes searched for her, working behind the counter. I was too shy to say anything, not just to her, but to anyone at all, even back at my university. I was always the bookworm, the African student with big bug-eye glasses who kept to himself and always had his nose buried in his books. Striking up a conversation with others was not my strong suit to say the least. However, fate took an unexpected turn one Friday night. Nearing closing time at the coffee shop, I unintentionally became the last lingering customer, absorbed in my studies for an engineering exam the upcoming week. To my surprise, she approached me. "Nice Bob Marley shirt," she said with a warm smile, introducing herself. Her name was Alison, but she preferred to go by Al. “Thank you…that’s my…favorite…shirt,” I said, barely able to get the words out. By this time, I was sweating all over and had to press my arms against my armpits so she could not notice the sweat pouring down. “What are you studying?” “Eng-Engineering,” I managed to say, stuttering. “Where do you study?” “M-M-MIT.” She whistled. “Engineering at MIT. That’s hard. You must be a genius.” “I could only dream,” I said, letting out a nervous laugh. There was something about her voice, so calming and encouraging. I was starting to gain confidence. She flashed her signature warm smile and pointed at my shirt. “‘Three Little Birds’. That’s my favorite. You heard?” “Oh yes, I like it very much…I also like ‘Redemption Song’.” “Ohh, that’s a good one,” she said, snapping her fingers and humming the lyrics. I bopped my head to her humming, feeling that we had a connection. We continued to talk about our other favorite Bob Marley songs, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I felt. The conversation started to flow effortlessly, breaking the shell of my shy self. Al's outgoing manner made me feel like I could tell her anything, like talking to a best friend – a feeling I hadn't experienced since immigrating to America. As the night unfolded, Al extended an invitation that, upon hearing it, made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. "There's an awesome record shop nearby. They have a nice collection of Bob Marley. How about we check it out tomorrow, Saturday? 12 noon good?" “Yes, yes, that’s great. I would like that,” I answered a little too eagerly, like a child responding to the offer of ice cream from a parent. We bidded each other good night, agreeing to rendezvous at the coffee shop before heading off together to the record shop. As I walked to my dorm, the prospect of the upcoming Saturday filled me with newfound excitement. Sleep eluded me that night as I looked forward to a connection I had never ever experienced before in my life: a connection with a girl. That day, under the noon sun, we convened at the coffee shop and walked together to the record shop. Along the way, we talked. I was so nervous and anxious at the same time that I could barely get out my words without shaking. I am sure Al noticed but she did not say anything. She asked me about my studies at MIT and my upbringing in West Africa. Her kind eyes and friendly smile gave me the confidence to open up, and by the time we reached the record shop, we were laughing and cracking jokes. Her laughter was like sweet music, and I spent the whole day saying all the jokes I knew just for my ears to hear it. At the record shop, I was treated to a first class education about Mr. Marley. Al’s knowledge about the artist was uncanny. As she riffled through the records, those blue eyes sparkled as she pointed out her favorite albums, sharing anecdotes about Bob Marley's life and the meanings behind each song. She even had a rapport with the shop owner and he allowed her to play the records. I marveled at how she recited the lyrics so effortlessly. We sat on an old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the shop, enjoying the reggae tunes playing from the speakers. Al told me stories about Bob Marley's journey to stardom, his struggles and his impact on the Rastafarian movement: some of the stories that I had never heard before. After the record shop, we had lunch at a pizza restaurant across the street. There, we continued our conversation about the Rastafarian movement until sunset. Neither of us wanted the day to end. Thus, I was elated and agreed without hesitation when she invited me to her place, an apartment on the outskirts of the city of Boston. **The apartment felt** alive, with its colorful hippie decorations and mix-and-match furnishings that suited Al’s free spirit personality. Al's roommate, a girl with dreadlocks and tattoos covering her arms, greeted us with genuine hospitality. Al and her roommate had a stereo system and we spent the majority of the night listening to reggae, talking and laughing. Later, Al invited me to her room where she showed me her collection of reggae record albums, and opened up to me about her upbringing: a well-to-do family with strict father or “suit and tie kind of guy” as she described him and quiet homemaker mother who followed her husband every command like “a lapdog.” We had similar parents, though I knew for a fact my parents were much stricter and, frankly, worse than hers. To lighten the mood, I entertained Al by imitating my strict father and soft-voiced mother: imitating his nasal voice and her brutal sarcasms. That was the loudest I ever heard her laugh that entire day. Al’s room was where I felt we cemented our bond. It was also a room where I had many first experiences all at once in the same night: alcohol, marijuana, a condom and woman’s business. **Next Part 3 Preview**: “Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you. /The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. | 14,004 | 2 |
I get it, mostly at least. You lived your life for a long time. You laughed and you cried. You changed and you smiled and I had mine. I had my victories; I had my fair share of pain, my tears and my laughter. And then I met you and I wanted to share it all with you, forever. It was an average day, one I hardly remember. Maybe a Sunday or a Saturday I think. You had a leather Jacket and that cute eyebrow piercing. I hoped to see you again and I did, right the next day. From then on out we talked, sometimes twice a day, sometimes twice a week. But we talked and we spent time together and that was enough for me I laughed with you and I drove you home and I cooked for you and I fell in love. And I messaged you, and invited you to dinner and I gave you gifts and I apologized for my behavior way too often You didn’t write back, you didn’t have to, you were busy elsewhere I presume, or at least you thought about something else, or someone else. I thought about you for days on end, I told all my friends about you. I looked at your pictures and I dreamed of you and me And then one day, after I drank too much I called you. It was stupid of me and I regret it, like I do with so much else. I sometimes wish you picked up the phone, I wish we talked about it and I wish you had said "I love you" back. You didn’t pick up, you didn’t have to, you were busy elsewhere I presume, or at least you thought about something else, or someone else. My feelings slowly faded, I thought it was kind of sad but it would have been better if they had left. They didn’t of course. They had no reason to. And then we met again, at the end of January and all that I had forgotten returned to me. Your cute little laugh, that smile and the way you held your cigarette. and, in a moment of misplaced bravery and weakness I wrote you a love letter. I wrote about how much I cared and how much I liked you. I wrote about how I wanted to spend my life with you and how it was okay for you to hate me. You never replied to me, you didn’t have to. You were busy elsewhere I presume. Or at least you thought about something else, or someone else. And so we remained. My feelings hurt but never fading and yours never even developing. We remained that way, until one of us left the others life. I don’t know who it was or when it was. I don’t know if I cried when it happened, or if I didn’t even realize it. I don’t remember anything about you anymore. I wonder if you think of me. I doubt it. You are busy elsewhere I presume. Or at least you are thinking about something else, or someone else. I know you never wanted to be in my life, but I’m glad you where there anyways, at a distance just barely out of reach, at least for a little while. | 2,780 | 1 |
“Officer Madson, I understand your concern, but what you are suggesting is ridiculous! I just cannot leave my home! Not without a concrete reason. How long did you say we had to stay away? A full month or two? I spent my whole life saving for this house! We built it from the ground up, perfectly customized to our liking. My family wants nothing more than to be here!” This was the third time in only three days when Dave had received orders to leave his house immediately and head to safety. He lived only a few miles from Okefenokee Swamp, and according to all three officers, something dangerous was lurking there. Any additional information was supposedly classified, and he was unable to sway any of them into divulging more. They had each claimed to not know the full story either. Dave’s wife had insisted on traveling to safety, as did almost everyone else on their street. She had taken their two kids fifty miles south. Luckily, they had evacuated early enough to find a hotel with rooms still available. But without the house, they would be ruined, and so Dave decided to stay. If something were placing his property and lifestyle at risk, he would rather put up a fight than sit idly by. He was used to large snakes and alligators which were common in the swamp. What could be more dangerous than them? “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Dave! Here, take this card. If you notice anything strange or suspicious, give us a call! We would much rather you leave, but if you insist on putting your life at risk, you may as well be of some use!” With that, Officer Madson left, leaving the street in far too much silence for a Saturday morning. Everyone else had gone, with the exception of one. “Hey, Mac!” Dave yelled as he banged on the front door of the only other inhabited house. “Mac! Are you there?” he yelled louder. “Yeah, yeah! Give me a minute!” came the response. “That door is busted enough without you banging on it like that!” An older, retired man in his early 70s opened the door. A smoke in one hand and a beer in the other. “Did they get to you yet, Dave? Have you decided to abandon me, too, on this most apocalyptic of fair-weather days? I don’t see no tsunami rolling by, no fiery comets raining down, nor any band of raving wildebeests tearing loose through the streets! Ain’t no way I’m leaving my property, Dave! Five decades I’ve been here, and I recon I may just stay another five! This house is meant for me, and I for it; and no scaredy-cat police department is going to flush me out!” “No, Mac! Calm down! I insisted on staying. Did they give you one of those silver cards too? With the phone number in case of emergency?” Dave asked. “Yeah, yeah! They did. Lost it somewhere in the jumble on the table. If I need it bad enough, I’ll resign to cleaning the thing. I woke early to Jimmy calling me around six. He’s the only one left in his neighborhood, and he ain’t budging either! We’re set to meet up 30 minutes from now and you are welcome to join. It is the end of the world after all! The last three holdouts against the great classified unknown!” Half an hour later, Dave was sitting in the passenger seat of Mac’s old Subaru. Mac’s arm hung out the drivers’ side window; still clutching a half drunken beer. A park halfway between the two neighborhoods was their rendezvous point, and when they arrived, Jimmy was already unpacking and assembling a drone. “Jimmy! What’s up? That’s quite the gizmo to be playing with when the world’s about to end!” shouted Mac. “Great, you guys made it! Quick! Come sit down. We are going to do a little snooping! I have a hunch, and I don’t like it!” Jimmy was quite serious, and so Dave and Mac sat opposite to him and watched silently as he finished readying the drone. “Great idea Jimmy! With that we’ll be able to see what’s going on in the swamp!” Dave exclaimed. “We’ll know what we are up against.” Jimmy handed a pair of glasses, each, to Dave and Mac. “These will let you see what the drone sees. Fortunately, I had three pairs! Now let’s get to work. You guys know I used to work for the government, right? In the carbon sequestration team, right?” he asked. Mac looked confused, but Dave briefly remembered a conversation with Jimmy from a couple years prior. Most of Jimmy’s work was confidential and the parts he had discussed were too technical for him, so he had not given it much thought. Jimmy turned the drone on, calibrated it to hover in the air, and directed it straight up. “Wow, this has a great camera on it!” exclaimed Mac as the drone rapidly gained altitude. “I need to get one of these for myself!” “They are nice!” Jimmy started, then more seriously asked “Do either of you remember a year or two ago when the president announced a tremendous breakthrough in carbon sequestration?” Dave and Mac stayed silent and looked at each other in confusion. “Come on guys, it was all over the news! A breakthrough to save humankind. I worked on that project – helped engineer it myself actually – but I became skeptical. I asked too many questions that did not have enough satisfactory answers, I suppose, because I was terminated! Fired, for trying to make sure everything was safe!” Jimmy angled the drone towards the swamp. They were still a mile or so away, and as the drone began its journey, he continued his story. Before taking the government job, Jimmy had worked in a biology lab where he studied genetic code; particularly with regards to altering the DNA of plants to make them more resistant to harsh climates. With multiple successes over a twenty-year career, the government had sought out him and his team to work on a much more important project. The amount of carbon in the atmosphere was reaching dangerous levels, according to the officials. They had hired a thinktank to work tirelessly on finding a solution, and after much deliberation, a type of genetically modified plant seemed to be the best solution. “Look here guys!” The drone had made it to the swamp, and Jimmy had zoomed the camera in close to the ground. “Do you know what kind of plant this is? It’s a Pitcher plant, one of a dozen or so species of carnivorous plants that live around here. Anyway, our government research began with one of those. I do not know why they chose that plant, but they did. Anyway, its genetic code proved to be very malleable.” “We were tasked with making certain alterations to its genetic code. In the end, we butchered it and spliced it full of so many additional genes that it became unrecognizable. We spliced in genes to make it grow faster; much faster. Genes to increase its ability to uptake water and nutrients to capture as much carbon as possible. To grow an extensive root system that burrows deep into the ground. To…” “Wait! I heard about that!” exclaimed Mac. “You designed that crazy plant that grows all those massive twisty roots? That are burrowing God knows where down towards Hell itself?! Didn’t those things cause the earthquakes up near the Canadian border last Spring? Wasn’t one found growing a hundred miles out at sea, which was not supposed to be possible? What ever possessed you to make such a monstrosity?” Mac was clearly uneasy. “Jimmy, wait, go back!” yelled Dave. Jimmy flipped a switch to cause the drone to fly in reverse. “Yes! Right there, that is an alligator, right?” Dave asked. The alligator was lying on its side, half covered by some sort of vegetation. Jimmy lowered the drone and as the alligator became more visible, they noticed that it was not a typical plant covering the alligator. It was fifteen or twenty of the carnivorous Pitcher plants, and they were growing out of the rotting corpse of the alligator itself! “Guys, you have to believe me when I say it was not supposed to be able to do this! We completely removed the gene that coded for the development of the main Pitcher part of the plant. We replaced it with a gene for small purple flowers. I did try to convince the other scientists that something like this was a possibility - and it looks like my fears were correct. The plant had multiple copies of that gene in different parts of its DNA. Random mutations had turned them off throughout eons of evolution, but again by random chance, those genes must have been reactivated. That’s the only explanation for this!” “Okay…”, began Dave. “But a pitcher plant only eats small insects; they certainly don’t attack alligators!” “We drastically increased the plants’ ability to seek out water and nutrients so that it would grow as quickly as possible. It must have found a way to digest large animals, like that alligator, which means that it is evolving quickly!” Jimmy moved the drone as close as possible to the bizarre sight of Pitcher plants growing out of the side of the alligator. “Look here! See those little purple flowers around the stem of the pitcher? That’s proof that this is our plant! I don’t know how old this one is, but after just a week, its roots will spread out over a 20 foot radius and burrow 100 feet into the ground. It was a huge success. The carbon level in the atmosphere was falling for the first time in centuries. All buried deep underground in the roots of these plants. But it was not supposed to evolve like this! I tried to warn them of the possibility!” Jimmy must have flown too close and knocked one of the Pitcher plants, for the camera became hazy with what looked like pollen from one of the little purple flowers. He had found the evidence he wanted and pressed the home button on the drones’ control panel to make it return to him. “Well guys, we found what we were looking for! Maybe it would be best…” “Jimmy! That’s a person!” yelled Mac. “Lying on the edge of the swamp!” Jimmy wheeled around, threw his drone glasses back on, and resumed manually navigating the drone. He backtracked a bit, and sure enough, there was a person laying by the edge of the swamp! The person was wearing an army uniform, and as the drone advanced closer, they saw Pitcher plants growing out of his back. Just like the alligator! A tangle of roots fell out of his jacket, burrowing back underground a few feet away. Then they spotted another person, then a third, and then a fourth. As the drone gained elevation and the camera zoomed out, they counted fifteen people in total. “Well congratulations, Jimmy!” yelled Mac. “Your engineered plant thing surely is saving humanity now!” Jimmy and Dave sat in shock. None of them spoke for the better part of five minutes. Jimmy came up with a plan first. “Okay guys, here is what we are going to do. Both of you, go back to your places immediately. I’ll pack up the drone, head back to my place to grab some stuff, then pick you up. If the plant is now killing people, we really can’t stay here! We should stay together. Find someone who will listen. That silver card with the emergency number. You two, call that number on your way back! I’ll come pick you up first, Mac, in 45 minutes maximum!” Dave and Mac went back to the Subaru and they took off, leaving Jimmy to deal with the drone. “Alright, I got the number here!” announced Dave as they began to drive. He dialed it and Officer Madson answered. “Officer!” yelled Dave. “We saw it! The plant out in the swamp! We flew a drone over the area and one of the plants was eating an alligator…” “A plant eating an alligator! Are you sure? Well, it is confidential information, but the army is looking into it! They mentioned that they must contain something as soon as possible. It must be that plant! They may even have to use large doses of radiation to do so. Do you believe me now that you should leave?” the Officer asked. “Yes, we are packing some stuff now! But Officer, we didn’t call you about the alligator. We called you about the 15 dead army men! I don’t think they have the situation under control anymore!” “Dead?!” screamed the officer. “They were supposed to call me this morning. I’m going to place a few calls immediately, believe me! Then I’m getting as far away from this thing as possible!” Once home, Dave immediately called his wife while gathering important things from his house. He placed them in a box by the front door. He would be ready to go as soon as Jimmy and Mac arrived. He sat down in front of the TV to try and pass time faster, but nothing seemed interesting. He paced back and forth across the living room. A couple times he remembered another important trinket, retrieved it, and placed it in the box. Eventually he lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He waited, and waited, and waited. Time must have been going in slow motion. He took another minute to concentrate on the absolute silence of his neighborhood street. Usually, it would be full of the sounds of life – cars driving, lawnmowers and leaf blowers, and kids playing basketball a few houses down from his. The silence was ominous, and he began to feel its weight. He got up and paced some more. The sound of his feet was better than the silence. Then he tried to read a chapter from his favorite book – to no avail. He opened the door to the backyard, drawing it all in just in case he would never see it again. Then he called his wife again. “Honey, are you on the road?” she asked. And then: “…No? It’s been well over an hour since you called, I thought you said Jimmy was on his way!” A chill ran up Dave’s spine. Having only met him a couple times, he barely knew Jimmy. But Jimmy did not seem like the type of person to be late to anything. “I’ll call you back when we are on the road!” Dave said before hanging up. He grabbed his box of important paperwork and things from around the house and carried them up the street to Mac’s house. He knocked loudly, then rang the bell when he did not answer immediately. “Jimmy, is that you?” Mac asked. “Come on in - I have everything ready to go!” Dave pushed the door open. “No! It’s Dave! So he hasn’t come by yet? Where is he? The sun’s setting in an hour or so!” he exclaimed; his voice becoming more frantic as he carried on. “Relax Dave! Come on in and grab a beer! I’m glad you’re here, the silence is starting to spook me!” Mac responded. They sat and tried to distract themselves, but the next half hour came and went with no sign of Jimmy. “Want some chips?” asked Mac, as he stood and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed some plates, a large bag of chips, and opened the freezer to pull out two more beers. “Hey! Look at that! I got a message. Must have been sometime since you got here! Don’t know why it doesn’t ring properly anymore!” Mac walked across the kitchen and pressed the button to play it. They both knew who it was. It was Jimmy, but his voice was raspy. Even before he began to talk, Dave pulled out his phone, ready to call the emergency number again. “Sorry Mac. I felt… nauseous and had to… lay down.” They heard him walk to the sink, fill a glass of water, and drink it. “Maybe… just needed water. Anyway… be over… in 10 minutes!” He filled up the glass of water again, and this time audibly chugged it. “I’ve never felt so… dehydrated!” Fifteen seconds of silence passed, and then the water turned on again. It stayed on for too long. Then a crashing thump onto the floor and a scream. “Ouch! Wait… What’s going on?... No! It was on… the drone… the pollen!” “Mac, let’s go!” Dave yelled, and they both ran to Mac’s Subaru while Dave called the emergency number. “This if Officer Daniel” the line responded. “How can I assist you?” “Great! Send someone immediately! Do you know Jimmy? I think he collapsed onto the floor and needs help!” Mac searched for Jimmy’s address and provided it to the Officer. “I’ll come over right away! You are the last few people in town and I am the last Officer here. Let’s handle this then all get out of here!” When Dave and Mac arrived, Officer Daniel was already there. A couple lights were on in the house. They got out of the car, and as they approached the front door, Officer Daniel was just coming out, dragging Jimmy along the ground behind him. “Hey guys! Found him unconscious on the kitchen floor. Nearest hospital is 20 minutes south, even going 30 over on the highway. If you can keep up, I’ll give you an escort! And, whatever you told Officer Madson sure gave him a fright!” Dave and Mac watched as Jimmy was hauled into the passenger seat of the police car. They got back into the Subaru to follow. They needed to go south too; the faster the better! Mac carefully followed Officer Daniel, driving as fast as safely possible down the center of the highway. At least the road was empty because everyone else had already evacuated! “This is crazy!” exclaimed Mac. “It is actually the end of the world! Who ever thought we would witness it? Do you think they might decide to just nuke the whole swamp? That’s what I would do at this point!” “No, Mac” Dave responded. “Don’t you see? It got Jimmy too! Besides, it’s roots live so deep underground that I don’t know if a Nuke would stop it. Plus, it grows too fast!” Silence fell between them again, until Dave’s cell phone began to ring. It was his wife. In tears. “Dave! Are you almost here? They just called me! It’s not safe here either. We have to go further south. Or west to a drier climate. A scientist on the news thought our best chance was to go somewhere dry!” “We are on our… oh, yikes!” It happened so suddenly. One moment Officer Daniel was driving straight down the center of the highway with his lights flashing. Then he slowly drifted into the left lane, then the shoulder, and then completely off the side of the road. He hit something, flipped vertically two and a half times, and crashed upside down in a ball of flames! “The police officer just crashed! Don’t think they could have survived that!” Dave yelled into the phone. Mac kept driving. “No point in stopping! It’s better this way - we don’t need any more of those cursed plants further away from the swamp!” “It must have spread from Jimmy to Officer Daniel!” Dave reasoned. “Get the kids ready. Mac and I will come pick you up and then we are getting as far away from here as we can! If they don’t like the heat of the desert, start looking for plots of land there!” He hung up and tried to close his eyes to block the days’ horrors from his mind for just a minute. Tried – because before they were all the way closed, they hit a big speedbump. Dave bounced on his seat, head almost hitting the ceiling. The Subaru swerved, but Mac regained control – for just a moment – before hitting another big bump. “Damn it!” Mac cried. “Tire is flat, and it sounds like the axel is shot! What was that?! Something was laying all across the road!” He put on the breaks and came to a stop. He got out of the car, the smell of burning tire rubber now hanging thick. “Pretty sure I saw what it was, looked like some of those roots!” Dave said. “Be back in a minute! Glad I finally have a use for this!” Mac opened the trunk of the Subaru, grabbed what looked to be a flamethrower, and ran back along the road. 15 minutes later, he was back, covered in sweat. “Dave! It was one of those cursed twisted root things like you said! About as thick as my leg! I thought they were only supposed to grow down into the Earth? Jimmy, how dare he help create something like this! I burned it up rather good though and got it off the highway! We have to nuke them, electrocute them, or get the army fight back with flamethrowers! Dave, what are you doing in the driver’s seat? I’m not tired, I can keep driving!” “Mac. Listen to me. You saw the root, but did you see any of the Pitcher plants with purple flowers?” “Yeah I did! There were a bunch of them, too. In fact I burned those up too… hey come on! Unlock the doors! I have some tissues in the back seat. One of them sprayed me with something. I got to get it off of me. Dave come on!” Dave shifted the car into drive and slammed on the gas. Someone had to survive! A frantically running Mac slowly disappeared behind him in the darkness as the flat tire wobbled horrendously on the broken axel. He grabbed his phone and called his wife. “Honey! I’m still on my way. Ran into a little more trouble, but don’t worry! We’ll take your car instead!” He went as fast as seemed reasonably possible given the condition of the car and by now he was only a few miles away. Up ahead, the road was cracked. The locals had complained about it for years to no avail. Vegetation had grown along the cracks and within the potholes. But now those cracks and potholes were filled with dozens - perhaps hundreds - of those carnivorous Pitcher plants with the purple flowers and the poisonous pollen. Dave did not even consider stopping. He was too panicked. Too desperate to get to his wife and to leave Mac as far behind as possible. He rolled across the Pitcher plants without a second thought. In fact, he wanted to crush them. Take them out from within the perceived safety of the Subaru. As he rolled across them, however, they threw up a thick cloud of pollen. The cars’ ventilation was open, constantly sucking in air from outside, and before Dave even knew what was happening, he inhaled a large lungful of the foul-smelling pollen. He slammed on the breaks and sat screaming within the car for a full minute. Nothing more he could do. He had tried his best. He exited the car and found a place to lay down and stare up at the stars. He reached for his phone to call his wife but realized that it was still in the car. He was already too nauseous to stand up, having breathed in such a large amount of the pollen. He turned his attention back to the sky. He even saw a few shooting stars before searing pain crossed his forehead. Or were those streaks of light just his vision failing? “Dave! You came to your senses! Don’t ever leave me like that again! I haven’t run for twenty minutes straight since the 10^(th) grade! I’m feeling awfully thirsty, though, and quite a bit sick. If we can just make it to the hospital, I think they might know what to do. But we have to go quick! Ready to go?... Dave?... What are you doing lying on the ground like that anyway? Don’t you hear your phone ringing? It’s surely your wife!” But as Mac approached, he lunged back in a fit of fright; for there he spotted two Pitcher plants - potted snugly in the sockets of what used to be eyes. | 22,430 | 1 |
It all started one glorious Sunday morning in the picturesque seaside city of Clifton Hills. As Mikaela started her morning beach walk, the rays of the sun peeked from the horizon. It was an array of colors pink, orange and yellow. The sky looked like a masterpiece. Hearing the waves crash was a magnificent sound. It soothed her soul. The sable colored sand in between her toes, feeling the cold-water splash along her feet was a sensation that she looked forward to. As she walked along the shore she noticed something glistening in the sand. She wondered what could it be? As she got closer she saw a nugget sized diamond! She could not believe her eyes. Simultaneously\*she saw an array of beautiful monarch butterflies, with their vivid and bright orange colors. Reminding her of a city in Mexico. Many thoughts were going through her head. She put the diamond in her pocket and thought of what she could turn it into. As she continued her stroll she realized she had worked up an appetite. She decided she would go to her favorite bagel place NYC Bagel’s\* and order her favorite bagel. As she walked in the bagel shop the aromas of fresh bread and garlic permeated the air, along with\*the smell of fresh brewed coffee, “Hi! I’d like to order a lox and bagel on an onion bagel and a small vanilla latte please”. “Sure, that will be $12.99” As she sat and waited for her order she looked out the window and saw morning joggers, people walking their dogs and cars passing by. “Order for Mikaela” “Thank you, that’s me”! Blissfully she took her first bite and the different flavors and textures made her content. After finishing her breakfast, she decided she would get back on the road and head to her apartment. As Mikaela got in her car she got a call from her best friend Lauren. Lauren lately had been going through dating disasters. Feeling the pressure of her parents to find a suitable suiter along with studying for finals was not a good combination. But she thought what the hay I have nothing to lose and signed up on a dating app. \* “OMG Mikaela you’re never going to believe the guy I met last week, I for sure thought I had found a great guy. He is 6’2, light brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and just the right amount of muscles. He took me out on a few dinner dates, we had lively and interesting conversations” “However, during our dinners his phone kept dinging” “What do you mean his phone kept dinging”? I jokingly asked him if he was a doctor. He said no that I was his ex-girlfriend who was a having a hard time with the breakup. I asked him if he felt comfortable sharing why they had broken up. He proceeded to tell me that she had cheated on him with his brother. | 2,777 | 1 |
Sweat ran down Mark’s face, rippling across the many valley’s and imperfections of his skin. The night time air did little to cool his nerves. The woman before him stood on the roof’s ledge, revolver in hand, pointed directly at her own head. A helicopter flew above them, keeping a spotlight on her. Mark stood still, keeping his hands raised high in fear that any small movement would prompt her to either pull the trigger or jump. Doesn’t matter how crazy you are, a fall from fifty stories would kill anyone, he thought. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to say. Even if I die right in front of you, I’ll keep living!,” the woman said through gritted teeth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She quickly shut her eyes and began lightly hitting herself on the head with the handle of the revolver. “Lynn, I know you don’t believe that. Please, just step down off the ledge, we can talk this through,” Mark pleaded. Lynn’s eyes opened wide. Her hand jerked forward, now pointing the Revolver at Mark. “I’m not crazy! I’m not suicidal! I am telling you, I can't die!” she barked. She was shaking violently. Mark figured her aim would be wildly inaccurate. He quickly stepped diagonally forward and a foot to the right. Lynn let off a single shot as he did, missing him entirely. Would be lying to myself if I said that didn’t put my heart in my stomach, he thought. His knees were shaking now. Lynn just proved to him that she was willing to hurt others as well as herself. At least I’m a little closer to her, Mark thought. “See that? The gun works just fine! What do you think will happen when I do this?” she said, putting the gun back to her head and pulling the trigger. Mark lurched forward, but stopped himself suddenly when he saw the gun jam. “Lynn, for Christ’s sake, you’re gonna get yourself killed!” he yelled. She looked disappointed at this, the gun barrel still pressed firmly against her skull. “You really don’t see what just happened? I’m not the same Lynn from five seconds ago!” “How is that possible? You’ve been standing in front of me this entire time! Just come down off the ledge! please!” “I’ve already told you! Whenever my body dies, my mind jumps into another reality!” “How could that even happen? The gun jammed, Lynn, that’s all! Please, just come here to me!” “How can you not see? This is just a universe where the gun jammed. Somewhere out there, the gun fired, and my body died! Each separate reality has tiny differences from one another, and this is one of them!” Her voice became more desperate, and her lip quivered. It was obvious to Mark that she desperately wanted him to believe her. “Okay, let’s say you’re right! How could you prove it to anyone? And what would be the point of killing yourself if it won’t ever work?” “People need to know, that’s why. They have a right to know that their reality is a lie! That it doesn’t matter what they do!” “If that were true, then what’s the point of anything? What meaning would life have?” His words echoed, and silence followed. Lynn dropped the gun to her side and smiled. “Yeah. You get it now. It is meaningless. So don’t try to stop me,” With a near instant shift of her body she went over the edge. Mark burst into a full sprint, but was too late. By the time he reached the ledge, her body was already on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood. Mark sat slumped in his chair, the lamp on his desk being the only source of light in the office. Detective Mitchell sat across from him, filling out paperwork and smoking a cigar. Mitchell looked up at him for a moment, saw the bags under his eyes and the blank stare in his expression. “You did what you could, Mark,” his voice was coarse and sincere. Mark sat up and leaned his elbows on the mahogany table top. “I’ve done this job for fifteen years. Not once have I lost somebody like that,” “She was too far gone, man. You did everything you could to get her off that ledge, but some professions just drive people nuts,” “What was her job, anyway?” Mark asked Mitchell shuffled through a packet of papers before responding. “Her official title was ‘head theoretical physicist’ at King University,” Mark’s eyebrows raised. “Does it say what she studied?” Mitchell flipped through a few more papers and cleared his throat. “Statistical analysis and probability of the many worlds theory and quantum immortality. Looks like she actually knew a thing or two on what she was babbling about up on that roof,” Mark grabbed the files and began reading through them. “I wouldn’t bother Mark, I think she just drove herself crazy. The file says that stuff is all theoretical, never been proven,” Mitchell reassured. Mark put the papers down and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his fingertips against his temples. God my head hurts, he thought. “Kinda surprised she was able to shoot a round at you. Says here the cylinder of that revolver was severely rusted, probably the first time it’s successfully fired in twenty years. Makes sense that it actually jammed when she turned it on herself,” Mitchell remarked. Mark stopped massaging his head and looked into his colleague’s eyes. “That looked like a brand new revolver,” “Nope, the file says it was manufactured in the sixties and was poorly maintained,” Mark’s heart raced. He stood up and circled to the other side of the table, positioning himself next to Mitchell. “How.…How could it have fired?” he asked, trembling. “Mark, you have got to come down, man. She was a nut job, and even handguns as poorly taken care of as this one can crack a shot or two off from time to time. Look, you’ve gotta get some sleep. I just need you to sign under your name on the forensics report and then you gotta go home,” Mitchell always had a knack for convincing mark to settle down. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths for a moment before opening them back up and getting his pen out to sign off on the report. His eyes skimmed down the page before stopping abruptly at his name. Mark stood and stared for a moment. “Mitch….I think you misspelled my name,” “Hm?” “Mark.…It ends with a k, not a c,” Mitchell chuckled a little “Since when, man? Last I check, you’ve spelled it with a c for the past fifteen years,” Mark’s mouth hinged open. He rummaged through his pocket until he found his wallet. He frantically fished out his drivers license and scanned the card with his eyes. Upon reading his name, he dropped to his knees “Marc Smith” it read. “Are you good, man?” Mitchell got up and knelt down next to him. “She….She’s alive,” Marc whispered. | 6,551 | 1 |
The man woke with a headache and saw blood in the soil. He knew it was blood because he could smell it—the metallic, bitter tinge didn’t register in his nostrils, but on his tongue. He didn’t know it, but he also knew it was blood because he could taste it. He was coughing now, and the blood from his lungs was mingling with the blood running out of his forehead and onto his lips. He sat up. He looked around. An ambulance was pulled on to the shoulder of the highway. Lights flashing. Nobody else in sight. *How long have I been here? Where is the medic? Where is my bike?* The petite woman squatted down in front of him. She had a light blue caduceus on her dark blue sleeve, and a first aid kit. “Have you been drinking?” “What?” “How much have you had to drink?” He squinted at her. *Have I been drinking? Where am I right now? What is going on?* She flashed a light in his eyes, staring into his pupils. Then she set the flashlight down and began applying gauze to his head. “Where are you going to?” “I don’t know.” “Are these cans yours?” He looked down into the ditch he had awakened in and saw half a dozen or so beer cans, crushed, some rusted, covered in grass and mud. “Have you been drinking?” “Very funny.” She put a splint on his right arm and asked if he could walk. No, no, I don’t even know who I am, he told her. She turned her pretty face into the microphone clipped to her shoulder and said, “White, male, six-foot—You are about six feet tall right?” When she turned her head to her shoulder he saw her blond ponytail and white pearl earring. *She’s perfect*. A little gold chain with a pendant on it had fallen out of her shirt and dangeld in front of his eyes. It twisted back and forth until it settled down and he saw the picture of the winged man carrying a sword, and the words “St. Michael” on it. “Are you an angel?” She laughed, then continued, “—six foot tall, blue eyes.” She smiled at him. “You’re going to be ok. I’m going to take care of you. You’re mine now. Everything will be alright.” *Am I still single? Angel of angels, what have I done to deserve this?* She cradled his head in her hands and for a few minutes they sat there together on the edge of the trees. As his head rested against her shoulder, her arm wrapped around his crown, holding the bandages in place, he could hear the words to the song she was singing quietly to herself: *“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;* *The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;* *When other helpers fail and comforts flee,* *Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.”* A man in a blue uniform, pistol on his hip, and Stetson on his head walked over to the pair, and said “alright, Angel, I’ve got what I need.” *I knew it. God help me, please be single.* She helped him onto the stretcher, her hand lightly clasping his, as they loaded him into to the back of the ambulance. She sat next to him, and told him it will be about 15 minutes to the hospital. *I’ve got to ask her out. How can I do it? I’m not even sure who I am, but I can’t miss this opportunity.* The ambulance hit a bump in the road and all his wounds reared inside of him. He squeezed her hand and she smiled. “I’ve got to adjust this splint on your arm. Just put your hand right here.” She placed the palm of his left hand on her right knee. “I have to take this off, because your fingers are going to start swelling and it can cut off circulation.” She held his wrist and undid the clasp on his watch, slid it over his hand and placed it on the bench. “Oh, I almost missed this,” she said, and slipped the gold band off his ring finger. She placed it in her left breast pocket and buttoned it closed. “I’m going to make sure you get this back. Don’t worry, I’m sure your wife won’t let you leave with out it.” She smiled again, and sang: *“Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes* *Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies* *Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee* *In life, in death, o Lord, abide with me* *Abide with me, abide with me.”* \*\*\* Follow u/quillandtrowel (links in bio) at Twitter & Medium. | 4,160 | 3 |
The shadow is lingering in the corner again. It should be gone by now. It should have been gone a long time ago. Yet there it is. In its presence, I can only exist with trepidation... uneasy and restless. I circumvent its aura each time I must cross it. I'm unable to focus on anything else, peeking up every few seconds to see if it's still there. It always is. But the thought of it not being there when I look up unsettles me to the point of obsession. Should its arm shift or shape obstruct... who knows what would happen. Did it move? I can never tell but I'm certain that, even if it had, I would convince myself otherwise. When the farce of my daily activities concludes, I'm forced to go to bed to complete the ruse. Should it know that I have noticed its presence, I fear that will make matters worse. Perhaps then it may have to act, become malignant. I can't risk it. So I lie in bed, my blanket covering every inch of my body. Sweat beads down my face and expired breath fills my lungs. I consider lifting the blanket slightly to breathe, but I fear it will be waiting for me at the edge of the bed. That it will be looking back at me, amused. I know this does nothing, but I can't think of anything else to do. If I speak of it to anyone else, I'll surely be laughed at and ostracized. Should I attempt to manage it myself, I'm certain I'd face a fate worse than death. I can only hide. Only act as if nothing is happening so as to not trigger it. To tune out my thrumming pulse, I imagine scenarios. Ones where I run into the corner sacrificially, and it was just a trick of the light. That if I were to move the coat rack a few feet to the left, it would be gone. Or that I'll extrapolate to some mysterious explanation one night and banish it. Or that I'll combust and scream at it to kill me, and it will swiftly oblige, relinquishing me of this dilemma. These do not settle me though as my thoughts are constantly interrupted. A creak. A step. A whistle. A whisper. I know it's there. It could be right next to me. It takes me an hour to finish one scenario and it's daylight before my hyperventilation feigns. Not because I'm not afraid. Not because I've found some kind of solution. But because my lungs have exhausted themselves. I wake up to my alarm, seemingly minutes after I've finally fallen asleep. I consider calling out of work but I've done that too many at this point. I sit for a while as my alarm goes off. I'll have to emerge from the safety of my blanket to turn it off. But the sound could drown out whatever it may be doing... I sit up abruptly to catch it off guard, but it isn't there. It must still be in the corner. Or perhaps it ducked out because of the alarm. Sometimes I like to imagine that it's benign. Just something lost and harmless. But I'm certain it isn't. I would be foolish to convince myself otherwise. It would not sit there ominously if it were. It would not be shaped so amorphously. It's not humanoid, but not the antithesis either. It's something unnatural. Human-like but unrecognizable. Part of my fear of its action is that it may repulse me more than its stillness. That it may move with such distinction... Such clumsy and jagged svelte... In a way so inarticulably foreign that its horror would permeate me permanently. I silence the alarm, tip toe to my bathroom, and lock the door. I turn on the shower, but I do not get in. I don't shower at home anymore. I let the water run and sit on the toilet seat, staring at the door. Without breaking eye contact, I reach over and equip a toothbrush with toothpaste and brush my teeth I spit, still staring, and rinse off my toothbrush. I turn off the shower and have to check myself before I leave. I hate this part. However, if I were to show up with something obviously messy about me, I'd face the same issue as I would with calling out. So I, as quickly as possible, with my hand pressing the door shut for insurance, flip my head to the mirror and back in one second. I have that second to work with. I try to meditate on the mental image to determine what must be fixed. I readjust my hair a bit and wipe the crust from my eyes. I continue quietly on my toes out of the bathroom, and out of my room. I move so slowly and meticulously that my muscles shake as they’re tensely adjusted. My eyes burn from not blinking but I know the moment I do, I’m dead. My head peeks out past my doorway. Should anyone look down the hallway now, they would see just the wet of my eyes and the hair above them creeping around the corner. The hallway on each end of me chilled my spine as I waited to see which end it would be waiting for me at. Creeping further, I round the corner to my kitchen and living room. I see it there. I don't dare look at it directly, so I peer ever so slightly past the doorway. It always seems as though it has shifted, but not in a way in which I can understand why or in what way. Worse, the longer I stare, the more it seems to twitch in the darkness. Though I know the dark static of its shape could be playing tricks on me. I hold my breath and pinch myself in order to approach the kitchen, feigning ignorance. I have never once turned my back on it, always keeping it in the corner of my eye. I'm sure it is sitting in anticipation. It must be as restless as me at this point, I've made it wait so long. I reach my hand behind me, grabbing a tomato from the fridge, and bread from the cupboard. Every slight noise is precisely enunciated in the room. Cars outside, my neighbor’s kids downstairs, the sound the cupboard makes as it reconnects to the shelf. I place the bread in the toaster and push it down as the electricity crackles. I’m flooded with ungrounded guilt as I do this. I can only think of it. Anytime I think of anything in its presence, even something as normal and essential as hunger, I am suddenly overwhelmed with shame and guilt. It’s as if it reflects its own disgust at humanity through me. I took a knife from the chopping block. This was controversial for me originally. I thought that brandishing the weapons that I left readily available on my countertops would be foolish to do in front of it. However, I'm sure it didn't need them. I'm sure it's capable of plenty on its own. I sliced into the tomato. The repulsion continues. The disgust, guilt, and shame that it pumped into me. My appetite was lost. The toast popped out and I jumped, cutting myself. The sight of the blood cut though the emotions I was previously weighed down by and I was now flooded with perverted euphoria. Drowning. I noticed my lips had curled upwards without my consent. I could not move them. I looked up from my hand. My skin froze and my blood curdled. I could feel each hair on my body squirming to escape my skin. It had moved approximately six feet closer to me. Half way across my living room, facing my kitchen countertop. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. This was the first time I looked at it directly since it first came. My heartbeat was so loud the ambiance was muddled by the thudding. I was trapped, staring at it with the uneasy grin it had painted onto me. I stared into the faceless shadow for an unknown amount of time before it finally moved. The static at the top of the dark entity, now stretched out and upwards. Mimicking a smile, as if it had never seen a smile, but only read of it. It painted on something unearthly. We stared at each other with grotesque expressions until the shadow suddenly engulfed me. When my eyes finally opened again, it took me a moment before I could even remember who and where I was, let alone what once stood before me. But when I did, I realized that it was gone. My face had relaxed and the invasive emotions had subsided. My heart felt decomposed, my lungs felt concave, and more than anything, in the empty cavern where I’d felt its guilt and shame and perversion, was this uncomfortable desperation. It was a hollow space, emaciated from neglect. It ached in hunger. I wanted to feed it everything it was starving for. Collapsed on the floor, I reached up to the counter and calmly took the knife. I trimmed slices of my flesh off gently, with care I had never been shown before. I inspected each filet thoughtfully and appreciated it before consuming it. I smiled, softly and warmly this time. I felt only love of my own origin now. The warm blood pooled beneath me and I felt held. The air hit my exposed tendons and bone and I felt alive. | 8,477 | 3 |
Centuries from now, in the year 2364 CE, 57 years after the Choice of Empire—The elected Emperor of the Solar System and his family are massacred by the Sargons, a rival family who seized the throne and created chaos across the Empire. Caleb, the youngest son of the slain Emperor, was saved by the Altas, who were once friends of his family until they mysteriously exiled themselves from the imperium many years ago and remained hidden in an unknown location ever since. Caleb is now in that faraway place, beyond the reach of the Sargons, where he will live in refuge and prepare for the day when he can have vengeance, justice, and redemption—and possibly salvation. Burrowed deep within an asteroid in the Belt of the Solar System is a secret community of scientists, artists, thinkers, and engineers led by the Altas. A large hole is tunneled through the face of the asteroid, the entrance to the hidden world within. It was made to look like a human eye. Its name is the Iris. \[Interlude\] Caleb woke from a deep sleep. The salt of his tears had dried on his face and sweat covered his body. He looked around the room and saw a man who was like an uncle to him asleep on a chair next to his bed: Han Moret, the leader of the Altas. Caleb thought that Han Moret looked younger and radiant. His hair, once thin, was now full. His body, once frail, was now strong. His skin, once wrinkled, was now smooth and shining. Caleb got up from the bed and put a hand on Han Moret’s shoulder. “Han,” he whispered. Han Moret woke with a start, “Christ!” then smiled when he saw Caleb, “Oh, hello my dear boy.” Caleb was quiet for a while. “Why couldn’t you save them?” Han Moret sighed and looked to the ground, “We didn’t have time. We learned of the Sargons’ plans too late. You were in your bedroom and everyone else was in the throne room. Saving you was the only way, all we could do. The best we could do.” He raised his head, “I’m sorry Caleb. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there, for not being able to do more. But you’re here now. We’ll help you. We’ll fight back and win. I can promise you that. I can give you that.” “How?” Han Moret grinned, “Come. Let me show you what we’ve been working on all these years. Why I left all those years ago.” He walked to the door and opened it, “Welcome to the Iris.” Within the asteroid was a colossal garden paradise: waving golden fields and rolling green hills, thick forests and snow-capped mountains, gleaming towers and sprawling villas, vast lakes and flowing streams, smaller suns and lesser moons orbiting each other in the center—worlds within a world. They walked through a field and stopped beneath a large oak tree. “Han, this is incredible. How did you do it?” Caleb asked. “Trillions of builders. Quattuordecillion, actually.” Han Moret raised his hand and an apple fell into it. He took a bite, “Probably more.” “But there’s only…How many people are here?” “A couple hundred. 964, I think. No, Arina was born this morning, 965.” He furrowed his brow, “Why do you ask?” “Trillions of builders, hundreds here?” “Oh! Right, yes. I see. Come, come. You’ll see too.” While they were walking, Caleb learned that Han Moret was still fond of long and rambling monologues: “Isn’t it obvious? Look around us. Well, beyond the asteroid. We seem to be alone in the Universe, but the probability that other life exists says otherwise. So what’s the explanation? It’s simple. We are the first intelligent life in the Universe. It makes sense when you think about it. Our homeworld, the planet Earth, was among the first habitable planets that formed in the Universe after it began, earlier than around 90% of the other habitable planets which now exist! And most of the habitable planets that will ever be formed in the Universe haven’t even formed yet. So, the planet Earth was one of the first habitable planets in the Universe that could support the rise of life and its long evolutionary development into intelligent life, to beings like us. Therefore, assuming that life out there will fundamentally be the same as it is here, and assuming that it only arises in an Earth-like environment, it shouldn’t be surprising that humans developed before others. You see, someone has to be first. There must be a first form of intelligent life in the Universe, before the rest. But it seems like no one has considered that maybe we’re alone in the Universe right now because we are the first and others will come after us, and maybe the others are already in the process of doing so, so we won’t be alone for long. And when those future life-forms ask the same questions as us, “Is anyone out there? Are we alone in the Universe?” we will be there to answer them, to be their aliens, to give them the comfort we never had and accelerate their development like we never could. And this is all the better too, because we’re going to need all the help we can get to do the ultimate thing, since the only reason we exist is to…” “Han, thank you, that was…enlightening. But what does it have to do with what you were going to show me?” “What? Oh, nothing. Sorry. What were we talking about? Ah yes, how we built the Iris. Fear not, the answer lies ahead.” They walked further through the field towards a clearing. And there, out in the open, was a scientific laboratory and engineering workshop, tables and equipment and all with nothing but the sky above and a beautiful world surrounding them. Han Moret led Caleb to an empty table, “So, here is it boyo. What do you see?” “Uh, nothing.” “Ha! Yes, but in nothing there is everything. For from nothing…” Han Moret glanced at the table and appeared to concentrate, then the table grew into a tree “…something.” Han Moret tapped a finger to his head, “Mind-controlled nano-bots. That’s how we built this place. A one-to-one control of atoms within our local environment, limited to the area in which nano-bots are dispersed and the reach of electromagnetic signals emitted from implants in the brain, also limited by the mental symbiosis between a group of people if they’re working together, and of course the extent of their imagination. Everything within the Iris is touched by the stuff, so everything is under our control.” “That’s…How did you do it?” “Trade secret I’m afraid. But here, we call it…” Han Moret slapped the side of Caleb’s head, “…Pleroma.” “Ow!” “There! Brain implanted. You are now pleromatized. You can control the world around you, or at least the little bit within your proximate sphere. No worries, the plerons are easily inserted and removed, so no harm, no foul. Go on and try it. Synchronization is instantaneous, but learning how to use it is, well, a process. Your ability to control the world is determined by the strength of your mind—your concentration and focus. It depends on the speed and coherence of your imagination, the complexity and detail of your mental constructions, along with the depth of your knowledge and your intelligence, clarity of thinking, force of will, and, most importantly, very most importantly, the strength of your Self. Meditation helps, as does improving your brain with the stuff once you get the hang of it, but none of that will matter if you are not strong within. Oh, and you can change your body too.” “Ah, so that’s why you look younger and glowing.” “Indeed, and thank you. I’ve never felt better, haven’t been sick in years. We certainly look…godly, don’t you think? Although the secondary effects of being able to control our brains and bodies have been far more numerous than we anticipated, mostly socially, very odd and interesting things, but that’s a conversation and exhibition for later. If I may continue, with the Pleroma, the strength of your mind determines your power over the world, so if your mind is stronger than others, then you can overpower them. For example…” Caleb’s body rose from the ground and hovered for a moment, then returned. “See?” Han Moret said. “I could feel your instinctive surprise and mental resistance, but alas, I’ve had this stuff longer than you, and my mind is, for the time being at least, stronger than yours, so your resistance was, as they say, futile. The plerons that made their way into your body when you entered the Iris obeyed my commands and not yours, and your body obeyed my mind and not your own. Now, your turn. Try and turn the tree into something.” Caleb looked at the tree and tried to concentrate. He vaguely imagined things, but was unsure of what to create and how. The tree became a gray mass, then began to violently vibrate and rapidly shapeshift. Colors flashed and textures flickered. Various sounds blasted all at once. It seemed like reality was having a seizure. And then the asteroid began to rumble… “Woah! Alright, alright! Not bad for your first try. Certainly better than others. You have a powerful mind, no doubt, but not yet a disciplined one.” Han Moret waved his hand and smoothed the chaotic patch of existence back to an empty table. “We’ll try it again soon. Mastering the Pleroma will require a lot of practice and self-improvement. I can improve your brain of course, if you’d like, it’ll help speed up the process and enhance your basic abilities, but even with a better brain, you’ll still fail to use the Pleroma if you don’t improve your consciousness, your mind—your Self. You must become stronger, Caleb—not physically, but mentally—if you want to master this power over the world. You could have a perfect brain, but if you don’t perfect your Self, then the Pleroma will be useless, as we just saw. You’ll only create chaos in the world and others will be able to control you.” “Yeah, alright, I understand. But Han! That was amazing. I’ve never felt…I’ve never felt like that before.” “Yes, but it is so much more than that, Caleb, so much more. You’ve only seen the least of it, the smallest bit. You see, this is why we had to leave the Empire. Weren’t you listening before? I was onto something. We’re going to need all the help we can get, including from other forms of life, if we are going to do the ultimate thing, since the only reason we exist is to prevent the end of the Universe. For centuries, we’ve known that, given the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the Universe will end in the future, or at least its habitability for life—for us! We know this, and so we have a responsibility to do something about it, to stop it from happening so that life can keep living. ‘We’ are the Universe—just a local collection of its atoms, yes, but an equal part of its whole nevertheless—and we have within us both the genetic urge to survive and a personal desire to not die, so we can say that the Universe itself does not want us to die, or rather it does not want to die itself. Don’t you see? The purpose of our lives, the purpose of the Universe, is embedded within the structure of our existence. But how do we prevent the end of the Universe exactly? We don’t know the answer to that yet, specifically. That’ll take time. But we do know the basics of the answer, and it is very simple: we must control the Universe to prevent its end, and to do that, we must become God. If humankind is to live forever, and more importantly ensure that there is a world in which we can live forever, then we must gain the knowledge and power to control the Universe so that we can prevent its end. In other words, we must become all-knowing and all-powerful, or at least gain sufficient knowledge and power to ensure that we can have an endless life in infinite eternity, through whatever ways we can. But whichever way ultimately works, we’ll need to create an eternal home for life, and that’s Godhood boyo. That’s the ultimate thing, and the Pleroma is a first step towards that: controlling the world around us with our minds, instantaneous creation by command. It’s a growing up for us. We began as children, born from the God of the Great Unknown at the Beginning, and we must grow up to become God to prevent the Great Known at the End. That’s the only thing when you think about it, our only purpose and the measure of our being, the direction of our progress and the future we’re heading towards: Godhood. If we don’t, then we will have accepted the end of the Universe and the eventual death of humankind, and everything before that will become pointless, the value and meaning of our lives will become forfeit. If we choose to do nothing or say that it’s impossible without trying, then we condemn the generations of the future to ultimate destruction, and in the long stretch of time, we will have annihilated the basic and universal value of human life, and therefore annihilate our own value too. Even if the end of the Universe will happen billions of years from now, or much sooner from some natural or cosmic catastrophe, that’s just a number that seems big to us, so the number doesn’t matter, it could billions of years from now or tomorrow—or today. On the scale of the Universe, what’s the difference between a billion and one, tomorrow and today? If humankind will become extinct in the future, no matter how many years from now, then there will be no point to all of this. No, we must save ourselves by preventing the end of the Universe and become God to achieve that salvation. What comes after that? I don’t know. But for now, I know that we must spend our days working to achieve Godhood. That’s why we’re here and nothing else matters, except of course to make life worth saving, by making it worth living, by spreading love and creating art and asking questions and filling the darkness around us with light and the color of our lives, to expand outwards until we reach the end and then go beyond it—always onward, always creating, always living. You see, the end gives us our beginning. We begin at the end. God created and God will save, because we will become God to save ourselves. I call it the Anthroteloeschacosmological Principle, the purpose of humankind arising from the end of the Universe. I tell myself a little poem every morning: “The Universe will end / and I will die / if today I do nothing / to save starlight and humankind.” I wrote all this in an anonymous essay a few years back, The Salvation of the Universe…” “That was you?” “Yes, and it made quite a stir across the imperium as I understand it, but nary an effect. Typical. Anyways, we must prevent the end of the Universe—by whatever means, at all costs, and within moral bounds. The Sargons knew this and accepted the first two, but they rejected the last. I grew up with them. We discussed it often, along with your father. The Sargons think morality is an obstacle, a human thing that will prevent us from becoming God. They think Godhood is only about being all-knowing and all-powerful, but we Altas think differently. We think morality is essential to Godhood, because being all-knowing and all-powerful will be pointless if we are not also all-good, or at least as good as we can be when we try. Without morality, that wonderfully human thing—determining what is good and evil and then making it so—there’d be no point in becoming God, because there’d be nothing worth saving in the end. We’d just be a heap of atoms that figured out how to perpetuate themselves, like all of the other forms of life in the Universe, except on a bigger scale. But we are not like the other forms of life. No, we are different, and that’s what makes us so special and important. What’s the point of living if not for something, and why are we unique if not because of our morality allows us to say, “This is good and this is bad,” and then use that power to shape the world around us according to our imagination and will, enhanced by our knowledge and technology? So you see Caleb, this is why we had to leave the Empire. We all know that the Universe will end in the future, but it seemed to us Altas like were the only ones who understood the significance of that fact, what it means for us and our purpose in life, the responsibilities that it gives us. We saw that the plan for existence is embedded in the structure of the Universe, our destiny and fate written across the stars, but when we looked around, we saw that everyone was living their days as if it wasn’t so, ignoring our ultimate purpose and wasting their time on lesser things. We had to leave, you see, to be away from the limitations and distractions of Empire, so we could do the work to achieve Godhood, to take the first step in leaving our childhood to create the Pleroma. Your father disagreed with all this. He thought Godhood was a silly idea based on old religious notions. And that’s what makes what happened all the worse. You see, the Altas and the Sargons agreed with each other. We were unified against your father in our belief that we must achieve Godhood and that the stagnation of the Empire was preventing us from doing so, and your father was leading that stagnation, so we both felt compelled to take action. The difference between us, however, the vital difference, is that we Altas believe in morality, so we left the Empire to work in peaceful isolation, and the Sargons do not, so they murdered your family to seize power.” And with that, Han Moret was finished. Caleb was silent for a while. “But, I don’t understand. If you had this the entire time, why couldn’t you save my family when the Sargons attacked? Why couldn’t you use it to protect them? You could’ve prevented all of this. Why didn’t you share it with us?” “Because the Pleroma is still in development, Caleb. It still has its imperfections and unknowns. We’ve only worked within the asteroid so far, and only with a small group of people who already had deep bonds and a shared way of thinking and years of training together as the power of the Pleroma slowly progressed, so our learning was limited by the pace of its development. And this was good, since the Pleroma would be apocalyptic in the wrong hands. This asteroid, these people, are minuscule compared to the scale of the Empire, to the true extent of what the Pleroma could reach and do. So, with all of its unknowns, we couldn’t risk deploying it beyond the Iris, and we couldn’t risk revealing ourselves by going beyond it and using it or building transmission relays across the Solar System so we could take long-distance action from here. We had precious little time after learning of the Sargon’s betrayal. And once we were there, in the fog of war, for all we know we could’ve killed your family if we had tried to intervene. Not everyone here has mastered the Pleroma yet, especially to use it in such a complex and rapidly changing atomic environment like war, with life and death in the balance, with its intense mental pressures and emotional reactions and all that would test the mental strength of even the best of us, even me. So, even if I had brought the best of us when it happened, we couldn’t risk trying it for the first time in such a situation, especially with such a close proximity between friends and foes. But we’re improving it and eliminating its imperfections, we’re learning, and it’s nearly ready to be used beyond this little home of ours.” Now Han Moret was silent for a while. He looked around the Iris. “I… You see Caleb…” He tried to gather his thoughts, but was conflicted between defending himself against Caleb’s criticisms and trying to proceed with his planned lecture. “With the Pleroma, we can control the Universe, both around us and within us. Everything, everywhere, all the time. And time itself too! Though that’s still in the experimental stages. One fellow tried to slow time by condensing his local spacetime and then went poof and, well, we don’t quite know where he is at the moment, but we’ll find him…hopefully. But with this stuff, we can speak and it shall be. We can create by command and move worlds with a wave of our hand. Dear, I’m getting poetic, but isn’t it so? This is what we’ve been working on all these years. And once we created it, we knew that the people of the Empire weren’t ready for it, so we remained in hiding. Most people beyond the Iris aren’t mentally and spiritually strong enough to have this power without creating chaos, destruction, and death across the Solar System, especially with the Sargons around. But now, with the Sargons in power, with chaos across the imperium, with you here, we think that perhaps it’s time. You have a powerful story Caleb, and you were born into a unique position to sway the hearts and minds of the people to shape the course of Empire and help them. And as your old tutor, well, I have faith in you, especially now that you’ve seen the Pleroma and understand what it can do and what’s at stake. I believe you can do what we could not and prepare the way towards a better future. What are those quotes from the books I used to read you? ‘A people shall come, and when they say, “Be…” It shall be,’ and ‘Can you lift up your voice to the clouds, so that a flood of waters may cover you? Can you send forth lightning, so it may go and declare, ‘Here we are?” That is this. We are it. Speak your voice, Caleb. Manifest your spirit. Create by command. With this, you can do anything, everything…” he amplified his voice to make it was deep and booming, “…ALL.” And with the last word, hundreds of people suddenly appeared around Caleb. A few hours passed and it was night. The suns above had dimmed, sharing their fading light with rising moonlight, creating a new and beautiful natural phenomenon that Caleb had never seen before, what the people of the Iris called a Sunrisset. They were all in the field, groups of them sitting around bonfires. The ceiling of the asteroid was made transparent so they could see the stars around them. They were celebrating the arrival of Caleb and the simple fact that another day had passed of which they had come to know. Some of the fires were multi-colored, shifting with the mood and intentions of the people around them. Around one of them was a woman singing an ancient song. The flames danced and rose and changed colors to match her pitch and rhythm and tune—and when she finished with a climax, the flames burst into the sky, adding sparks to the stars. Throughout the night, there were fireworks from all directions and mini-supernovae exploding in the sky. Auroras waved above and among and between them. Such was life in paradise. As conversation mixed with music and song, there was, most of all, a feast. It was the best food and drink that Caleb had ever tasted. Han Moret gave another lecture, “Food is just chemistry, a unique combination of atoms that interacts with our taste buds to cause a specific reaction in the brain: pleasure. And with the Pleroma, we can have it all the time.” “Don’t you get used to it though, having the best food all the time? What’s that saying, without the ordinary there’d be nothing extraordinary?” Caleb asked. “I used to think that, but it’s been years and the food is still great, so no, you don’t get used to it. It’s utopia here boyo, paradise, the land of the blessed, whatever you want to call it, and not just culinary-wise. We can control our brains and bodies on the micro-level, so there’s no disease and, more importantly, no aging. I realize I might’ve buried the lead on that one, but yeah, we’re immortal here too, along with everything else. Godhood again. Everyone in the Alta, anyone touched by the Pleroma, will live forever, or at least as long as they choose and not be murdered by nature, which is all that matters. We can create anything we might need and want, and so we have everything we might need and want. It’s utopia, but it’s not without its problems. Frankly, utopia is not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s certainly better than the past and something that everyone should have, power and abundance and immortality and all, and we’ll help them get there, certainly, but it’s not the final place, not by a long shot. Even with all of this, we have a lot to do and further to go. You see, when all the problems are solved, when you can have anything you want all the time, some people just get bored. Who would’ve thought that heaven would be boring. But it is so. Since humans began on the planet Earth all those years ago, our purpose was to survive and solve the problems that nature laid on us—scarcity, poverty, ignorance, disease—so we could have a brief moment to pursue our happiness before we died. But what happens when our survival is secured, the problems are solved, and we have infinite opportunities to pursue our happiness? Wouldn’t life get boring? That’s what we’re struggling with now. Frankly, utopia doesn’t agree with everyone. There’s trouble in paradise and all. Ah, perfect timing. Look over there. See him?” Han Moret pointed to a man who was a few bonfires over. He was drunk and stumbling through the crowd. Since the man was pleromatized, he had a literal aura of drunkenness around him and projected a blurred existence beyond his body that wreaked a playful and entertaining havoc on others as he walked by. “Damn it, Thrax. Not again!” someone shouted. Han Moret continued, “You see, many people here have chosen to drown themselves in happiness and never resurface, as if that’s the only end and aim in life. Maybe it is, maybe we haven’t found the true meaning of happiness yet, maybe there’s something else, who knows, but with the ability to instantly create whatever we want whenever we want it and cure our bodies of anything, a lot of people have chosen to exist in what, in my opinion, is a false state of happiness. They get drunk and use drugs or just go straight to the source and alter their biochemistry so they can remain in a permanent state of euphoria, and they can do so without harm because the Pleroma prevents damage from constant intoxication and allows them to become sober immediately, whenever they choose, so their productivity remains the same, which makes it harder for me to argue that they should imbibe less. There have been many arguments about it. But it’s undeniably a feat of hedonic adaptation for our species when you think about, being bored in heaven and all. Nevertheless, many people like that fellow Thrax over there seem to never want to end it, their eternal happiness. I don’t know, boyo. We’ve done wonders here, but it’s not perfect, far from it.” Han Moret was silent for a while and looked lost in thought, “Anyways! Apologies, I’ve strayed from my prepared remarks. There’s more for you to learn. Alright, what’s next? Yes, one of my favorites. Lora! Get over here.” A wind blew through the camp and a woman appeared in front of Caleb. She looked into his eyes and smiled flirtatiously, then became wind again and reappeared behind Caleb. She tapped him on the shoulder and then rose above the ground and swirled around him, finally landing on the seat next to him. “Hello, Caleb. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She drunkenly leaned into him, “So, did he tell you about the sex yet?” “Uh…” He looked to Han Moret, who was conveniently looking elsewhere. “No.” “Of course not, the prit. An old-fashioned manners man through and through. But my god! You have to try it. Imagine two people are like two atoms and now they’re having sex, but people are many atoms, octillions of them, so sex with the Pleroma is octillion times greater, a grinding cloud of pleasure, a great orgy of the Universe, all between two people, or more if that’s your taste. Does that make sense? Oh! See that electric cloud thing in the sky over there? There you go, some people are having a go at it,” thunder rolled across the camp, “and by the sound of it, having a lot of fun. One night when the elders were away and the kids were in bed, we younger ones—well young is relative now, I guess—but anyways, we wanted to test the limits of the stuff, and man…let’s just say we filled the space and rocked the place a little too literally.” Han Moret interrupted, “Yes you did. Thank you, Lora. You may go now.” Lora laughed, then kissed Caleb on the cheek and disappeared, creating a golden streak of light across the camp as she moved to another bonfire. Han Moret resumed his lecture, “So, as you just saw, when you can control the atoms of your body, you can move yourself around. In other words, you can fly. Now, after hearing this, there is, logically, an obvious question.” Caleb thought for a moment. “How is the mind not destroyed when the body are deconstructed and moved? Wouldn’t the person die in the process?” “Correct! That is something we did not know until we tried it, or rather one person. Some crazy bastard just tried it one day and it worked, and from the fruit of such courageous experimentation we learned a lot about the nature and structure of consciousness. We still don’t know everything though. We know it has something to do with the attachment of plerons to neural atoms and the signals that they send to each other across a distance, like a spatial expansion of the underlying physical structure of consciousness, but we’re still figuring it out. For now, though, the important thing is that it works.” “But isn’t the reconstructed person just a copy of the deconstructed one and not really the original person? Wouldn’t the original person be destroyed during deconstruction?” “No, it’s them. When you go from body to nebulous state to body again, you can feel yourself the entire time. There aren’t any gaps or skips. It’s a continuous process, from one point to another, and you’re aware of it throughout. You can feel yourself dissolving, then nebulous and moving, then coming together again. And let me tell you, when you’re scattered like that, truly at one with the Universe, it’s liberating. It feels like…” Han Moret searched for the right words “…pure being.” He continued, “Anyways, we’re nearing the end of the night, so let’s end it with a bang. What do you want? You can have anything you’d like. Some Viking ale?” A horned cup appeared in his hand. “One of those Parisian cafes we toured on Earth?” He tossed the cup in front of him and it became a miraged-like partition of one. “An ancient mosque?” The cafe rearranged into one. “A conversation with the legendary President Takhani?” The mosque condensed into the 22nd century woman. “Or better yet, how about a chat with another me?” The President morphed into another Han Moret. “Fret not, he’s just a copy of me. Not really me. He’s not actually alive at all. Doesn’t have a consciousness. Just a puppet on my mental strings. Anyways, anything you want. What do you say? Caleb stared at the fire and the flames slowed. He thought “my family” and must have unknowingly projected due to his intense emotional state, because Han Moret sighed. “I’m sorry Caleb. I can’t do that…Not yet.” The copy of Han Moret chimed in, “But we’re working on it!” “Yes, thank you. We’re working on it, trying to resurrect the dead. So far, we can recreate the bodies of those who have been, but it’s recreating their consciousness that’s the tricky part. As you’ve seen, we can deconstruct and reconstruct the consciousness of living individuals across space while maintaining their continuity of being. The Self isn’t destroyed. It’s reconstructing…Hold on, that reminds me.” The copy of Han Moret dissolved. “That’s better. It’s reconstructing consciousness across time that’s the problem. Specifically, it’s reconnecting the consciousness of someone who lived in the past at the moment of their death, the presumed termination of their consciousness stream and Self, to the present that’s proving difficult. We’re trying to connect disjointed time-points between death and now so we can restore a dead person’s continuity of being, their true and original Self. We have the ability to create a likeness of someone’s consciousness, dead or alive, as I just showed, but it’s not truly them, it’s just a copy of them. If we can resurrect their stream of consciousness, awaken them from what would seem like a long nap, then we will have achieved true immortality, and not just for those who are living and yet to be born, but for all those who have been, all of the billions who once existed in the Universe, back in the world alive and well, forever. And we’re close, Caleb, we’re close. We actually made a big step today. Let me show you.” He amplified his voice and carried it on the wind, “Arina!” A young and beautiful woman appeared. Caleb struggled to think of another word than “perfect.” “Meet Arina. It’s her birthday, by the way.” “Hello, Arina. Happy….” Caleb stopped because he recognized the name and remembered his conversation with Han Moret earlier. “Hold on, when I asked you how many people were in the Iris, you said that someone named Arina was born today.” “And indeed they were. Her. The first of her kind, a fully grown human created by the Pleroma. Instantaneous creation. Now, I can anticipate your train of thought, and yes, the ethics of missing childhood with all its memories and growth and learning are concerning, and we will explore them, but we are in the first days of this stuff, so there will be many questions, and we are ready to answer them. But regardless, we constructed a new consciousness boyo! We did it, and we’re learning. Perhaps we can spark consciousness in animals too, any form of life actually…maybe even non-life come to think of it. But the next step is to resurrect old consciousness, which, as you know, would be the true power of resurrection. Godhood again! I told you Caleb, we’re seeking Godhood here, and we’re gaining a little of it every day.” Han Moret seemed satisfied with himself and took a deep breath. “Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight. You’ve had a long day and have been shown much. Time for some rest. We Irisians don’t need sleep anymore, but you certainly do. Your body isn’t used to the godly life yet, so…tut tut, time for bed.” The next day, Han Moret flew himself and Caleb around the Iris. Children passed by in the air on their way to school and nearly crashed into them several times, laughing. After a while, Caleb and Han Moret landed near the edge of a lake. “See them?” Han Moret gestured to a man and woman in the distance between the lake and the foothills of a mountain. They were in the midst of combat. As they fought, various weapons rapidly materialized and dematerialized in their hands; each strike and block with someone new: now a sword, then a bow and arrow, now an axe, then a spear. They were flying and shifting and moving in a rhythmic flow, using the land around them and pure force as weapons. It was a literal storm of battle, as if reality was at war with itself, clashing shards of spacetime, two gods battling in a field. “So, you want me to learn how to do that? Fight with the Pleroma to defeat the Sargons?” Caleb asked. “Fight? No, those two are just bored, so they’re having a little dance. For Earth’s sake, Caleb. Haven’t you been listening? Watch.” There was a boom in the distance. Caleb looked to where a mountain was, or rather, where it used to be, since it was missing. Han Moret had destroyed it instantly, deleting it from existence. “With this, all you need is to be in the same room as them and then boom, gone forever in the blink of an eye, with only a thought, without even a fight, without even a flinch. Theoretically, you don’t even need to be in the same room as them. You could be here and destroy them wherever they are in the Solar System with targeted pleron dispersal and sufficient transmission relays. You could do whatever you want wherever you want. But I think the people need to see you, Caleb. They need to see you standing before the Sargons, declaring their wrongs, making things right. They need to hear your words, your plans for the future, and see the awesome power of this stuff, how it will change everything. Because with this, there will be no more war. With this, we become God. We’ll live forever, boyo. We’re free now. What will we do? Ah, so much, so much. There’s so much we can do now! Peace in our time, gods in Empire. A new day in a new age. It’s coming, Caleb. Gods among us because they become us. Are you ready?” Caleb thought for a moment, then closed his eyes and stood in silence. After a while, he flashed his hand. And all at once, a burst of wind blew, thunder cracked, and the suns shone brighter—the world shook. He opened his eyes, “Yes. | 36,459 | 2 |
The undead numbers have taken a massive hit, which, would be a good thing but, as Jakan took off his helmet after entering the castle courtyard. I see worry in his face, it made me ponder why he is worried. Jakan looked into my eyes, mouth moved with the intent to speak his mind but, stopped and closed it quickly. 'How many did you slay? Jakan.' Lankensy asks happily, contrast between the warrior's perception of the situation is worrying. 'Thirty one, you?' Jakan replies, keeping his worries hidden from Lankensy, my guess is that he is waiting for a more appropriate time to voice his concerns. 'Thirty eight. That was a great battle we have won.' Lankensy says and smiles warmly. 'What is the state of the battalion you lead?' Jakan asks calmly, slowly warming up to the atmosphere that surrounds us. I am certain that he still is worried about something. 'Out of the four hunded fifty, two hundred seventy eight wounded, of which eighty seven are more major wounds and require lengthy recovery time.' Lankensy states thinking about it. Jakan looked at me and his expression is mildly horrified, he quickly regains his composure and looks back to Lankensy. 'Sir Lankensy, I wish for a meeting to take place before darkness in the same courtyard has yesterday.' Jakan replies in calm tone. Lankensy looked at Jakan with confusion clearly shining from his eyes, two warrior's stare into each others eyes. Lankensy's confusion turned into mild worry. 'Yes, we shall.' He says to Jakan, and they both shake hands. He whispered something to Jakan quickly but, I didn't hear it myself. Jakan became mildly relieved and nodded to Lankensy, maybe in agreement of something. We returned to our tents in one of the many courtyards in this castle. 'Time for me to explain.' Jakan says to me, expecting correctly that I have intention on asking him of what just happened. 'With such high losses, the enemy is more than surely going to change tactics. With a victory like this... It is more than perfect moment for commence subterfuge of some kind... This still is a victory but, I fear that we might have escalated this conflict... Worst is, these are no feral or dark arcane maddened undead, we already know that this is more organized conflict. I believe you are familiar with a paragraph, our enemies most likely have asked from each other.' Jakan says with shadow dragon language, for those not dragons themselves. 'There must be, a better way...' Reply in same language, and realize the worst case scenarios. The town is still primed for recruiting followers from inside of it. Jakan nods to me and looks mildly content that I am now understanding him. 'I still need to ask for how many have wounded but, I suspect they are greater than what Tyrelia told us, there is always more casualties than first reports say there is. Severity and numbers are what I am most concerned of. Past me really would consider present me, completely mad...' Jakan says and reflects on his past quickly. 'What about you? Are you okay?' Ask from him, mildly amused of the expression which flashed on Jakan's face in the moment of reflection into what used to be. Jakan looked at himself, felt around his body and looked at his armor. 'I am fine, some mean bruises from attacks armor protected me from but, nothing I haven't experienced before.' Jakan replies in his more usual tone, thinks a moment, this prompted me to pull out our logbooks from our tents. 'Thank you Volarie.' He says to me, receiving his own logbook from me and we commence writing on our logbooks, even some of our personal thoughts on the situation. Thinking back to the moment of victory and after having a sobering conversation with Jakan, about our situation. The contrast is mildly dizzying. 'I can see you are almost completely unscathed from the battle. I am going to guess, the tally you accumulated only counts for the actual joining of battle, and most of them from the counter attack.' Jakan says, which prompted me to think back on the battle. How unfazed I was with the situation, I started to think of myself crazy for doing something like that. 'Yes. What was the what you did with Lankensy about, before the operation?' Reply, pulling myself back together and, promising to myself that, never again, preferably. We stopped writing into our logbooks. 'Oh, that, just a warrior's punt... I owe him a drink.' Jakan says, only now realizing, that he lost against Lankensy on the bet. Mildly embarrassed but, also glad that it isn't anything worse than that. Smiling warmly to Jakan and blink slowly to him. 'I have a feeling that it isn't a drink he is interested on, from you.' Say with smug smile on my lips. Jakan is sorting his considerations and, seems to have arrived to a conclusion of what I am meaning. 'Great... Well, might as well ready myself to receive a hearty kick in the rear from him... No shame in loosing to a better.' Jakan replies, not too eager to face Lankensy in a mock duel. 'Correct.' Say to him with a warm smile. Jakan looked mildly annoyed, I suspect, that he would have preferred to take it easy tomorrow and spend more time on preparing for what he suspect is to follow but, he started to rub his knuckles and looked calm again. That is the Jakan I prefer. We have a good chance to get to know the heroes of the riven war better tomorrow. Valerians will receive reinforcements and a convoy will arrive, ready to be escorted to the town, it should lessen the risk of betrayal in the town but, tough to not be concerned. It is Lankensy's home town... He would not respond well to something ill befalling to it. 'I think, I do look forward to the tomorrow. Although, and I am quite sure that, even you are concerned.' Jakan says with content tone. 'I am, area control wise, I am guessing we are in a lot better position now.' Reply to him calmly. 'We are, well, armed forces of Valerie are... We should soon receive a letter from our lords. Hopefully, nothing new, or something about why you were almost assassinated.' Jakan says in mildly content tone. He wants to motivate me, to keep doing my best here. I do feel slightly more motivated to continue doing my best. 'Pretty sure, that was your second time of battling without me, considering how you came out from it, I believe. You should try to work more autonomously, don't worry. I will advice with best of my ability.' Jakan adds, he knows me well. I nod to him deeply and we embrace each other lightly for a moment. 'Hopefully, no more large battles for me. Would like to get back to being an agent. These conflicts are your area of strength.' Say warmly to him. I thought back to the lessons about the shadow dragon organization history, how different it is from, back then, and how it is now. 'They most surely are, I am not that good with infiltration as you are but, it would be difficult to call me clumsy about stealth.' Jakan replies, reading his face, seems to be thinking about tomorrow. Resting a little bit longer, it is almost night, when the next meeting commenced. Present are all of the castle commanders and heroes of the Riven War. 'I believe we may begin the meeting.' Kyrem says in slightly serious tone, getting attention of everybody currently present. 'Yes, how did your battle go? Castle commanders.' Lankensy replies interested to hear the answer. 'Cavalry and cavalry archer forces did their part amazingly, the undead inflicted small casualties to our battalions, rate is about five of thirty, from what I heard, your battalion took on force of three to one.' Salgi replies happily. 'Yes, seven out of ten are wounded. Thankfully, we destroyed their formations to the last. I sense that you are not too merry of this situation Jakan.' Lankensy states but, ponders what Jakan is so grim about. 'I fear we may have escalated this conflict, these type of losses force enemy command to look for other options.' Jakan replies thinking of the possibilities. 'Prudent of you, agent. I wonder why you did not become a general or a captain in Ghaudun.' Tynzio states with respect. 'All high military ranking positions are also political influence positions. That is why I am not there. I love battle, it is my lords, that taught me to diversify skill set and, how to be an agent, while also having warrior's heart.' Jakan replies setting aside his worries for a moment. 'Well stated. What should we expect then?' Tynzio says calmly. I look at Lankensy, a smirk came to his lips. I am correct on the assumption, that he very much would like to mock duel with Jakan, with a quick glance to Jakan, he seems to have verified my assumption himself too. 'That is something I am not all too sure of. While we might have confirmed that our opponent has some idea of military movement and deployment... I do not know how sophisticated or inventive they are on using dark arcane. I mostly faced undead myself, with few cases of dark arcane maddened individuals.' Jakan replies, taking a pause to see how others react. 'Then, it will be our scouts that will be our eyes and ears of what are our enemy planning.' Salgi says calmly but, having some seriousness in his voice, probably understanding the scope of Jakan's statement. 'I expect you to continue doing your best Volarie, although, both of us should begin to target their critical personnel. About time we get to do what we were primarily trained for.' Jakan says. 'I agree, Jakan.' Reply to Jakan warmly. 'Considering such aim, do you think it is better for our scouts to focus on the war itself and keep gathering enemy movements?' Salgi asks. 'Have few scouts look for anything that could be high value targets. Inform me, and I will take the information forward to Jakan and Volarie.' Kyrem replies. 'Understood sir.' Salgi says acknowledging the order. The meeting continued with discussion of what the army should do in future, where to establish new outposts and supply situation. Then we all went to go get some sleep. 'You are very correct on the assumption of Lankensy desiring to combat me in a mock duel, I feel nostalgic almost, more from the warrior side of me, of course.' Jakan says as we walk. 'Well, tomorrow we also will have chances to get more better acquainted. Something that both sides have been needing here.' Reply, Jakan hummed in an agreeing manner. We quickly embrace each other and go get some sleep. Next morning, I woke up feeling normal. Once I exited tent and looked around, it is telling that Valerian soldiers have realized their casualties, this is a quiet and soul moment. I prepare everything for both of us, as I open a ration pack for both of us, remembered that this is the day when a supply caravan should arrive and reinforcements, mages of Valerie... Heard shuffling of movement in Jakan's tent, he has awakened now. As he exited the tent, he looked around. 'Good morning Volarie.' He says calmly. 'Good morning Jakan. The Valerians will receive reinforcements today.' Reply to him. 'Yes, it should improve the morale among the Valerian soldiers. Hopefully they won't be too weird. We should talk with Seirialia about them, to have some kind of idea what kind of people we will need to work with.' Jakan states, thinking about what is happening today. 'Agreed, thankfully I can go quite unnoticed but, quite sure you will be hissing louder than a kettle when you just want a moment of peace from all the questions.' Reply to him. 'I, so, look forward to that...' Jakan says mildly irritated by the idea of it, while I keep my amusement hidden. We eat our rations and drink water. When we were done, we walk to the eastern gate, guessing that heroes of the Riven war would be there to receive the supply caravan and the mages. They arrived there as we did, I see the light in Lankensy's eyes as the five approach us, he is carrying two wooden two handed swords. Jakan just looked at his to be opponent in a mock duel. 'So, I believe I owe you a drink, right?' Jakan asks in tone invoking camaraderie. 'Not exactly but, something better.' Lankensy says as approaches Jakan face to face and gives him a wooden sword. 'Know that it is a honor to face you, sir.' Jakan replies as he receives the mock blade from Lankensy. 'There will be no honor here, just two souls, whose passion, is battle.' Lankensy says joyously, as they both take distance from everybody in the courtyard and take positions at the middle of this open space. Some of the soldiers have stopped what they are doing. First blade contact happened a lot faster than I expected, which seems to have taken Jakan by surprise but, he presses his defense forward to stabilize the situation. Lankensy is happy with this, I saw Jakan smile as they orbit each other as their blades have contact. It takes longer than all of us expected but, Lankensy finally scores technical skill hit on Jakan, the blow looked like it would hurt but, Jakan didn't even budge, they both took distance from each other and prepare for the next round. From what I see of Jakan's posture, I think he is thinking about change of battle form. He then nodded to Lankensy, that he is ready. They approach each other again and take their stances, second round, began. This time after blocking first two strikes from Lankensy, Jakan changed his posture, standing straight, grip of the blade only on right hand and left arm set wide. Lankensy saw the change of posture as he attacks again, Jakan quickly parries it and grabs Lankensy's weapon hand, while his blade moved quickly to Lankensy's right arm pit. Point scored by Jakan this time. They separate and measure each other. It's a tie currently, Lankensy is smiling widely and rubs his chin quickly, this most certainly has to have come as something very unexpected from Jakan, to have learned a little bit more sophisticated and elegant fighting style. Jakan is pondering his next move. Usually clashes like this are best out of three, I believe in Jakan, but, for a moment, realized something about his blade movement and foot work there, it was way too instinctual, he is still learning it. It is very clear that he has good understanding of how to do it but, he needs more experience on employing more duelist type of fighting. They nod to each other and approach. Third round, Lankensy approaches with a little bit more caution, I see that he is measuring Jakan's posture and size of him. Jakan extends his arm fully forward, blade at the center, waiting for Lankensy to attack. He does attack and from what I can see, he tries to not win Jakan with skill, instead, using his strength a lot more, this caught Jakan by surprise, he responds by not receiving the attacks on his blade, instead of that he pivots and uses dexterity. Lankensy keeps staying on the offensive but, has difficulties on finding an opening. Finally Lankensy makes an opening by hitting Jakan's blade off center and reaches Jakan's gut just as Jakan's own blade was almost in position to hit Lankensy's throat. Lankensy won the duel but, while he is happy of his victory. 'I have to say, employing that type of fighting was completely unexpected and, you have some knack for it too. That round could have gone for either of us, good fight sir.' Lankensy says, being respectful and excited of the duel. 'Yes, I still need more experience but, I am glad we had this duel, makes this old draconian feel a little bit younger again.' Jakan replies respecting Lankensy. 'Now that was something to behold Jakan, many of your kind tend to employ more strength oriented fighting styles. I am looking forward to have a sparring match with you one day.' Tyrelia says warmly. Jakan seems to have mixed feelings but, eventually turns slightly serious. 'Any time, lady Tyrelia.' Jakan replies calmly as receives the mock blade from Lankensy and gives them to a soldier who was watching the fight who nodded in respectful manner to him, Jakan nodded back respectfully, he then returns next to me. The gate started opening and the supply caravan and carriages carrying the mages begin entering the courtyard. So much for talking with Seirialia about them. There is some teachers among them and they begin coordinating the students of varying age to disembark the carriages. Some of the students are looking at both of us with interest, prejudice and confusion. Then I notice one of them staring at Jakan more particularly, she seems to be a human... Jakan is looking what is happening and then looks into the mage's eyes. Lankensy is greeting the mages along with Kyrem, Tyrelia, Trenon and Seirialia. 'Lankensy, why are there Ghaudunians here?' The young lady asks, Jakan let out an audible, huh. As I look at him, it seems that he recognizes the voice and the face of the lady. 'I can explain.' Both Lankensy and Jakan reply quickly as possible. While I am still confused on what is going on. Jakan looked into my eyes. Lankensy is also a little confused how both of he and Jakan said the same thing at the same time. 'Volarie, she is a member of Valerie's royal family...' Jakan says terribly worried of the situation. We bow deeply and keep our heads down. 'Princess Jiakyn, they are here to help us with the undead crisis we have here. They are agents of shadow dragons.' Lankensy says with very respectful tone. 'We believed that you heroes would have been able to handle this completely without any help. Why are they helping us?' Princess Jiakyn asks with pressuring tone and wanting answers. 'This, unfortunately is our first time of fighting undead and, my home town is danger. So, we went to talk with their lords to draft a friendship treaty, they agreed to place agent Jakan and Volarie under our command.' Lankensy explains and we stand straight again. 'Is this so, speak agents.' Princess Jiakyn states straightly, she sounds slightly smug of the situation. 'It is so, your highness. I have extensive knowledge and experience of fighting the undead, so, my lords sent me.' Jakan replies cueing me to speak next with his words. 'It as sir Lankensy stated, your highness. I might be young and new to the organization but, I am good at scouting and if required, infiltrate enemy controlled areas, which is why my lords sent me.' Say feeling slightly nervous of the situation. 'We are to assist, guide, fight and protect, the heroes of the Riven war.' We state same time and wait how she will respond. 'Why wasn't I told?' Princess Jiakyn asks accusatively from Lankensy, who is having difficulty to formulate a response. 'My apologies for interjecting, your highness. We requested our involvement to be kept secret from general populace and individuals of political influence, due to the political situation of both nations. Accept our apology for acting how we saw best for all involved.' Say calmly, with some regret and apologetically. I heard Jakan breath in stressed manner but, relaxed slightly when I had spoken. Princess seems to be slightly taken aback by our response to her question, she is somewhat shrewd of the situation. She gave away her response before she spoke it. 'I understand agents of the shadowy ones. You have conducted yourselves logically within our kingdom.' Princess Jiakyn says in a more fair and friendly tone. 'My apologies princess but, I believe you were ordered to strictly stay at the academy grounds. I am quite sure that the king and queen are quite against of you being here.' Seirialia says calmly. That invoked some alarm on the princess. 'May we speak in private heroes, agents?' Princess Jiakyn replies quickly composing herself, retaining her confident tone but, clearly there is a small crack in that voice that hints, that, yes. She shouldn't be here. | 19,692 | 2 |
There was seemingly no rhyme or reason to his mother being angry, but Kyle was always determined to find one, even if it meant internalizing her every little word. He knew he wasn’t perfect by any means, but he always tried. If he could just be better then maybe she could relax and the yelling would stop. He always tried to do chores whenever he could and did his best to anticipate them. Being told to do the laundry or dishes was already a failure. Everything had to be done before it was noticed. Even then, even after weeks of doing the dishes, she still claimed she was the only one who did any work around the house. He had to do more. The schoolwork always got done somehow; he never remembered it, but he knew it was getting done. So there was no reason to worry, he had enough time to keep working. However, if he did too much, he would be guilted for not acting his age and ‘being inside too much’. He had to be mature for his age but also the child that she wanted to coddle. At least that was what she said, his mother often listed times when he was ‘loved’ but there were far and few between and he had no memories of them. Dishes. There was only cooking, dishes, laundry, and sweeping that filled his head. *Be mature for your age, but not too mature or I’ll feel bad about it!* A mocking voice would spit the words out. Bitter. *She never acknowledges the dishes or laundry anyway. Why do them?* The voice wasn’t mad at him, Kyle could feel that somehow. He could feel the vitriol it had towards his life, full of the experiences and memories Kyle was barred from. *Because they have to be done… It makes her happy. I know it does… She smiles sometimes.* It made him scared though that a part of him was resentful towards his mother. She often listed every little thing he’d done wrong, and the list was always growing; he was clearly the one in the wrong. If I could just be better then maybe she could relax and the pressure will go away. Sometimes Kyle talked back to her, or rather that voice inside him would bubble out. It’d rise to the surface and blot out the control he had over his body, his words, his thoughts, and it’d stand up for him in ways Kyle couldn’t. He’d lose consciousness only to awaken hours, days, or months later with all his efforts ruined. Kyle didn’t know why it happened, but he always passively accepted the punishments he received after, much to the voice’s dismay. It seemed to make his mother even more angry, how easily he accepted being reprimanded. She’d cite how he’d lost his spine and how he deserved what he was getting. Kyle understood but the other in his head did not. For a while, he didn’t understand that time was being lost, he figured he was forgetful. One day it felt like the stars aligned and he could finally feel his meat and bones again. There was a pain in his chest; he was holding his breath. As he gasped for air, he took in his new surroundings, scared at how different his room had become and that the weather outside had changed. Maybe he had forgotten the last few months like he had forgotten to breathe. Kyle looked down, seeing his schoolwork, pleased that he had proof he actually did it despite not recalling any of it. His stomach growled. Opening up the bottom drawer of his desk for his snack stash, something he kept to avoid going to the kitchen, he found it empty. Kyle frowned. Maybe he had just forgotten again, but he thought he had filled it just that morning. No, the time and weather had changed… who knew the last time it was filled. Another spat between his parents was happening downstairs, but he decided to risk it for some snacks. *Wait… Did I… Did I forget to do the dishes?!* It had to be his fault. *Is that why they’re arguing? Did I not do enough?!* *No, it’s not. It’s about finances.* Another voice argued. He stood in his bedroom doorway, contemplating. *I cost money…* Kyle countered back. Solemnly making his way into the kitchen, where his mother was throwing dishes into the dishwasher, Kyle took in the sight. His mother spouted off one of her lists at his father and, upon seeing him, redirected the yelling to him. Another list of everything he’d done wrong. A snack could wait. A plate was smashed into the sink and broke, and his focus narrowed down to the task at hand. He could focus on the dishes, not the people. If he just focused on the chores, then he could earn his keep. If he cleaned the dishes fast enough, then maybe she could go rest and stop yelling. If only his father would do something other than nothing, but Kyle was too small to argue like his parents. “GET. OUT. I’M ALREADY DOING IT!” His mother screamed at him as he tried to pick up the broken dish. Kyle jolted in place, terrified, but the feeling and memory were immediately wiped away. He’d wake up in another time and place where he could clean and once again try to make things right. | 4,942 | 0 |
After the final bell rang, I navigated the bustling halls of Conformity Institution, my footsteps falling into the familiar rhythm of the post-school rush. Just like every student, I made my way to the Community Hub, where we gathered for our mandatory daily check-in. Amongst the sea of uniformed figures, I spotted Thorn, his expression reflecting my own sense of resignation. Following the flow of bodies toward the hub, we exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment before aligning our strides beside each other. As we entered the Community Hub, a series of electronic screens greeted us, displaying our names alongside rows of checkboxes. We each approached the nearest screen and scanned our fingerprints, a routine gesture that marked our attendance for the day. Thorn and I made our way home through the underground dwellings, passing by a commotion in the dimly lit tunnels. A group of uniformed officers escorted a dishevelled man away, his protests drowned out by the echoes of footsteps. I puzzled over the scene before me, momentarily questioning what was happening. “Just keep walking, Nova,” Thorn said, breaking the silence. And so, we did, with the weight of his words lingering in the air. 'What do you think he did?' I whispered to Thorn, my voice tinged with uncertainty. Thorn shrugged indifferently. “Doesn't matter. He should have known better.” With a dismissive wave, we continued on our way, leaving the incident behind us." As Thorn and I descended further down the dimly lit tunnel, we reached the entrance of Unity Enclave 36, where rows of identical dwellings stood in neat formation. “This is where I leave you! Good night,” Thorn said, his voice echoing in the quiet of the evening. With a parting wave, Thorn headed towards his own section, Unity Enclave 42, leaving me to enter my living area. I rounded the corner and approached the entrance panel of Unity Enclave 36, so I could scan my right eye to gain access. Stepping inside, I found myself in a corridor flanked by rows of identical doors, each leading to a unit just like mine. I stepped inside our home, greeted by the familiar warmth and comfort of our living space. The minimalist furnishings and soft lighting created an ambiance of effortless elegance, a reflection of the pristine order that defined our world. My mother greeted me with a warm smile as she stirred a pot on the stove. "Dinner will be ready soon. Wash up and join us at the table." I nodded and headed to the bathroom to freshen up before joining my family for dinner. As I entered the dining area, I found my father and Leto already seated in their designated seats. "Hey, Nova!" Leto's voice bubbled with excitement as he saw me. "Guess what? I got full marks on my math test today!" "That's amazing, Leto!" I exclaimed, ruffling his hair affectionately. Leto beamed with pride, his enthusiasm infectious. Throughout dinner, conversation flowed easily among us. My parents shared stories from their day at work, while Leto eagerly recounted the highlights of his time at school. After dinner, as we cleared the table, my mother turned to me with a gentle smile. "Nova, sweetheart, I have a favour to ask. Something unexpected came up for me tomorrow, and I won't be able to take Leto to his afterschool club. Would you mind taking him for me?" "Sure, Mom," I replied, nodding in understanding. "What club is it?" "It's called 'Guardians of Tomorrow,'" my mother explained. "It's a new program for elementary students aimed at instilling discipline, teamwork, and leadership skills. It's mandatory for all students his age, you know, to prepare them for the future." My heart sank slightly at the mention of the club. I had heard about "Guardians of Tomorrow" before, and its militaristic approach always made me uneasy. But I pushed aside my reservations for the sake of Leto. Just like every night, at 6 PM sharp, I made my way to my room, a cozy haven within our perfect world. After setting my bag down by the door, I sat at my desk and began my homework, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting a warm light over the room. Once my homework was complete, I headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, washing away the day's stresses and preparing for the evening ahead. Refreshed and renewed, I returned to my room and laid out my school uniform for the next day. Our school uniform was the epitome of beauty and neat formal wear, a symbol of our adherence to perfection. Consisting of vibrant hues and bold contrasts, with garments in electric blues, neon greens, and shimmering purples, it reflected the ideals that governed our society. To us, it was simply what was expected, a representation of our commitment to excellence in all aspects of life.Beside my uniform, I placed my most prized possession: my school badge. Engraved with the name of our prestigious institution and my own name—Nova Brown—it was a symbol of identity and belonging, a testament to my place within the system. Every student wore one, and losing it was unthinkable. It granted access to school facilities, verified our status as students, and served as a constant reminder of our place in the order of things. I tucked myself under the covers and lay in bed, waiting for the evening announcement to echo through all Unity Enclaves at precisely 10 PM. As darkness settled over the city, the familiar voice reverberated through the enclave, emanating from loudspeakers strategically placed on every corner. "Ladies and gentlemen, residents of Elysium," the voice began, its tone authoritative yet soothing. "As the day draws to a close, let us take a moment to reflect on the wonders of our world." It was a nightly ritual, a reminder of the world we lived in, a world of order and perfection. It was always the same, a carefully crafted piece of propaganda designed to instil pride and obedience in the hearts of its citizens. "In our city of Elysium, we have achieved perfection," the voice continued, its words ringing out with unwavering confidence. "Our streets are clean, our buildings are pristine, and our citizens are prosperous. Together, we have created a utopia, a shining beacon of civilization in a world plagued by chaos and disorder." As the announcement continued, it extolled the virtues of unity, conformity, and service to society. It praised the contributions of all citizens, and emphasized the importance of following the rules and regulations that governed our lives. "Remember, citizens of Elysium," the voice concluded, its tone tinged with pride and conviction. "By working together and upholding our values, we ensure a bright and prosperous future for all. Let us continue to strive for excellence in everything we do, for the glory of our city and the betterment of humanity." With the conclusion of the announcement, the city fell silent once more, the only sound the gentle hum of the night. The next morning, I grabbed my bag and headed outside, where Thorn was already waiting for me. At the school gates, we checked in via fingerprint. The familiar beep of approval signalled our entry, and we joined the stream of students making their way to class. However, as we walked through the corridors, a sudden commotion caught our attention. A boy from another class, Milo, was frantically shouting incoherent phrases, his eyes wild with panic. "It's all a lie! They killed my father!" he screamed, his voice echoing off the walls. "You don't understand! None of it is real!" Thorn and I exchanged worried glances as teachers and security personnel rushed to restrain Milo and calm the situation. Within moments, he was taken away, but the tension lingered in the air. Confusion and whispers spread among the students as we made our way to our respective classrooms. During our first period, the atmosphere was tense, with murmured conversations and sidelong glances filling the room. Eventually, an announcement crackled over the intercom, summoning us to the Community Hub for an emergency meeting. In the Hub, the school administration addressed the gathered students, their voices strained yet reassuring. They explained that Milo had been recently diagnosed with schizophrenia and was taken to a hospital for treatment and support. They assured us that there was no cause for concern and apologized for any disruption to our day. But despite their words, doubts lingered in my mind. And as Thorn and I exchanged troubled looks, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than we were being told. After school, I escorted my younger brother, Leto, to his afterschool activity. As we entered the designated room, I noticed how the boys and girls were separated into distinct sides, each lined up in straight rows. The girls wore sleek, form-fitting garments in shades of cosmic cobalt and plasma pink, while boys sported outfits in bold reds, fiery oranges, and deep indigos. The room buzzed with activity as instructors guided the students through their assigned tasks. On the girls' side, they were engaged in activities focused on precision and elegance, such as synchronized movements and intricate crafts. Meanwhile, the boys were immersed in exercises that emphasized strength and efficiency, including physical drills and problem-solving challenges. As I observed the structured environment and the meticulous attention to detail, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The rigid conformity and gender segregation seemed to reinforce the boundaries that defined our society, further blurring the line between individuality and collective identity. And as I watched Leto eagerly immerse himself in the activities, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to our world than met the eye. As Leto and I made our way home through the tunnel, the dimly lit passageway felt more ominous than ever. We encountered a scene of chaos—someone was being chased by uniformed officers, while others were being forcibly arrested. I squeezed Leto's hand tightly, urging him to stay silent as fear gripped my heart. Upon reaching home, my panic intensified when I couldn't find our parents anywhere. With no time to waste, I took Leto's hand once more and rushed to Unity Enclave 42, where Thorn lived. To my relief, Thorn had the same idea and bumped into us just as we arrived. His urgent whisper cut through the chaos, "We need to go, right now." Following Thorn through the labyrinthine tunnels and alleys, my heart pounded with a mix of fear and anticipation. When we reached a secluded room with a few others, Thorn swiftly destroyed our badges, shocking us both. But his explanation left me speechless—our badges were trackers, monitoring our every move. As Thorn motioned for us to follow him through a vent, he led us to a room where Milo lay weak and beaten. Thorn's revelation about a resistance group hit me like a ton of bricks. My parents had been a part of it, caught trying to defy the system. The reality of our situation sank in as Leto's tear-filled eyes met mine. Milo's presence in the room served as a stark reminder of the dangers we faced. He had barely escaped with his life, bearing the physical and emotional scars of his ordeal. His eyes, once filled with fire and defiance, now held a haunted look that spoke volumes of the horrors he had witnessed. Thorn's voice broke through my thoughts, his tone grave yet determined. "We need to get out of the city," he declared, his words punctuated by urgency. As Thorn led us back through the tunnels, the gravity of our situation weighed heavily on my mind. The revelation about the resistance group and the brutal executions carried out by the government shook me to the core. The city that I had believed to be a utopia was nothing more than a facade, concealing the dark truth of oppression and injustice. My heart raced with fear at the prospect of leaving the safety of the city walls. For as long as I could remember, the outside world had been portrayed as a place of danger and chaos, a stark contrast to the orderly confines of the city. But now, faced with the harsh reality of our situation, I knew that we had no choice but to escape. Eventually, we reached a hidden exit, concealed behind a crumbling wall. With one last glance back at the city we were leaving behind, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the unknown. For a brief moment, the oppressive weight of the city's control lifted from my shoulders, replaced by a sense of freedom and possibility. But as I cast one last glance back at the towering walls that had confined me for so long, a pang of guilt gnawed at my conscience. What was I doing? Was I betraying everything I had ever known? The propaganda and indoctrination I had been subjected to since birth echoed in my mind, reminding me of the dangers that lurked beyond the city's borders. But as Thorn's words echoed in my mind, urging me to fight for justice and expose the truth, I pushed aside my doubts and pressed on. Yet, with each step I took into the unknown, the voice of doubt grew louder, whispering that I was making a grave mistake. Unable to bear the weight of my guilt any longer, I made a decision. I turned back, retracing my steps to the safety of the city walls. As I surrendered myself to the authorities, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I knew what awaited me: execution for my betrayal of the city and its ideals. But as I stood before the firing squad, facing my imminent demise, I felt no fear or regret. In that moment, I found a strange sense of peace, accepting my fate with a resigned acknowledgment of the life I had lived. I realized that my decision to return was not an act of cowardice, but an affirmation of my faith in the order and stability that the government had provided. Despite the doubts that lingered in the recesses of my mind, I found solace in the belief that the authorities knew what was best for us. I am not a traitor, but a loyal citizen who had strayed momentarily from the path of righteousness. And as I faced my inevitable fate, I found comfort in the knowledge that I had upheld the values of Elysium until the very end. As the shots rang out and darkness descended, I embraced the finality of my existence, knowing that in death, I would find the release I had long sought. | 14,266 | 1 |
I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just moved into my new apartment on Hampton Street and not even a week after was nearly killed. It was around midnight and I was standing on the porch, dressed in a red hoodie with my hair down, ready to reunite with my old friend Jerry Stalter at his house a few blocks over. We were meeting up to play video games together like old times. I wanted to kick his ass in *Tekken 5*. My fingers were itching to hold the PlayStation controller again. Neighbors were asleep, and there I was, ready for a night on the town. I remember feeling excitement, nervousness, and hunger because I hadn’t eaten all day. Jerry and I planned to order Domino’s, their two two-topping pizza combo for $5.99 each. *This is why I’m a fat fuck*, I remember thinking as I squeezed my big, doughy belly. I looked ahead to the streetlamp near Ford Street and decided to leave in a few minutes. The shrouded figure in my peripheral meant nothing to me, I hadn’t even thought of it; I was safe in the bright light of my porch. Before I could process the movement of the shadow, it ran at me with lightning speed and immediately struck me in the gut. The blow could have been from a fist or a hammer, the pain was too intense to understand. I was bewildered and had no time to react. The dark figure grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to the ground. I felt my shoulder crack against the sidewalk, and my neck smack the edge of a porch stair. I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was that I was being attacked by...someone. I took Muay Thai when I was a teenager, but in the chaos of the attack, I lost all fighting skill. I was defenseless amidst the brunt of the chaos. I curled up into a ball, made myself small, and did the best to protect myself from the blows of whoever my assailant was. I felt like a coward, but I just wanted to be safe. “Please, just stop, I did nothing to you,” I begged. The words left my lips slowly, with gasps in between each strike of their fists against the back of my head. Tears felt hot on my cheeks. I could taste salt and dirt in my mouth. “Why are you doing this?” I pleaded, as the hard tip of a boot sent shockwaves through my rib cage. Overweight and at a massive physical disadvantage, I felt paralyzed with fear, and thought to scream as loudly as I could for help. My mouth couldn’t move. It felt like I was stuck in a dream where screaming feels impossible. Everything moved so fast, and the events were out of order. In the confusion, I somehow managed to muster a quiet scream, “Help! Oh my god, help me! Somebody, please!” I cried to whoever could hear me, but I didn’t think anyone would come. Then, without warning, I felt an icy chill and searing pain in my lower back. My attacker’s dirty, clammy hand had plunged a knife into my flesh. Immediately, I felt a warm trickle down my back and sides, soaking my undershirt and my pants. I smelled metal, and all I could hear were my own cries and the rustling of clothes as the figure’s blade plunged into my back over and over. I knew then that I was going to die, but all I could think about was how eerily quiet my assailant was, a faceless void sent by Death to claim me. They hadn’t said a word, didn’t grunt or shout, they just stabbed me like I was meat. *What the hell do they want with me?*, I thought. I remember feeling my mind slipping away as I questioned the most ridiculous things, like whether I had left the stove on or if my socks were matching. I screamed again, this time belting like a ravenous beast. “Get the *fuck* off me, somebody *help*, *helllllp*!” I repeatedly shouted “help” until my vocal cords were shot. The strength of anger roiled inside of me as I bellowed, and I knew somebody had to have heard me this time. Neighbors, passersby, anyone. They had to hear me, or I was going to die. Thoughts were racing around my head and the world was spinning. The attacks did not stop. One—after—the other. Breathing was minimal. Muscles were weak. I knew hopelessness and terror, but I felt peace. Lake waves. Grass between toes. Peanut butter ice cream. Chicken bacon ranch pizza. There was Dad. Mom. Brother. Jerry. Concerts and museums and video games. My life was in my assailant’s hands and I accepted my fate as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Abruptly, I heard the sound of a storm door being swung open and cracking like thunder against the door jamb. Glass shattering. Slippers or flip-flops clacking against creaky wood. The smell of lavender mixed with stale Newports and sweat. Then, the recognizable *chk-CHK* of a shotgun being cocked in front of me. A hoarse female voice shouted, “get the *fuck* out of here, or I’ll shootcher *fucking* brains out, mother*fucker*,” the war cry of a rugged rural battle angel sent from Heaven to correct Death’s mistake. She was Heather, my sweet, elderly upstairs neighbor. She heard me and came to save me. The arrival of my nightgown-clad saint and savior was the last thing I remember before waking up in a hospital bed with Jerry sitting in one of those uncomfortable pink felt chairs. The sick and sanitized smell of the ICU overwhelmed me, and I remember falling asleep for what felt like years. Now and then, I’d awake to hear *CSI: Miami* playing on the TV, with Jerry playing some kind of RPG on his phone. I don’t remember much of my diagnosis, but I do know the seven stab wounds didn’t hit any vital organs. Still, I spent three weeks in hospital recovering. The day I got out, Jerry and I split a 14-inch chicken bacon ranch pizza and a half-gallon of peanut butter ice cream. It was the best damned meal I’ve ever eaten. To this day, I don’t know who tried to murder me. | 5,725 | 1 |
This story… her story is a devastating one. A story of loss chaos and destruction. But that might be my fault. Her story starts off as many do with beginnings and growth but as all stories do there is an end. She just didn't think hers would be so soon. I didn't think hers would be so soon. The second I saw her I knew this was not the end of our story. Through the years, through the pain and sorrow, through the hurt and discomfort, our story was not over. In a world where no one raised us we raised each other. We laughed, cried, and eventually met our end… together. I didn't know this was going to happen. I didn't know I was capable. I didn't know I could have this much power. The power to take lives is one not many feel. A select few feel guilt and remorse. And I did, I swear. But it did not overpower the feeling to do it again. Watching the fire burn, hearing the sizzles and crack of the dry wood. Smelling the smoke and burning chlorophyll of the grass. It was addicting. It did not stop at one life or two. It did not stop at three or four. The roaring orange flames. It was as calming and therapeutic as it was terrifying. It was my best-kept secret. The only thing I ever hid from her. And as I sat on top of that hill, watching the flames engulf the city. Smelling the smoke and chlorophyll, one of the screams sounded too real. I heard her screams for me, I heard her screams for help. I was paralyzed, the one true love the one that made me, me… was gone. The smell of burning flesh was one I was familiar with, but it is different when you know this is the end. When you know it is the last time you will ever watch the burn, ever smell the smoke and burning chlorophyll, ever see her face, ever smell her, ever touch her hair. Devastating. The anguish that usually burned away with the flames was not anymore. I still had the anguish but now, sitting with the anguish was guilt. This time it was not surpassed by the flames. It ate away at me. It was a constant reminder of what I had done. So now as I sit holding my match, I will burn away the anguish again, but this time I won't remember. I heard the scratch of the red phosphorous lighting as I swiped it against the rough sandpaper. It smells awful as well as comforting. As I dropped the match on my leg I felt the sizzle against my skin, I smelt the burning hair of my leg. I didn't even feel it. I just watched as the fire engulfed my body. And with my body the anguish, the guilt, the memories of her. | 2,545 | 2 |
Two and a half thousand years ago, a small trading town existed on a small island off the coast of Valencia, Spain, just a quarter of the way to the Balearic Islands. It was a peaceful and bright society. However, one day, panic was set about when the town's chief scientist, who mostly spent his life in obscurity, made a harrowing statement. "There are two beasts beneath the earth, at war with each other. Eventually, at the culmination of the war, their movement will reach this town. The turmoil of the two beasts will sink much of the island, except this very town, to the bottom of the sea. However, only the knowledge and wisdom of man will determine whether this town will suffer the same fate." Indeed, about four hundred years later, the island was sunk beneath the waves. The shallowest parts of the island were, as prophesied, part of the small town, only two meters beneath sea level. The island and its town were mostly forgotten until a team of archeologists, in the 1970s, discovered the anthropogenic-marked sandbar. Most of the remaining material beneath the shallow waters was of little historical value, so society didn't mind when a hotel company bought the land and decided to build a modern hotel resort on top of the sandbank on the turn of the millennium. Isle Tarshish opened to the public on 7 April, 2005. It was an exclusive but hugely successful attraction, with 50 rooms, an infinity pool, a spa and sauna room, two restaurants, an art gallery, and even a TV station, all surrounding a central waterway going from the west side to the north side. Various walkways and bridges allowed the guests to go from one place to the other. There was even a conference room on a smaller island north of the main hotel island and a more exquisite suite on the west, and beautiful sculptures on the east. But despite its glory, it was not destined to be forever. On the 13th of May, 2022, geologist Anna Hernandez discovered a previously unknown magma plume directly between Valencia and the Balearic Islands. Formed by the subduction of the African Plate's oceanic crust beneath the Eurasian Plate, it was made of melted, ferrous rock. And it was rising. A danger to Isle Tarshish seemed unlikely—at first. However, a week later, an earthquake of Richter magnitude 2 occurred. Its epicenter was to the west of the previously-detected plume's geometric center—it seemed to have moved towards Isle Tarshish. Three days after that, a slightly stronger earthquake occurred. And it was even closer. Hernandez realized that Isle Tarshish may become the epicenter of this newborn battle between the forces of the Earth. She believed early warnings were key to survival and the salvation of lives. On the 25th of May, she visited the island with a mission: to meet with Isle Tarshish's General Manager and tell them of the possible geological threat. It was a two-hour boat ride, which made her feel seasick. "Could you please make this boat rock a little faster?" "I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do. The waves are like this, and we just have to embrace them." When she arrived at the resort, she was in shock. It was a sunny day. People were playing around, walking with their families around the buildings, swimming in the sea, or bathing in the heat after some time in a presumably colder country. The infinity pool was on the other side of the direction of arrival. The shock and allure of such a place cured Hernandez's seasickness, but she was concerned about the future of the island. Concerned that one day, as they had fun in the sun, a disaster, one as vicious as a fire-breathing dragon, could come up from beneath and destroy them. After going on the resort's main pier, she went to the reception. She was guided to the hotel's management office. The general manager was an uptight, estute man named Santiago Galante. "Hola!" "Hello. I'm Anna Hernandez." "So what brings you here today?" "Well, you see, I'm a geologist..." Hernandez twitched anxiously as she thought desperately of what she had to say, and how to word it effectively. "So you're a geologist?" "Yes, and I have just discovered a possible threat to this island. I have discovered a new magma plume, just fifty kilometers beneath the surface directly between Valencia and Ibiza. It seems to be rising at a rate of two kilometers per day." "Yeah, and what does that mean?" "Assuming this rate stays constant, the magma will hit the ocean's surface just before the end of June... causing a volcanic eruption. Which is interesting because the whole region of Spain has never seen a volcanic eruption in years, except the Canary Islands. But again, that's concerning, for obvious reasons." Again, the room was as silent as a snake, for a second. "Where will the eruption occur?" "We don't know... but there have been earthquakes increasing steadily in magnitude... and the epicenters have moved between close to Ibiza... right to where we are." "Oh." After a few seconds of silence, Galante spoke his mouth. His secretary, Gaspar de Arroyo, started to chime in. "You know, yesterday, we had a pastor at the United Pentecostal Church of Spain just leave, but he left us with a blessing." "Yeah, and what did he say?" "He said Isle Tarshish will flourish for years to come and even until the Second Coming of Christ." "Did he?" "Yeah. He said people would scoff at his claim, but he said that, in the end, even when cities like London and Los Angeles fall, Isle Tarshish will stand ground." "Scientifically speaking, that's nonsense." "Remember, this used to be part of an island that was mostly above water, but which has mostly sunk. I am literally providing evidence right before your very eyes that this resort might be right in the firing line of a forming volcano." "Who are you to question the servant of the Lord?" "I'm a scientist. I make claims based on things we can observe with our five senses. I have more credibility over some charlatan who's probably out for people's money." At that moment, de Arroyo spoke. "You know, my son has seizures, but when we visited that pastor in the past, his seizures disappeared like magic!" "You know childhood seizures can stop manually?" "Yeah, basing that from the little you know, miss. Now please quit bothering me and my boss with all this volcano talk." "I agree with him," Galante said. "I'm sorry to say this, but you've offended us with questioning the pastor who blessed us. We place our trust in him, and not in some scientist who probably doesn't go by faith. So please, enjoy yourselves here, and don't shove your nonsense down other people's throats." Hernandez left the resort, dismayed. She felt saddened seeing the souls having fun on the resort as she left on the boat. She also felt sickened thinking of them and the possibility of them having heard that megapastor. First he scammed them from their money—and now, worst case scenario, he might take all of their lives. On the first day of June, the people at Isle Tarshish woke up to a tremor that shook their cups and rocked their pools. An earthquake of magnitude 3.5 on the Richter scale. Hernandez woke up to it too, thanks to an alert. And, as expected, the earthquake's epicenter was even closer to the island. While searching for TV channels, Hernandez stumbled across it. The pentecostal megapastor about whom Galante had spoke. And, during the few seconds in which he spoke, he mentioned the recent earthquakes off Valencia. He said they would stop. They didn't. The more the earthquakes occurred, the more Hernandez felt sick listening to him. He looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing. By 10 June, the earthquakes were nearly of Richter magnitude 5. Hernandez knew the probability of her worst fears coming true—a volcanic eruption directly at Isle Tarshish—were increasing rapidly as the earthquake depths decreased while their magnitudes increased. Magma was rapidly approaching the surface. And Isle Tarshish was not safe. Yet, she heard Galante and de Arroyo telling the guests at their doomed paradise that everything would go fine, all based on the crap talk from some charlatan the month before. Enraged, she sent them an angry voice mail, but they wouldn't listen. Isle Tarshish was not evacuated. However, it was not long before the guests began to rebel. A few days later, there were leaks in their pipes. One of the spa pools had turned yellow with unfamiliar minerals. And cracks had formed on the ground. The conference room had no power. Many of them wanted to leave—but Galante and de Arroyo decided they had enough. Proclaiming the Isle as their "promised land" sheltered from outside demonic activity, they ordered the guests to stay there and those in charge of the boats to not take them back to the mainland. And then it happened. 22 June, 2022. All the guests stranded on the island were jolted awake by a 5 magnitude earthquake, at around 7 AM. From her office in Valencia City, Hernandez saw that the earthquake's epicenter was right below the Isle, at a depth of only 50 meters. The endgame had come. By now, the whole resort was out of power. The guests began to panic. At 8:30, Galante ordered Erasmo Cifuentes, the Isle's chief electrician, to investigate. He, along with another fellow electrician, entered the power management room. Closing the thick door behind him, Cifuentes was aghast when he saw a massive crack on the room's rocky, haggard floor. It was a very large crack, about 10 centimeters wide at most. "What do you think lies at the bottom?" his friend asked. "I have no—" Just then, another tremor occurred. Cifuentes and his friend bolted straight for the heavy door—but it did not bulge. The earthquake had sealed it shut. A few seconds later, the earthquake ended. However, temperatures in the room began to rise. Scared, Cifuentes went over to massive crack he saw earlier. However, the last thing he saw was what lay on the bottom. A red, rising, and viciously glowing substance. It was rising directly towards him. As it inched closer, he could see hot streaks of yellow on its surface, and hot, smelly, rising bubbles. That's when he realized what it was—and the sinister realization that it was too late. It was lava. | 10,240 | 2 |
The evening before the next free day, Marcus was waiting at Madeline’s bunk when she returned from her day’s work. He was beaming as the pair of them approached, clutching his clipboard to his chest in place of a gun. “Good news!” Madeline’s heart fluttered as she sped up to close the remaining distance, dragging Billie behind her by the hand. “Yes?” “You know the young boy that you enquired about…” He looked down at his clipboard. “Liam Davies.” “Yes?” “Well, he’s in our system.” Madeline clasped a hand to her mouth to contain the smile spreading across it. Tears of relief and wonder pricked at her eyes, spilling forth along with uncontrollable giggles as months of repressed worries and questions were finally answered. “So what does that mean?” Billie asked. “Well, as a minor he’s in one of our education programs, learning a skill or trade that will make him useful. In his case, mechanics. According to his record, he’s been a good enough student with only a couple of black marks against his name from his early days here — but that’s to be expected with children.” The joy glowing inside of Madeline dimmed slightly as she took in the meaning of Marcus’s words. Images flashed through her mind of Liam being dragged here, fighting back like the tough kid she knew he was, possibly even trying to escape to get back to her — and him being punished for it. She winced. “But he’s doing well now!” the young guard said hurriedly. “And while we can’t arrange a family room for you all just yet, we can arrange a meeting in around a month’s time — if you keep up the good work, of course. And then we can go from there.” Madeline nodded to herself as she tried to take it all in, not quite sure what she was feeling. Of course, she was relieved that Liam was alive and well but she felt guilty that she had found what she’d come here for while Billie had not. And surging close behind that relief and guilt there was joy. She was overjoyed that their plan to find him had worked — at least in part. Their plan, getting captured, working the system here, it had all been worth it. Then there was the excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. But that relief and joy and excitement were tempered by a deep sadness at the thought of what he’d been through, and simmering at the edge of that sadness was a quiet rage. Rage that the Poiloogs had torn them apart. Rage that they were keeping him from her still. Rage that everything was always a few weeks away or a month away — if you keep working hard. The carrot dangling always out of reach. She took a deep breath, schooling her expression to meet Marcus’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said as levelly as she could. “I very much look forward to it.” Giving her a slightly quizzical look, he nodded farewell to both of them and left them to it. As soon as he was gone, Madeline sunk onto the bed, sitting on the edge and cradling her head in her hands. The mattress sagged as Billie sat down next to her, and the warm, firm pressure of a hand settled on her back. “You doing alright there, Mads?” they asked softly. “I don’t know how I’m doing.” She lifted her head, wiping away tears that could have been from sadness or joy — or both. “This is a good thing, right? He’s here. He’s safe. He’s alive.” They nodded. “It’s a good thing. Of course, it is! After all, the alternative is…” Madeline’s heart lurched as she realised how insensitive she was being. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how hard—” “Sshh.” They placed a finger gently on her lips. It tickled slightly, like sparks dancing over her skin. “You have nothing to be sorry for. This is *good* news. And you have every right to feel all your feelings.” Madeline threw her arms around them. “I love you, Billie.” “Love you too, Mads.” “And I can’t wait for you to meet him.” *** The knowledge that she was waiting to be reunited with Liam — with her family — made the days that followed drag by for Madeline, every second stretched by the tense excitement coiled in her heart. It also made the need to get the other elements of their plan moving all the more pressing. After all, it was all well and good getting information about lost loved ones, and even reuniting with them, but the ultimate goal had been to get as many people as possible out of here to reunite with their friends and family, if they had any left. So the late-night conversations with Lena moved on from covering the minutiae of Poiloog operations to possibilities for escape. Tucked under the covers with Billie, she whispered into the walkie, “So how do things look on the outside?” There was a pause, longer than Madeline would have liked, before Lena replied, “Not great, to be honest.” “Care to elaborate?” Billie prompted. “Well, if you ever thought that a city felt like it was crawling with Poiloogs, that was nothing to what it looks like out here close to their base. I suppose it makes sense that they would guard their assets well, including the people they’ve captured and whatever resources they’ve hoarded there. It’s taking practically everything we have to avoid being found ourselves — keeping far apart from each other at all times, only leaving cover to pick up supplies dropped off by other people, and moving on at the first sign of trouble. It’s hardest for me, to stay in range of the walkies. I can’t even begin to imagine how we could sneak one person through all that, let alone lots of you.” There was another pause as Madeline and Billie digested this information. It wasn’t exactly unexpected. And there were always things they could try — plans they could come up with. Perhaps a concerted effort from the inside and the outside. A distraction outside could draw some of the Poiloogs away, then it was just the human guards to contend with. And who knows? Maybe a few of them could even be persuaded to join in the escape. And if they could organise everyone in the whole facility, and they all rushed the main gate together… But it was hard to imagine how that could possibly play out without massive loss of life. Besides, it wasn’t good to delude themselves too much. Madeline had known when she’d volunteered to be the one captured along with Billie that there was every chance they’d never make it out. A crackle from the walkie broke the silence when Lena spoke again. “How do things look in there? Do you think it would be possible to organise a jailbreak from the inside?” Madeline glanced at Billie. She could see the cogs whirring in their mind just as they were in hers. “In some ways, security is more lax than I’d have expected,” she said. “They rely a lot on threats and promises to control people. But between guards with guns and Poiloogs scuttling about just when you least expect them — not to mention that enormous barbed wire fence that I’m fairly certain is electrified — I still wouldn’t like our chances.” An image of the haggard Sarah flashed through her mind. “And I’d dread to think what they’d do to us if they did catch us.” “Do you know if anyone’s managed to break out in the past?” Lena asked. “Not that I’ve heard about,” Billie replied before grinning at her. “But maybe that’s something Madeline could ask her admirer.” “I’m sorry, Madeline has an admirer besides you? How is this the first I’m hearing about this?” Madeline sighed. “Because it is entirely in Billie’s head. A complete fantasy, fabricated to make me feel embarrassed and awkward. He’s just a friendly guard who seems to be doing his best to take care of everyone and make sure they’re as happy as they can be given the circumstances.” “And he’s particularly concerned with Madeline’s happiness.” She thumped Billie on the arm. “Well,” Lena said, “It’s good to hear that you two haven’t changed. And whether he’s your secret admirer or just a friendly guard, it certainly sounds like a good place to start. | 8,030 | 5 |
The automated land vehicle hummed as it rolled out of Titania Base, its treads churning up plumes of icy mist. Inside, Lt. Natasha Titanova ran a gloved hand through her cropped, platinum hair, a nervous habit born of too many long patrols. The interior was a cozy contrast to the frigid expanse outside: soft, synthetic leather seats, the dim glow of the console, and a faint scent of recycled air mixed with a hint of cinnamon from the emergency rations. Her pulse quickened as she thought of the dangers that lurked beyond the protective dome of Titania Base. Rumors of mutated wildlife, driven mad by radiation exposure, had been circulating for weeks. But she was a soldier of the Frontier, trained to face whatever the harsh environment threw at her. She tapped the screen, scrolling through her pre-mission briefing. A list of names and faces flashed by, a grim reminder of the chaos that had befallen the Frontier in recent years. Pirates. Smugglers. Fanatics from the Cult of the Twisted Helix. And, of course, the ever-present worry of those lost to the unrelenting storms. "All units, be advised," crackled the voice of Command, cutting through the soft hum of the vehicle's life support systems. "Reports of increased raider activity in the northern quadrant. Remain vigilant, and report any sightings of unauthorized mining operations or abandoned outposts. In addition, be on the lookout for any signs of the missing colonists from Ariel Arcology. Remember, they may be in distress." Natasha nodded, her breath fogging up the inside of her helmet. The disappearance of the Arcology colonists was a dark cloud hanging over the Frontier, a chilling reminder of the dangers lurking beneath the pristine facade of ice and snow. "And as always," Command continued, "if you encounter any frozen bodies, mark them for extraction. It's a cold out there, folks, but we don't leave our own behind." The last sentence hung in the air, a sobering reminder of the harsh reality of the Frontier. Anya sighed, her breath visible in the dim light. This wasn't her first patrol, but the weight of responsibility never got any lighter. As the land vehicle rolled out into the endless white expanse, the only sound was the steady hum of its engine and the crunch of ice under its treads. Anya scanned the horizon, the cold wind whipping at the edges of her vision. The vastness stretched before her, a blank canvas upon which the next chapter of the Frontier's story would be written. And as she ventured into the unknown, a sense of foreboding settled over her, as icy and relentless as the winds that swept across the frozen plains of Titania. The wind howled outside, a haunting melody that sent shivers down her spine. It was said that the spirits of those lost to the storms whispered within the gales, their mournful cries a warning to those who dared venture out into the wilderness. She gripped her rifle a little tighter, drawing comfort from the cold steel in her hands. Her journey had only just begun, and the frozen embrace of Titania held both promise and peril. | 3,093 | 1 |
Grennichville was a small town in the USA, established in colonial times it hadn’t changed much since being known as the most traditional place in America. You'd think being a small American town it'd be all tight knit and cozy. But no, Grennicheville is fucking brutal. Being infested with hookers- dressed in clothes that would be considered normal if not modest anywhere else but in Grennichville would make any 'proper' lady faint in shock- and whose bodies regularly decorate the town having been murdered , often brutally by their customers. Unfortunately I was a hooker myself. I checked my cheap watch, 8:00 pm, the time when anyone who wished to be considered decent in Grennichville would go home. But I was not one of decent people in Grennichville and for me 8:00 pm meant the beginning of 'work time'. I walked around in search for a client but was instead found someone very different. "Who's there!" A familiar voice shouted. "Oh, it’s just you, Helen." The voice said stepping out of the shadows revealing herself to be my friend Rachel. She ran a hand through her tangled red curls before turning to speak to me. "Sorry for surprising you, I’ve just been so anxious because of you know, him." Rachel said. Ah yes, him. The butcher of Grennichville, the man who has been terrorizing Grennichville for the past year. "Yeah, it’s alright anyways, good luck tonight." I said to Rachel. Rachel smiled albeit nervously and said. "Thanks Helen, good luck to you as well." And so we parted ways and I promptly nearly ran into a man. "Hey! Watch it whore!" The man shouted. "Go fuck yourself!" I shouted back. The man rolled his eyes and said. "Whatever, how much?" "Depends." I responded. We walked into and ally and he pulled down his pants and I got down on my knees and got to work. Once we were down he handed me 50 dollars. I would have five more clients that night earning a total of three hundred dollar. ​ ​ I was walking home when I stumbled over something. I looked down. Oh god. My stomach turned. It was Rachel. No it was Rachel's body. Her stomach was cut open and her organs were splayed around her. Her throat was deeply slit and her face was covered in slashes. I nearly vomited. This wasn’t the first time I had seen a dead body but this was the worst death I had ever seen and to happen to someone I was so close to. I was utterly horrified. I quickly ran off to find the nearest house. And I banged on the door which opened to reveal a groggy man and woman in their pajamas. "What?" The woman said sharply and cruelly. "There’s been another murder." I said desperately. They called the police who soon arrived and next thing I knew I was in the police station awaiting questioning. I shiv as the station was cold and my thin clothes did very little to give me any warmth or comfort. I was still very shaken from finding Rachel's body. I was soon escorted to the interviewing room where there was a small table and two chair, one chair was occupied by a middle aged man who had short greying brown hair and a thin mustache. He gestured at the other chair inviting me to sit which I did. "Miss?" The interviewer asked. "My name is Helen and what is it?" I asked offhandedly. "Tell me what you know about the murder of Miss. Rachel Thomas." The interviewer respondented. | 3,331 | 2 |
Jim, a middle-aged man with a penchant for Sunday football, found himself in a peculiar predicament. It all began innocently enough—a sweaty locker room, banter echoing off the walls, and the familiar camaraderie of fellow players. But as Jim sat there, wrestling with his shoelaces, he noticed something odd: one of his socks didn’t belong to him. “Ah, well,” he thought, “it’s just a sock. No harm done.” So he shrugged it off, tugged on his sneakers, and headed home. The drive back was anything but ordinary. Jim’s foot pressed the accelerator with an urgency he couldn’t explain. The speedometer needle danced dangerously close to the red zone, and the steering wheel felt like a wild animal under his grip. He swerved through traffic, heart racing, unable to regain control. Arriving home, Jim greeted his son with a tousle of the hair and bestowed a gentle tickle upon his son’s guinea pig—the little creature that followed the boy everywhere. Dinner awaited them in the cozy dining room, but as they sat around the table, Jim’s leg twitched involuntarily. With a swift kick, he sent a chair skidding across the floor. His wife shot him a disapproving look. “Jim,” she scolded, “you need to control your temper.” “But it wasn’t me!” Jim protested. An argument erupted, voices rising, and suddenly, he stood up. His leg swung out, booting his wife with a force he couldn’t comprehend. The kids screamed, and Jim stumbled away, fleeing to his room. His rage knew no bounds. He pummeled the walls, the furniture—anything within reach. His wife, bruised and bewildered, had enough. She kicked him out, and Jim found refuge in a dingy BnB. The next day, he stumbled into work, late and disheveled. His boss summoned him to the office, eyebrows raised. Jim sat down, his leg twitching beneath the desk. And then, inexplicably, he kicked the table. The boss’s patience wore thin. “Jim,” he snapped, “what’s gotten into you?” Apologies spilled from Jim’s lips, but his leg had a mind of its own. It kicked the table relentlessly, like an unhinged metronome. The boss’s verdict was swift: “You’re fired.” Back at the BnB, Jim wept. The same sock clung stubbornly to his foot, defying all attempts to remove it. The more he struggled, the tighter it clung, as if fused to his skin. Desperation gnawed at him. And so, in the dim haze of drunken sleep, Jim dreamed of unraveling threads, of unraveling sanity. The sock whispered secrets, ancient and malevolent. It bound him, body and soul, to a fate he couldn’t escape. As dawn painted the room gray, Jim awoke. The sock remained, a silent witness to his unraveling life. He wondered: Was it cursed? Or was it merely a conduit for something darker? Jim’s life had spiraled into chaos. The cursed sock clung to his foot, a relentless reminder of his unraveling sanity. But the worst was yet to come. The next morning, a knock echoed through the dimly lit BnB. Jim staggered to the door, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. There stood his son, clutching the guinea pig—a creature that had unwittingly become a harbinger of doom. “Hey, Dad,” his son said, oblivious to the impending catastrophe. “Mom dropped off Mr. Whiskers. Said you forgot him.” Jim welcomed them in, the room heavy with tension. As they chatted, the guinea pig nestled in his son’s arms, Jim’s leg twitched. It was a subtle tremor, but he knew what was coming. Without warning, he kicked the guinea pig. The little creature soared through the air, its tiny body twisting. His son screamed, and Jim’s rage erupted. He stomped around the room, kicking chairs, lamps—anything that dared cross his path. The BnB owner, alarmed by the commotion, dialed the police. Sirens wailed outside as Jim’s leg propelled him toward madness. He crashed through the window, shards of glass raining down. Outside, the world blurred. Jim’s car became a missile, hurtling through the streets. Police cruisers swarmed, lights flashing. They cornered him, guns drawn. But Jim was beyond reason. He stepped out of the car, his leg coiled like a spring. The first officer approached cautiously. “Sir, calm down,” he said. Jim’s leg snapped out—a roundhouse kick that severed the officer’s head from his shoulders. Blood sprayed, and the world slowed. The second officer opened fire, bullets tearing through Jim’s body. He fell, life draining away. But then, the impossible happened. Jim’s severed leg twitched. It hopped, knee to ankle, across the asphalt. The officer stared, horror etched on his face. The leg lunged, smashing into the officer’s skull. Bone cracked, and the man crumpled. And so, in the aftermath of chaos, Jim lay dead, his leg still animated. The guinea pig watched from a distance, its beady eyes wide with understanding. Perhaps it had known all along—the sock, the rage, the unhinged leg. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows, the severed limb hopped away. It had a purpose now, a malevolent drive. And somewhere in the darkness, a curse whispered: “This is just the beginning.” And so it was—a tale of madness, vengeance, and a leg that danced to its own deadly rhythm. | 5,123 | 1 |
Okay so I have this literature assignment and the only limitations is that it’s a short story that has an underlying theme something to do with cultural assumptions and can be a maximum of 2000 words. I’m only in the beginning stages of actually writing the story but it will take place in space on a cargo ship and an alien will come and pick of members of the crew (basically the plot of alien) but the alien has come from a “perfect” civilisation and is judging and killing the crew members based on what the alien thinks what the crew and as an extent humanity is doing wrong. I’m formatting it as if it was a diary entry on retro futuristic computer (think fall out 3 computers) and every day there will be a new diary entry and the perspective will be from the captain of the ship. I’m planning on having it go for about a week depending on how much I write each day. The current end of the story will reveal the space ship is heading for earth with the alien on board and the rest of the crew dead. Some advice or some ideas of how to subtly introduce the alien and it’s origin alongside some ideas on how and why he would be killing the crew mates would be especially helpful and any advice on how to effectively write horror in the story how really help out. I only want to reveal the alien towards the end of the story creating like a mystery ish type story but all the crew members will be proven innocent leading them all to believe something else is onboard committing these acts. Also I’m toying around with the idea that the narrator (diary writer) presents himself as the perfect leader but begins to crack under pressure.I’m very new to this and any help would be great Here is what I have written so far: AUTHORISED PERSONEL ACCESS AND OPERATION ONLY [TERMINAL BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED] STATUS: CONFIDENTIAL ENTRY CODE: ******** [WELCOME: CREW MEMBER #43221 TO ARTEMIS CARGO SHIP MAINFRAME] STARDATE-2245.7 – CARGO SHIP ARTIMIS – EN ROUTE TO COLONY 79 DAY-46 The limitlessness of space is only punctuated by the inconsistent spread of stars dotting the infinite emptiness of the cosmos. The subtle hum of the Artimis is a comfortable reminder of human ingenuity. The crew have finally established a routine and have become accustomed to the daily procedures of life upon the Artimis. The specimens procured from colony 118 have shown promising results, we do not have much supply left of from the specimens and due to how it was obtained it has proven difficult to acquire more. I ascertained that Provisions, hydration and energy resources are in abundance allowing us to facilitate the completion of our journey. Laughter echoes through the halls, a testament to the camaraderie onboard. Yet as I retire to my personal quarter I cannot dispel the weight of isolation I feel travelling on this vessel. | 2,914 | 3 |
Cassy’s grazing her fingers through my hair. I feel the warm blanket swallowing us whole. The sunlight beams directly into her piercing blue eyes. I stare intently. I know she’s leaving me soon, but I let the thought of abandonment slip to the back of my mind. I walk to the kitchen, tired and distraught. Cracking eggs over a pan, I hear the pitter patter of little feet. Our little feet. A head of brunette hair peers over the counter. Small feet kicking in the air. I set three plates out on the kitchen table. “How long is mommy going to be gone,” the little head of brunette hair asks. “Just three weeks, such a short time,” I answer. I know how long it seems to such a little child. “That doesn’t seem very short,” my sweet little baby mumbles. “It’s way shorter than you think honey,” I mumble back. I want to say something more reassuring, better than what I just said. I can’t. I’m exhausted. This marriage, this life, it’s draining me. I set everyone’s plate on the table. We're all sitting around wondering what our future holds for us. For autumn, a three-week hiatus from her favorite person. For Cassy, possibly a raise. For me, three weeks without my wife. “Well, you know this is somewhat of a big deal, if I get this promotion you won’t even have to look for a job anymore.” I look up. I’m confused more than anything. When did I ever say I didn’t want a job? Why does she think finding a job is an inconvenience for me? “I think we both know it was never my dream to be a stay-at-home dad. I think we also know how strange of an arraignment this is for the both of us.” “Ryan, Autumn would be so happy. You never got to spend time with her due to your work schedule. Now you have a chance to bond with your daughter. Take it, please.” “I’m not promising anything, but right at this moment I’m making up for all the lost years,” I stuttered, already regretting it. “Well then make up for it.” Three Weeks Later Were sitting at the same table, without the same feeling. I’m starting to wonder if she ever thought of me the entire time she was gone. Three weeks. So short. So much change in such a short time. Quitting my job to take care of our child didn't mean much to Cassy. Staying home for three years, because she wanted to advance in her career. Meanwhile I no longer have a career. Wasn’t this her dream? Isn’t she the one who wanted a family? “So you slept with your boss?” I don’t even sound mad. I’m not mad. I couldn’t care at this point. “Ryan, our child is sitting right beside you! What is wrong with you?” Cassy has always had an amazing way to divert attention. A carefully crafted skill of distracting you from anything she doesn’t want you to see. “ Autumn baby, go to your room, ok?” I watch Autumn leave. The life we brought into this earth. Something we made together. She just threw it all away. “ What the hell are you talking about?” She knows I know. Her lack of eye contact speaks volumes in this silent, loveless house. She looks panicked. “I’m talking about your boss. The one you're sleeping with. You know, behind your husband's back.” “ You are insane, Ryan. I went on a business trip. I’m trying to get a promotion. I’m trying to support this whole family.” “By sleeping with your boss?” “ What are you even talking about?’ “ I ran into Jay at the grocery store. At first I was a bit shocked. I asked why he wasn’t on the company trip to Japan with the rest of your coworkers. Then he looked shocked. He asked what in the world I was talking about.” “Ryan, nothing happened.” “I would love to believe you, but if something nefarious wasn’t going on why would you lie? Why would you tell me this is a “company trip”? Why would you spend three weeks alone with your boss?” “I needed this promotion. We needed this promotion.” “I have sacrificed everything for this family. You said you wanted a kid, so we had a kid. You said you hated being a stay-at-home mom, so I quit my job. I became a stay-at-home dad for a cheating, ungrateful wife who couldn’t care less about the family she wanted.” “ I did it because I care about you.” “Cassy, people don’t cheat on their husbands because they “care” about their husbands.” “It was the only way I could move up through the company.” “Maybe if you were actually good at your job, they would give you a raise Cassy.” “Ryan, I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to take care of us.” “ If we were so desperate for money Cassy, you know damn well I could have started applying for jobs. I make twice as much as you on a bad day. This isn’t about our family. This is about Cassy. Everything has always been about Cassy. I am so sick of you, Cassy. “ “I'm done having this conversation.” “Because you know I'm right? I watch her walk away. She doesn’t look sorry. She’s sorry that she got caught in a lie. Years of staying at home, watching the kid of this woman, cleaning this house for her, cooking for her, just for her to complain. I’ve wasted my life on the devil in the body of a middle-aged woman. Peeking through our doorframe, I see her thin outline. Steady slow breathing. I’m sure she'll be out for a few hours. She’s always tired after she cries. Stuffing clothes into boxes wasn’t on my to-do list today. I mean what am I supposed to do? Stay with a narcissist? I think I'm better off taking my chances elsewhere. Passport, driver's license, debit card, what else do I need? Maybe I'm crazy and losing my mind? Maybe I'm completely right? “Dad, where are we going?” my sweet little baby asked. “Far away baby, on a vacation” I say. I act like this isn’t a permanent vacation. “Yay!” I know this is technically wrong. But almost anything can seem wrong without context. I have reasons. I have proof. I have to leave. Staying just means raising my daughter in a house where her parents fight. A house of constant chaos. With no love, only a home drowned in hate. It’s the summer of ‘79. She’ll never know where I am. She'll never find us. | 6,003 | 2 |
I hear the birds. I hear the birds whistle and tweet; a romanticised conversation that no one can understand, but I hear it. The leaves rustle as the gentle wind brushes through them, stroking them one by one; skipping through them like a child. I take a deep breath, (in… out…) I am ready, I am prepared, I’ve been ready- I’m listening. I see the colourful petals kissed by the essence of spring as it twirls around the globe. The bright green of the leaves, an evolutionary decision, yet somehow beautiful. The clouds are a warm pink, it’s not quite sunset but the sun is slowly lowering to the ground. I watch it fall, we all watch it fall. It’s not quite dark. I like the dark; I love the peace of it all, I love the silence. People aren’t scared of the dark, no one is scared of the lights going out, no one is scared of being alone in the dark, it’s not the shadows that scare them, its what’s making the shadows. I’m not scared of the dark, never have been; never will be. I’m not scared of the dark. I’m scared because I know I’m not alone. When we turn off the lights at night we can sleep in peace knowing there is nothing to fear, nothing can hurt us under our own roof. I don’t sleep, I don’t turn off the lights, I have something to fear, something can hurt me. I can feel it when it starts to go dark, the shadows that haunt me; the shadows that I fear. I know someone’s there- something’s there. I know because I’ve emptied my room four times. The shadows come back. They always come back. I’ve screamed, yelled, called the police, told everyone I know… but, no one can help. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, everyone has left. I sit here alone, on the floor, lights on, scared night after night. I’m scared to breathe, move, swallow. I don’t know what it is, who it is, what they want- are you a stalker? Did I hurt you? Am I just your next victim? So tonight I’m ready, I’m ready for whatever’s there; I can’t take another second of this hell. Maybe I’ll go mad. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Maybe there’s nothing there. No. There’s something there. So tonight when the shadows rise I’ll be waiting, listening, watching; waiting for the monster. Children think monsters are big creatures, blue or purple and covered in spikes. I know the monsters are just like me. I know the monsters are people. People are more dangerous. So tonight when you go to sleep ask yourself, are you really alone? Are the monsters real? We don’t trust children when they say the monsters are under the bed. We soothe them back to sleep and remind them that it’s just a bad dream- a nightmare. We don’t give them enough credit, at least they have the sense to ask the age old question. | 2,708 | 5 |
People say it's childish to be afraid of the dark. They say it's a symptom of an overactive imagination. And yet the same people- all people- know that you don’t go out at night, not without light or charm. And everyone knows, instinctively, in the marrow of their bones, that you don’t go out on a moonless night. I had been out on a moonless night for days. Most people can’t tell, but once you're trained, you can- Darkness loves darkness. She likes to stretch her time out as long as she's possibly able. Everyone wants to spend time with kindred spirits. It’s nature, human or otherwise. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I do my best to enjoy it. After all, you have to pick your battles, and my gun makes it pretty easy to figure out which ones I can win. She's a lovely gun. Big, which is fine with me, because I need all the power she can muster. Nine custom rounds rotate through, each enchanted by my own self. Not as effective as a professional enchantment, but I get by, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper. The only light came from the muzzle flare of my pistol. They smothered my campfire long ago, leaving me with only the vaguest sense of where they were, occasionally silhouetted against the trees when I fired. They were big, looming over me, high into the crooked trees and the moonless sky behind them. Who could say how long tonight would last? I try not to cast on Nights, because it just acts like more of a beacon than I already am, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. My chest burned as I threw up a Buffer against a sudden wave of creatures, but they tore it down before it hardly had time to help. I bit down and cast a Warding, felt my arm burn harshly in the wild energy of the new moon and felt the following cold cut its way through my flesh and deep into my bones. Popping the spent rounds out with my right hand, my left knitted itself into the Ward shape automatically, trained by years of habit. *Now I’ve really done it,* I thought, because I could practically sense them perk up from miles off, even without casting a Seeing. It worked, though, and I was given brief respite for my efforts. I’d sure as hell pay for it in about 10 minutes, but for now I needed to stop bleeding and deal with the sensation of a drill pressed to the back of my skull. “Skippers,” I growled. I hated Skippers. The problem with Skippers is they’re small, harder to notice than anything else, and instead of trying to take off your head they try to get *into* your head. From there they can do whatever they want while you watch- make you walk off a cliff, bite off your own tongue, flay yourself alive. Like I said, whatever they want, and they're usually pretty mean. I’d seen them really go to work on all sorts of people, mostly people I knew and trained with. Hazards of the job- sorcerous training let you see a whole new world, but it opened you up to the threats that lived there, more so than regular folk. I was in worse shape than most sorcerers, which was part of what put me out at Night in the first place. Luckily, I’m better than most sorcerers, but it still meant I had to be careful. To get rid of a Skipper, all you have to do is burn them off with a little Light. I'd needed the break- 3 of them dripped out of me right away, and a fourth started to run down my back as it tried to escape. “Bastard.” I struck it with the handle of the gun as it slithered away. No sense wasting ammo on idiots like that. The Ward wavered, the Night grew around me, and I hadn't even had time to heal anything. *Damn.* Sam watched from behind the counter as the man walked through the door. Under the door, rather, as he had to duck to keep from hitting his head. He was pale, very pale, unlike the merchantfolk that usually came through the inn. His face was covered by a bushy beard, his hair was long, and his eyes were rimmed with red, but he could certainly be no older than 40. It was strange- for someone to come in so early in the morning, and look so tired- he must have been traveling all night, but he had no horse to be stabled. The stranger was an armory- small blades and strange, bulbous jars jutted out from pockets and packs all over the man, daggers strapped to his legs, and even metal nubs in the knuckles of his gloves. What caught Sam's attention, though, was the man's huge gun, strapped tightly to his waist. He had never seen a gun that big, and the ammunition the man was carrying in the sacks around his waist must have weighed heavily on him, though he showed no signs of it. “What does it cost for a room?” His voice did not match the tired, worn image in front of him. It was firm, and had the sound of recent laughter in it. “Let me get my mom.” Sam began, starting for the back room. He never handled rooms. “That's alright. You'll do fine. How much?” The man pulled out a purse, smaller than the other bags on his belt, and it was clearly much lighter than anything else he carried. “I’d like to find a bed and use it.” His voice did not betray him, nor did his hands, but the redness of his eyes did. They were a startling blue, and they seemed to contain nothing except exhaustion. “I need your name,” Sam remembered as he directed the giant stranger to his room. The man's eyes, just for an instant, darted to one side before returning to Sam. “Joan,” he said. “O-kay.” Sam jotted the name down. “Two nights, food at 7 and 7, anything else you pay for.” He began to walk the man down the hall. “Strange accent. Are you from Melano, or Baden?” He didn’t really know what those accents sounded like, but he knew they were far from Newmark. “No.” Joan walked into the room indicated with no further comments. Sam stopped at the door while the man called Joan dropped his bags to the floor. “What kinda gun is that?” “Mine,” he said simply, as he unbundled it’s holster from his belt. “I make the ammunition myself most of the time.” “It's impressive. My paw was a soldier, and he showed me his old gun once, only it was a lot smaller than yours, and all rusted out besides, but-" Sam stopped as the man removed his cloak. There was a bright gash, still oozing dark blood, working its way up the man's side behind the thick leather plates. “Holy cripes! You oughta see a doctor, sor!” Joan gave no indication that he could even feel the wound, nor did he instantly react when the boy cried out. “This? It looks a lot worse than it is. Rest, and solitude,” and here he looked at Sam, “will do me more good than any doctor from this town.” He moved to close the door, and against Sam's protest seemed to shut him out with no effort at all. He ran down the hall to inform his mother of their newest guest. I didn’t want the kid to see what I had to do next. It really wasn’t that bad- on the outside. Because we put so much ourselves in the spiritual world, the physical world didn’t matter so much. But it’s all tradeoffs. It had cut a pretty chunk out of me spirit-wise, and that hurt worse than any gash could. Really, I was better off than most sorcerers would’ve been with a cut like this- I had less to lose. *Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.* I Worked a minor Healing, but anything more would’ve taken more out of me than I could hope to regain, so the rest had to be resigned to sleep. Stupid. I should never have let anything get that close anyway, but it seemed like the Skippers were going crazy last Night. I was too tired even to dream. A small blessing. Waking up was not pleasant- I was stiff and sore, and still hurting something fierce. And cold, of course. Always cold. The physical wound had scabbed over, and I figured I would get away with just a minor scar. My innards were still shredded, but marginally less so than before, so I could breathe without grimacing. I expected I’d be laid out for a few days yet. Lucky, since Night had just passed, so things would be calm for almost the entire month now. Exhausted as I had been, I had no Wards up, nothing even blocking the door. *Nice going.* *Practically begging for a stray to wander in and eat you.* As I flipped the coin I’d lifted off the kid, I examined the room for anything that might have snuck in, but it was clear. This time. It was around this point that I realized how hungry I was. It had been (what felt like) days without a hot meal, and apparently this podunk little inn could provide, so I wandered out to the main room to see if I could scare up some food. When the kid saw me, his eyes widened. *That’s never a good sign*. Recognition meant questions, and the answers to those questions usually meant getting pushed to the next town before I had time to heal. I had been hoping to score a decent meal and a bath, at least. Sam could hardly believe his eyes. “Criminy, sor, but I didn’t expect you to be up at all! It's barely been a day!” The cut had been bleeding heavily, and very deep, he was sure of it, but now the man was clean and walking as if he had never been injured. The stranger called Joan sat heavily at a table, ignoring the implied question. “Any chance of a man getting some food around here?” He inquired. “Or, perhaps,” and he glanced at the barrels of ale behind the counter, “some drink?” San quickly filled him a tankard and plate from supper earlier, then sat himself at the table, as the crowd in the room dwindled down to a late few. The man interested him. He did not seem to interest the man, however, as Joan simply ate and drank in silence, apparently unbothered by his wound. He was still pale, almost deathly so, but Sam had heard tell of people from far north being much lighter than the tanned workers of nearby towns. “Are you a soldier?” Sam didn’t know much about the war to the south, but occasionally troops passed through, and he had heard his ma talk in the back room about an extra levy because the Northern Kingdoms were allied. “I never saw someone carry so many weapons that weren't a soldier. What are those jars you carry? Is that them new bombs they been talking about? With gunpowder, only you throw the jar so it’s like a cannonshot?” Sam did not know much about weapons, either, but he saw so few soldiers come through that he had to learn what he could, if he was going to join the war when he was of age. “Sure, kid.” Joan tapped his empty tankard on the table and placed down the coin he had been flipping. Sam ran to fill it up again before sitting back down. “So did you come from the southern border, where all the fights are? What's happening? Are we winning? We have all kinds of the Northern Kingdoms working together, right? We must be winning!” “The southern border? No, no, I didn’t come from the southern border,” he snorted. “That whole war is just nonsense anyway. The Northern Kingdoms, in some alliance or another, have had it out for Onis since time began. Maybe even before. The war is just an excuse to keep the money rolling in. Seems like there’s less and less of it than ever.” He mumbled this last part into his cup. “That’s- that’s not true!” Sam's pa had fought, same as Sam would. “The war is important! Onis could really invade anytime! Besides, you said you were a soldier. If you aren’t fighting in the war, how can you be a soldier?” Joan did not answer, but he reached for his sleeve for a moment as if to roll it up, then seemed to catch himself at the last second. Was he a deserter? “Are you a deserter?” Sam blurted out, realizing a second late that he was pushing his luck. Joan just tapped his mug again. Sam's ma hurried over. “So sorry for this one, sor, he has a bad habit of being curious.” She cuffed him on the ear and it smarted. “It's no problem, mam.” The stranger smiled warmly, but in his eyes there was nothing. It was a chilling sensation. “He fills my cup just fine.” His ma dragged him off before Sam could object, and Joan got up before Sam could return. Broder laughed as he took Flander for another hand. Three hands up, he was, and showed no signs of slowing. He stopped, though, as a big man in a heavy cloak came to the table. “Deal me in?” His voice, deep and rich, did not match the weathered exterior. The man was no farm hand, that much was clear. More a mercenary sort. Broder glanced around the table, but no one seemed to object outright, so he shrugged. One more fool for the best poker man in the west side of Newmark. “Promise I know the rules.” “Can you make ante, pal?” Jaten sized him up from across the table, suspicious from the long, ratty hair sitting on his shoulders and the general sense of dirtiness emanating from the man. He didn't notice what Broder had seen- nice leather, warm coat, and firm shoes. The man had some money, at least. “He's good for it, Jaten. What's your name, stranger?” Broder gestured at the empty space next to him as he began to deal the hands. The stranger threw his ante, and Broder couldn’t hear much left in the purse. The poor ones were easy to sucker in. “Joan.” “You from Onis or something, name like that?” Cogen sneered. “Na, man, listen to his voice, he's from up in Lansing or summat.” Garrett spat. “You're pickin a fight so you don’t have to deal with your shite hand.” “That's not true, mate! Maybe you ought to keep an eye on your own mess in front of ya!” Cogen threw in extra to compensate. They all knew each other, knew the tics and tells and habits, but this stranger would be interesting. That was what Broder thought, but as they went round for a few hands, the stranger losing more than he won, it became clear he was just another sucker thinking he could smash the small town guys. He had seemed confident at first- smug, even- but Broder had moved in with a predatory efficiency and would not let up. He offered to buy a round for everyone, apparently hoping for mercy, or to dull them, but the man seemed to be getting a bit red in the nose much faster than the well-seasoned drinkers of the little town of Aren, where there was little else to do but work or drink, or play cards. Broder began to really work on Joan for everything he had left, preparing to take the man for anything he could offer. The game was boring, and Broder needed beer money, so he went to end the man entirely. What Broder did not expect was for the man to turn his whole plan backwards by dropping a flush when he should’ve had nothing. That cleared the table pretty fast, and Broder noticed the man's nose was really not that red at all. The hand was nonsense. He couldn't have won, couldn’t have had those cards. “Alright, pal, roll up your sleeves, eh? Just a friendly game, here, after all. No reason to stay all formal-like.” Broder saw the other men nod their approval. “Are you sure? Isn’t it possible, just a little, that I might be better at the game than you?” Joan smirked, taunting the men. “Roll those up in here or we'll roll em up for ya out back,” Cogen growled. He was the biggest, aside from the stranger himself, and had a knack for bar brawling. “Alright. No need to get snippy that I beat you so bad.” Cogen almost stood, but Joan began to roll up his sleeves. Right, then left. His left arm was covered up to the elbow in fresh burn scars- a bright, angry red. If Broder squinted, he could almost see fine lines tracing letters across the harshly burned skin, but he didn’t have to. He knew what he was looking at. “You're a bloody wizard, ye stupid bastard!” Garrett exploded. “Ye- ye bastard! You used magic on our all heads, ye did!” Joan's eyes darkened briefly, but he did not react. “Garrett's got the right idea- who's to say you weren’t using magic trickery to win the game, eh? Seems like something your lot would do,” Jaten added smartly. “It seems only fair you give us back the money you stole.” “In the interest of accuracy, I am a sorcerer. Wizards do not leave their little towers and their little books. Besides, if I had used any magic, why would I stop now?” The stranger pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just leave, or to make you forget you ever saw me?” “Well- there are 4 of us! Maybe you couldn’t do us in all at once, eh?” Jaten shot back. There was a chorus of affirmation from the group. “Be honorable, man, just give us the money back.” Joan rolled his sleeves down. “If I had wanted to,” he began quietly, gravel in his voice, “I could make you all give me your land, your wives, and your unborn sons and you wouldn’t even remember your names when I was done. I did not cheat,” he suddenly smiled. “You boys just suck at poker.” “Now listen here, son,” Broder began. “You may be some wizard from up north-" “East,” Joan interjected. “You may be some fancy wizard from up north,” Broder continued, “but don’t think that means you can insult us small-town folk. We might not have your ‘education’ or what have you, but we know from poker.” Joan sighed. “I am leaving town in two days. Leave me alone for those two days, and I will forget your names, faces, and the name of this backwater town you live in. I did not cheat you.” He looked each of them coldly in the eyes, and Broder saw that all the mirth and cheer that had been there earlier had been drained, replaced with nothingness. Not even hatred, or anger, but simply blank space. The stranger stood up with a groan, signaled for another round of drinks, and trudged to the back of the inn. None of the men followed. I was lucky none of these farm hicks knew anything about casting, or else they’d have known I was bluffing. It didn’t seem like any of them could actually read my burns, because if they could’ve, they would’ve known I could only cast a couple Bindings, and that’s if I wasn’t hurting like hell. What was most insulting, more than calling me a wizard, was that they thought I cheated to beat them at cards. I don’t need to cheat at cards. I had slipped a bit of coin out of their pockets as I brushed by, but that was hardly cheating. Just good, honest thievery*.* And to call me a wizard? I ought to burn down their houses anyway, just for that. I was cold just thinking about it. Still, I had to accelerate my schedule and leave tonight. I hated to do it, but I needed to be three towns over by the time they decided to kick the shit out of me. Bastards. Amidst my wrathful musings I became aware of a presence at the door. It was that kid. What had he seen? I ran the scene over again and realized he had been watching the end from the table he had been cleaning. Sloppy*.* He'd tell everybody. I couldn’t kill a kid the way I would've those guys in front, and I didn’t want to besides. Kids have always had a hold on me, and it pissed me off. It wasn't like I could remember why. Besides, I didn’t exactly mind the town knowing; it just meant I’d have a tougher time sneaking out, and I was tired enough that it bugged me. “Sor?” He nudged the door open, but not all the way, I noticed. “I saw your tattoo. What do they mean? My ma said not to ask, but those men seemed pretty upset out there. I asked them and they said you was a wizard, but I didn’t think they were real. Are you a wizard? Are those tattoos your clan or something?” He spoke fast, like he thought I would cut him off, or cut off his head. “What are you doing?” I spoke carefully to mask my distaste for his questions. “I am not a wizard. Wizards hide in their towers and ask questions nobody is curious about.” I hoped the dismissal would be clear. It was not. “If you aren’t a wizard, what are you?” “What I am right now, kid, is packing, and what I’m going to be in a minute is gone. Scram.” I looked around and realized that aside from the bags I could clip to my belt, I had nothing else with me. Damn. “Well, whatever you are, sor, I know those marks mean you're bound to help people-" that wasn’t true “-and those men out there maybe won’t tell you, but I will! See, sor, we're in mighty need of a wizard these days, on account of a monster been stealing the livestock and trashing the lumber yards and-" he slowed his speech a bit, but before I could get a word in he continued- “and I think it took the Granlenses daughter, only cause they won’t tell anyone where she went but I haven’t seen her in town at all and she used to come help me with my chores some days and it’s been a long while, maybe a month or so. Anyway, nobody’ll believe me when I tell em, and I haven’t seen it exactly, but I’m sure there’s a monster!” “Kid, you know not every stroke of bad luck is a monster, right?” People don’t believe in monsters or magic until it’s convenient for them, which means they know nothing about it, which means most of the time they’re just making up stories to get me killed or run off, or else they’re just plain dumb and attribute every case of rainy weather to a made up beast. “I know that! I just know there’s a monster around here! Look, sor, I’ll help you find it even, and-" “I charge for my services and I don’t take kids on field trips when I work. Are you going to pay me?” Most of the time, threat of payment was enough to deter all but the most determined, or most superstitious, folk. “I bet if you kill it the whole town will pitch in! Please, sor, I just wanna help out, and it seems like you could fix us all up only nobody wants to ask.” He wasn’t lying, I could tell, but kids are always seeing things that aren’t there. On the other hand, sometimes kids are better at seeing what’s right in front of them. And when it turned out to be nothing, it meant I had an excuse to stay an extra night without getting an attempted beating, probably. “Alright, kid. Where was this monster last?” Hired by a kid who probably couldn’t even get on a horse on his own. If anyone caught wind of this, I’d never hear the end of it. | 21,835 | 2 |
The beach was a symbol of relaxation. It was where children played in the waves while the parents relaxed in the sun. Well, the parents let themselves bake in the sun until they realized they lost their kids. Then, they panicked and searched across the sands annoying everyone. Eventually, a helpful volleyball player showed up with the kids. You thank them until. Wait, why is your spouse staring so long at that volleyball player? Sure, they look like you did younger. Well, more like a young fit version of you. Okay, they looked nothing like you did, and why was your spouse standing so close. This was a disaster. We should've never came here on family vacation. To most people who haven't had such a dramatic experience, the beach was a nice place. It represented a freedom from modern stresses and a chance to enjoy the sun. Sandcastles lined the sands like an army defending its territory. Shells were collected as if they held monetary value. Such a shame this culture was destroyed by the Mierans. Humans had always liked to take breaks, but the location was limited by time and resources. When the world was destroyed, the breaks turned into a night where two people guarded the door rather than three. The prime real estate became the pond a few blocks away to keep an eye on the supplies. Tourist traps became rusted as there was a lack of tourists to trap. Except for the dumbest people. "Hurry up, we are going to be late," Polly yelled. Jim fell down the stairs. He had a beach towel on one arm and a tuxedo on his other. "What is that for?" Polly grabbed the pants. "You said bring a swimsuit," Jim said. Polly shook her head. "Why I am surrounded by idiots." She turned back to the stairs. "Check-in ends at four pm." "Isn't it your friend who's in charge?" Olivia walked down the stairs carrying a handbag full of vacation essentials. Her dress was loose and flowing. "He told me that he wouldn't make exceptions," Polly said. "That makes sense. If you were my friend, I wouldn't make exceptions for you too," Olivia replied. Polly ignored her which angered Olivia. "Reid! Frida! Get down here," Polly yelled. Frida ran down the stairs. She was most excited about the possibility of hunting. As such, she had a crossbow, a harpoon, and a flare. Her prey wasn't sharks; it was crabs. Reid followed her down in a swimsuit. With every step, he practiced flexing and posing. His body was adequate. His biceps were present, but they didn't bulge. If he held his breath, his torso acquired some definition. In total, he was making a fool of himself. "I'm ready to mingle." He shimmied at the bottom step. Polly and Olivia reacted with horror while Jim nodded his head. "We're going to be so popular." Jim put his arm around Reid who shook him off. "Just me. You can be my wingman," Reid said. "Sure thing," Jim replied. "Whatever, let's get going," Polly said. The five of them made their way out of their small house. The road to the vacation was long, and it took a few days travel by foot. They didn't plan on travel time. Fortunately, Frida was skilled at capturing beasts (some of which were mutants) and tried all plants to ensure it wasn't poisonous (Jim tried them as well because Frida was likely immune to all poisons). After their journey, they reached Pacifico City. It was one of the few cities established after the war. The military ran the country, and Pacfico City wanted to cater to their needs. Multiple resorts sat close to the beach. By the resorts, there shooting ranges and ATVs for pleasure. There was an assortment of bars and restaurants as well. Each had its own signature dish or cocktail. There was one issue. The customers never came. The upper brass couldn't leave. The new military was disorganized, and vacations were an opportunity to be removed by force. The soldiers were forced to stay by their commanders. If they were going to be miserable, everyone else was going to be miserable as well. The result was a sad city filled with abandoned resorts. The weapons and ATVs were stolen by raiders who put it to better use. The bars and restaurants had their supplies looted, and the workers moved on. The vacation house in question was a dingy hotel far from the beach. When the five arrived, a man sat behind the desk with his mouth open. A fly flew in and out of it. There was a wall with keys behind him. The man didn't react when they entered. He did perk up when Polly hit the bell on his desk. "Welcome to Tropical Fun. You missed check-in time," he said. "Rick, it's me. Can't you make an exception," Polly replied. "Check-in ends at four. It's half past five." Rick pointed at the clock. Olivia looked down. "That clock isn't moving," she said. Rick looked down. "Oh, I've only been working here for a few months. I inherited it from my uncle. He died in a mutant iguana attack," Rick said. "Sorry for your loss," Polly said. "Don't be. I hated him." Rick turned around. He gave them two keys. Before arriving, it was agreed that Olivia would get a room by herself. Reid and Polly were okay with this because Jim and Frida slept on the floor. The floor was preferrable when they saw their rooms. Reid's bed was simultaneously too hard and too soft, Polly's was always wet, and Olivia's had mutant bed bugs. The rooms smelled like burnt cabbage. The bathrooms were filled with flies and rodents. "Well this is a disaster." Reid looked out the window. "There's no one here to enjoy my show." "Their loss." Olivia was hiding in the other room because she was scared of bugs. She wouldn't let them know. "No, every cloud has a silver lining." Reid turned with a smile on this face. "We are going to restore this city to its former glory. | 5,949 | 1 |
"Tony, grab that bag from the trunk," Gus instructed firmly. Tony promptly exited the vehicle to retrieve the bag while Gus fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket, then patted his pockets for a lighter. "Vinny, you got a light?" Vinny reached behind the seat to ignite Gus' cigarette. "Thanks," Gus murmured, taking a few deep puffs. Tony returned to the driver's seat, presenting a black plastic bag secured at the handles. "Open it," Gus commanded. Tony untied the bag and peered inside, glancing at Gus through the rear-view mirror. "Give it to him," Gus ordered. Tony handed the bag to Vinny, who immediately inspected its contents. "Stash those in your pockets. Expect a call from me around one. If I don't call...," Vinny nodded in acknowledgment. Vinny exited the car, leaving the black bag in his place on the seat. They waited a few minutes to ensure Vinny got inside safely. "To Pinucci's?" Tony asked as he began driving to the corner. Gus took a few more drags of his cigarette before replying, "To Pinucci's." Tony turned right toward Pinucci's Pizzeria. "I don't know what the hell happened," Gus muttered, his voice barely audible as he gazed out the window. "Can I tell you what I heard?" Tony asked, prompting Gus to roll down the window to discard his cigarette butt. "Doesn't matter. What happened wasn't supposed to happen, but it did," Gus said sternly. "I don't know what's going on. All I know is I got sent for..." Gus suddenly sat up. "Stop!" Tony slammed on the brakes, startled. Gus leaped out of the car, Tony following closely. Rushing toward an alley in the middle of the block, Gus yelled, "Rossi?!" Tony grabbed Gus' arm, urging him to calm down. "There's nobody there, Gus." But Gus persisted, convinced of Rossi's presence. "Come on, Gus," Tony said, guiding him back to the car still idling in the middle of the street. "I swear he was there this time," Gus whispered, embarrassed. "It's alright, Gus. Let's handle business," Tony reassured him, opening the rear passenger door for Gus to get in. They continued toward Pinucci's in silence. Tony parked in front of Pinucci's. "You ready?" he asked. Gus sighed as Tony exited the car to open the door for him. As Gus stepped out, he looked up at the glowing red "Pinucci's Pizzeria" sign. "You know," Gus began, "this place used to feel like home." He chuckled to himself. "Now, I see it's just a graveyard." "Not everybody in the graveyard is dead, Gus," Tony offered, trying to comfort him. "Yeah," Gus said, meeting Tony's gaze. "Thank you, Tony. For everything. You and Vinny: the best things to ever happen to me." Gus's eyes welled up, but he held back tears. "If I could go in there with you, Gus..." "I know," Gus interrupted, smiling and patting Tony on the shoulder. Under the red glow of the sign, they stood, staring into each other's eyes, both fighting back tears. Gus took a deep breath and extended his hand to Tony. Tony wiped his eyes and shook Gus' hand. Gus smiled, then turned to walk into Pinucci's. At the door, he paused, "Tony?" His reflection clear on the tinted windows. "Go home. I'll call you later..." With that, Gus pushed open the door and disappeared into the darkness inside. | 3,328 | 1 |
"That's a load of bull!" Gus burst out, his laughter bouncing off the cozy walls of the small diner. "Yeah, Tony. That's not how it went down at all," Vinny chimed in, a grin spreading across his face. Tony leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his glass. "Alright, then spill the beans. What really happened?" Gus shot Tony a playful glare, trying to stifle his laughter. "Come on, Tony, I'm not playing your game." Tony chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a real character, Gus. Vinny, what's the scoop?" "We got ourselves another Rossi problem," Vinny sighed. Gus sat up straight, a frown creasing his forehead. "Rossi again? How much did he stiff us for this time?" "The whole damn tab," Vinny replied, his expression grim. Gus slammed his hand on the table. "The whole thing?" He glanced around the diner, his mind racing. "Tony, get the car ready." Tony quickly finished his drink and rose from his seat to fetch the car keys. "Sammy!" Gus called out over his shoulder. A tall, sharply dressed man hurried over to their table. "Gus?" "You got a smoke?" Gus asked, his voice calm despite the urgency in his demeanor. Sammy reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. With a nod, he offered it to Gus. Gus took a cigarette, then hesitated before accepting another. "Thanks," he muttered, tucking them into his shirt pocket. "You're welcome, Gus," Sammy replied before heading back to the counter. "Can't stand that guy," Gus murmured. "Talks like he's got a screw loose." Despite his annoyance, he chuckled softly, though a sharp pain shot through his side. "Let's get moving. Tony's waiting," Gus declared, pushing himself up from the table. As Gus and Vinny exited the diner, they found Tony waiting by the rear driver's door, already open for Gus. Gus climbed into the car while Vinny walked around to the passenger seat. "Why can't Rossi just pay what he owes?" Gus grumbled, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placing it between his lips. "I'm not asking for the world." Gus patted his pockets, searching for a lighter. "Vinny, got a light?" Vinny reached behind the seat to retrieve a lighter and flicked it, igniting Gus's cigarette. "Thanks," Gus muttered, taking a few puffs. "Maybe business is slow for him?" Tony offered as he pulled away from the curb. "All year?" Gus shot back, disbelief evident in his tone. Tony fell silent, his focus on navigating the streets. "I don't want to have to resort to drastic measures," Gus admitted, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I've always liked Rossi... but he's not leaving me much choice." "What else can you do?" Vinny asked, his voice tinged with concern. Gus remained silent, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window, lost in thought. "Remember Beans?" Gus asked the car, his voice carrying a tinge of nostalgia. "Beans?" Tony echoed, trying to jog his memory. "Tall guy, slick hair? Used to run with Sonny's crew back in the day..." Gus prompted, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Oh yeah, Beans. I remember him now. What about him?" Tony recalled. "Beans had a brother named Larry," Gus continued, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Larry owes me twenty grand as of yesterday." Tony's expression softened. "Oh, I see." "Anyway, Beans fell off a boat a few years back," Gus added casually, his tone belying the gravity of the situation. "Oh," Tony murmured, understanding the unspoken implications. "I heard Little Larry moved out to Minnesota or something after Beans passed," Vinny chimed in from the passenger seat. "Yeah, he did. But he's making a return trip for his sister's wedding," Gus explained. "Vicky's getting married?" Tony asked, surprised. "No, not Vicky. The other one," Gus clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice. Vinny twisted around in his seat to gauge Gus's expression, realizing he wasn't joking. "Who's the unlucky groom?" Tony inquired, intrigued. "Some hotshot lawyer from Manhattan," Gus replied, his tone dripping with disdain. "When's the wedding?" Vinny inquired, breaking the momentary silence. "Today," Gus replied tersely. "We're here," Tony announced, pulling the car to a stop in front of a quaint flower shop. "What's the plan?" Vinny turned to Gus, anticipation evident in his voice. "First, we deal with this Rossi mess..." Gus began, only to be interrupted by Tony. "And what's the plan for that?" Tony interjected, his tone expectant. Gus paused, considering his words carefully. "Let's go," Gus declared, swinging the car door open and stepping out onto the street, with Tony and Vinny following suit. | 4,816 | 1 |
On a cold, dark night in the city of Cornwall, the markets buzz with villagers bustling about, their breaths visible in the icy air as they prepare for the harsh winter ahead. Amid the crowd, a mother and her young son, Henry, weave through the stalls, searching anxiously for her husband. As the first snowflakes begin to fall, casting a soft glow in the lantern light, Henry shivers. “Hush, Henry. We will be home soon,” she says, offering him a comforting smile that belies her own concern. He lets out a long sigh, tugging at his mother’s hand as they make their way toward the dock. As they approach, the woman’s eyes narrow; something is amiss. The guards stationed on the walls that loom over the city appear unusually tense, their movements quick and eyes darting. Villagers hasten their steps, their earlier chatter replaced by an uneasy silence. Abruptly, the stars and moon vanish, swallowed by an impenetrable darkness. “Henry, help me find your father. Please son, hurry,” the mother urges with a hint of desperation, leaving Henry by the bustling dock as she calls into the growing wind. “Harold? Harold!” Her voice, warm yet laced with fear, is snatched away by the gusting wind. Henry, feeling a swell of worry, shouts for his father, but his small voice is lost in the chaos. Suddenly, a group of guards rushes past, inadvertently knocking him to the snowy ground. Stunned, Henry lies there for a moment, the cold seeping through his clothes. When he looks up, the sky holds a terrifying sight—where the moon once hung, now two beady purple eyes gaze ominously down at him. A chilling shriek vibrates through the ground, sending shivers up his spine. Scrambling to his feet, Henry calls out for his mother, but his voice is drowned out by a deafening explosion. The city walls shatter, sending stone and dust into the air. Amid the pandemonium, the ominous eyes in the sky watch, unblinking. **Chapter 2: Alone** Henry stands frozen as the explosion's echo fades, replaced by the sinister skittering and groans of night creatures pouring through the crumbling walls. Amidst the chaos, giant arachnids with gleaming eyes crawl over debris, their legs clicking against the cobblestones, while figures that once were human stagger aimlessly, their moans chilling the air. Summoning every ounce of courage, Henry plunges into the billowing smoke, calling for his mother. His voice is just another whisper in the wind, drowned out by the desperate cries that fade into eerie silence. With each step, his hope dwindles, smothered by the thickening fog and encroaching dread. Then, faintly, a voice—her voice—cuts through the chaos. "Henry!" No more hesitation; he runs, guided by her calls. Dodging twisted limbs and leaping over fallen market stalls, he is driven by a single purpose. He stumbles upon her at last. She lies crumpled on the ground, the family sword clutched in her grasp. Dropping to his knees, Henry barely notices the fog lifting, or the encircling danger. His mother, with fading strength, touches his cheek tenderly. "Son, remember, wherever you find yourself lost, think of my love for you. It’s a beacon that will never dim." Her hand slips away, her voice a lingering echo in his heart. | 3,254 | 1 |
It was a short story I read in a Best of 20xx (I don't remember the exact date, but pre2015) collection. It's so memorable, and I retell it to people now and again, but I can't find it anywhere! The name of the story is the name of the fictional Russian nightclub that serves as the setting, as well as the legendary gangster who built it. Story goes like this. Russian gangsters, the protagonist is the 2nd in command (we'll call him "P"). The Boss is taking him to a famous exotic nightclub but doesn't know P has saved up a ton of $$ and is planning to leave the game for good with his exotic dancer girlfriend. The club is named after another infamous old gangster who, upon the club's grand opening, disappeared into it, never to be seen again. They enter the club into the main ballroom and take a seat at a fancy table before a central stage. This level of the club is very posh, filled with people of means. P knows that every morning, before the crowd turns over, there's an auction on this stage where the most beautiful dancer presents the crowd with a single pristine red rose. It's all show, for the high rollers to show off how much money they can throw away, but that rose is coveted nonetheless. P's boss introduces P to a suspicious associate, and after the formalities, P takes his leave to meet up with his girlfriend. This is where the story begins to get psychedelic. A floor down, P meets his girl while she's working and takes a seat at a bar. He orders 2 shots of the club's house vodka (also named after the mysterious og gangster who built the place). After he takes the shots, he finds himself eerily walking alone in a snowy frozen wooded park. Suddenly, the suspicious associate of his boss comes out of nowhere and attacks him, ostensibly on the boss's orders. Our P loses this violent fight to the death, and as his eyes fade to black, he wakes up at the bar again with 2 empty shot glasses in front of him. Shaking off the intense "dream," P leaves the basement floor of the club to find someone he can pay his large sum of $$ to, to buy his woman's freedom. This journey takes him up an elevator this time, and past a filthy and grotesquely emaciated janitor. As P passes the janitor they lock eyes, and in an instant P knows that this man is in fact, in the flesh, the owner of this club, the infamous og himself. With a silent and mangled grin, the decrepit janitor reaches out a gnarled open hand toward P, to receive the money. P knows this moment is crucial, but he hesitates when his sensibility demands a more formal transaction. The moment passes, the janitor turns back to his work. P is forced to walk on, angry and deeply disturbed, down the hall, to the next room of the club. This floor has several rooms of themed masquerade, and as P stumbles through them, he finds himself talking to people he hasn't seen in ages. Some are family and friends, while some are old enemies of his. After calming down from his encounter with the horrible remnant of the club owner, he begins to realize that some of the people he's surrounded by should be dead. He's seen many of them die himself, and yet here they are, drinking and dancing the night away. He flees the scene, afraid he will somehow be stuck in that place of shambling walking dead, until he feels snowflakes again on his face. P is in the snowy park again, but this time he knows the game. The cat-and-mouse game of death is P's home territory, and after the night he's had, he is more than ready for it. P stays in the treeline and waits for his assailant to reveal himself. Soon enough, his boss's new associate walks into the clearing, completely unaware of P. P sneaks up behind him and attacks, this time with vengeful ferocity and the clear upper hand. As he watches the light leave his assailant's eyes, all around him his surroundings dissolve into curtains that raise into the ceiling to the sound of thunderous applause, and P finds himself in the main ballroom again, center stage. He notices his boss, still seated at his original table, laughing and clapping with a thoroughly entertained smile on his face. P silently climbs offstage and sits back down with his boss. He is just in time for the rose auction. Lo and behold, it's P's girlfriend on stage presenting the rose to the audience. As she begins to take bids P sits exhausted, and feels like this may be the last chance to buy freedom for him and his partner. He stands and offers his entire briefcase of savings for the rose, and not a single attendee will raise his offer. She saunters over to him, and says that this is it, it's over, and everything is ready for them to leave in the morning. She looks at him emotionless and says he had his chance to pay the owner, and he made his choice to keep the money. She takes the briefcase, presents him with the rose, and walks away. P sits down again, and time passes in a blur until his boss claps him on the shoulder and tells him it's time to leave. They go outside to the boss's limousine, and P is left reflecting that after all that, it's back to work tomorrow after all. | 5,107 | 1 |
Certainly! Here's a revised version of your story: "Sammy!" Gus's voice cut through the chatter of the dimly lit bar. The tall, sharply dressed man swiftly made his way to Gus's table. "Gus?" "You got any smokes?" Gus's request was direct. Sammy reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a carton of cigarettes. With a deft movement, he opened the lid and offered one to Gus. "Thanks." Gus accepted the cigarette, placing it between his lips. "You're welcome, Gus," Sammy replied before heading back to the bar. "Wait, Sammy..." Sammy paused a few steps away, turning to face Gus. "You got a light?" "Sure, Gus." Sammy returned to the table, producing a lighter from his pocket and igniting Gus's cigarette. "Thanks." Gus took a drag, the tip glowing orange in the dimness. "You're welcome, Gus." Sammy retreated to the bar once more. "Where the hell is Vinny?" Gus turned to Tony, who was meticulously counting cash at the table. "He said he had to deal with something for Mikey Sacks." "Since when does he cozy up to Mikey S?" Gus questioned, exhaling smoke. "I don't know," Tony replied, still engrossed in counting. "He said it was urgent and-" "Joey!" Gus's face lit up as a young man entered the bar. He rose from the table, arms outstretched. "Get over here, kid." Joey approached, reciprocating Gus's embrace. Gus planted a paternal kiss on Joey's head before gesturing for him to sit. "How you been?" "I'm alright, Uncle Gus," Joey replied, taking a seat. "I thought you ditched us, kid?" Tony extended his hand to Joey. "Aw, c'mon, Uncle Tony," Joey grinned, shaking Tony's hand. "How could I forget about you guys?" His gaze turned to Vinny's empty seat. "Where's Uncle V?" "That's the question of the hour, kid," Gus remarked. "That's a lot of dough, Uncle Tony. Who'd you shake down?" Joey's eyes flicked to the piles of cash on the table. "Hey, watch it, kid," Gus retorted with a smirk. "I'm a legitimate businessman here. No shaking down involved." "Yeah, sure, Uncle G," Joey chuckled, a playful glint in his eyes. "What brings you to the world-famous Pinucci's Pizzeria?" Gus inquired with a grin. "Don't tell me you need money," he added playfully. "Nah, I was actually looking for some advice," Joey replied. "If advice is what you're after, then you've come to the right place," Tony chimed in, taking a brief break from counting cash. "Uhm..." Joey hesitated, glancing at Tony. "I was kinda hoping Uncle G could help me this time." Gus let out a hearty laugh. "Keep counting, Tony," he said, waving off Tony's offer of assistance, who chuckled to himself and resumed counting. "What's the matter, Joe?" Gus inquired, attempting to take a drag from his already extinguished cigarette before discarding it on the floor. "Well..." Joey began, "I met this girl..." "Wait," Gus interrupted, his attention drawn to a commotion outside the window. "Is that Vinny?" Gus pointed towards the window. "Shit," Tony muttered as he swiftly rose from the table and headed to the door. "Marty, Lefty," Gus called out to two men sitting at the bar, who immediately turned their attention towards him. Gus gestured towards the disturbance outside as he followed Tony out the door. The two men from the bar swiftly rose and followed Gus and Tony outside. As they emerged onto the street, they were met with a grim sight—Vinny on the ground, being assaulted by a group of attackers. At the sight of Gus and his companions, the assailants scattered in the opposite direction down the street. Marty and Lefty chased after them briefly before returning to the scene. "Oh my God, Vinny," Gus exclaimed, rushing to his friend's side. "Can you hear me?" Vinny, conscious but unable to speak, laid on the ground, his clothes stained with blood and his usually impeccable hair now disheveled and dirtied. "Tony, get the car!" Gus ordered urgently. Tony dashed off to retrieve the vehicle. "Joey, help me lift him," Gus instructed. Together, Gus and Joey carefully lifted Vinny from the ground. "Marty, Lefty!" Gus called out to the men who were returning. "Hurry up!" The two men quickened their pace, jogging back to join Gus and the others. Soon, Tony pulled up to the curb in the car. One of the men opened the rear door, while the other assisted in getting Vinny into the vehicle. | 4,523 | 1 |
The golden rays of early morning shone into the shelter, landing on the boy’s eyes. This stirred him from sleep and through instinct, he immediately clutched at his chest, making sure it was still there. A small pouch tied to a cord draped around his neck, the reason he embarked on this journey. He crawled from the hovel of branches and dead leaves into the forest. The trees were beginning to shed, and the ground was damp. The dense woods turning light brown. The boy set out to look for food. Silent and slow, the boy explored the forested basin, bow in hand. There were no signs of anything larger than himself there. No trails, no droppings, nothing that might provide the boy with a meal that would last longer than a few days. Birds would do. So, the boy continued, his gaze focused on the forest canopy. While terrain, weather and people might have changed throughout his journey, hunger was the only certainty. Some time later, the boy managed to shoot down two scrawny cranes and had them tied around his waist. He spied a swan resting at the banks of the river. It was far, but his father taught him to shoot well. The boy focused, drew in a breath, and loosed the arrow. It grazed the swan’s neck, and struck a rock behind it, flint tip shattering. The swan began twitching on the gravel bank, the indirect strike broke its neck. Before the boy approached the dying bird, he noticed a rustling in the bushes next to it. He stopped and waited. A wild dog emerged, just as cautious as the boy, and slowly padded towards the swan. The boy could see its ribs clearly through the dogs matted fur, its shoulder blades threatening to break through its skin. He let the dog take his kill. It was raining heavily. The boy decided to make camp inside a deadfall at the banks of the river. The boy sat soaked and shivering next to his fire. As he dried, he dreamt of warmer lands, and of the place he received his gift. The sun steadily grew warmer. The lands changing from a lush green to dry grass and eventually to dust and cracked rock. The people also changed. They spoke in a language strange to the boy, guiding him with vague gestures and garbled tongues. He stumbled through the desert, trailing behind his guides, accumulating other ragged followers as they went. Then he saw it. Just along the shimmering horizon was a blot of green atop a hill. A beacon in the desert calling out to lost pilgrims seeking to gain its knowledge. As the weary group approached the high perched temple, the dry winds carried the stench of rotting flesh. Bodies lay strewn on the sand, swarmed by countless vultures. Their decaying flesh being ripped from the bone by great hooked beaks, their bones to be returned in time to that sacred place atop the hill. Like the wilderness surrounding it, the temple’s rites embodied all aspects of life; With death being a necessity for birth and growth. The boy plunged his face into the natural spring at the gates of the temple, wetting his parched throat and blistered face. A plant grew around the spring, and it grew like no other plant the boy had ever seen. Lines were dug into the earth, allowing water to flow through impossibly straight rows of tall grass. He knew that this was the reason he was sent here. The days grew longer and longer, with more and more travellers arriving at the oasis. The boy was sitting in the large camp of strangers and the sun had reached its highest point of the year when they were summoned into the temple. The boy surveyed the cavernous hall, perplexed. A juxtaposition of the natural and artificial. The large room was composed of straight lines and sharp angles, yet etched into the stone was lifelike depictions of the desert fauna; Foxes chasing rabbits, herds of wild horses running along the walls of the room, and in the centre a mighty pillar carrying the image of a large vulture, its magnificent wings spread, scythe beak turned to the side on full display. The ceremony began with the beating of drums echoing off the high walls. A large stone basin was brought before the audience. With elegant movements, the temple’s residents poured soil into the basin. A human bone was ground up, the bleached white powder scattered onto the soil. They produced seeds from small pouches hung around their necks and buried it in the basin’s loose mixture. Next, they poured that life giving water from the spring onto the soil and began to dance around the room. The boy’s eyes traced their swirling and noticed the moon carvings on the walls. Waxing and waning stone circles. This dance was the passage of time. Each lap of the hall representing months. All while the seed waited in damp soil. The boy and his fellow travellers were ushered out of the hall and were led to the spring with the strange grass. The grass was cut from the ground and beaten against a flat rock releasing its grain, the stalks being cast aside. The grain was ground down, mixed with water, and baked over a fire. The audience feasted on this new food, along with all manner of desert beasts and a thick liquid that made the boy feel dizzy. The boy hadn’t feasted so much in his entire life. But food wasn’t the gift he had come all this way to receive, at least not in this form. When it was time for them to leave the temple, each group of travellers were presented with a small pouch much like those the dancers wore. The families rejoiced at receiving this benevolent gift, the boy received his gift alone. The land was dusted with frost, cold winds funnelled through the mountain pass biting at the boy’s skin. Occasionally he would glance behind him, spotting the same wild dog watching from behind a rock or quickly running out of sight. It had been trailing behind him ever since he had shot down that swan. The boy paused for a moment, then quickly ducked down behind a mound of loose stone. There was a clearing in the woods below, and noises. Speech. A group began to enter the clearing. A band of young men, around the boys age, carrying spears and clubs, wearing the skins of great beasts. He had heard of such people from some of the pilgrims in the desert. Boys sent out into the wilderness, tasked with killing a creature stronger than them, wearing its skin, and returning as men. The boy could hear them from far up the mountain ridge. No doubt the animals in that forest did too. The rear of the line finally emerged into the clearing. They were dragging along women bound at the wrist. Stripped bare, some younger than the boy, some with hair beginning to grey. Most had distended bellies hanging from skeletal frames wholly unsuited for the burden of pregnancy. The boy waited; Still frozen in place long after the party had disappeared back into the treeline. When he could only hear the natural sounds of the forest once more, he rose to his feet and looked up at a path further up the mountain. The wide eyes of the dog stared back at him, waiting for the boy to move ahead so that it too could stand up and continue its journey. As time passed, the land grew a thick coating of snow. Food was even harder to come by now, yet with each kill he would leave a small pile of refuse some way away from his camp. It would always be gone by the next morning. He didn’t see the dog much. It was a careful companion, and rightfully so. The boy had noticed the dog’s belly swelling over time; It would have pups any day now. Amongst the snowcapped trees the boy found a glacial lake. Shimmering blue reflecting the cloudless winter sky above it. He would be able to fish here, possibly enough to last him the remainder of the journey. He didn’t know how close he was. He thought he recognised the land surrounding him, yet the drifting snow made him uncertain. He made camp in a small cove along the lakeshore, weaving basket shaped traps and leaving a pile of slightly damp wood for a fire later. The boy paced along the water, dropping traps where forest streams fed the lake. While he waited, he chipped at the edges of his knife, dull stone flaking off to reveal a hidden sharp edge. The traps hadn’t caught as many as he’d hoped, but it’d keep him fed, and that was enough. After gutting the fish with his newly renovated knife and draping them over the smoky fire to dry, he walked a little bit further down the shore and left a pile of offal. He placed a whole fish at the top, for the pups. Back at the camp he stripped down, leaving the small pouch tucked in a crevice for safekeeping. It was a while since he bathed, but it wasn’t raining now, and he had a fire to dry off next to. He made his way back to the edge of the water and looked down, gazing at his reflection in the water. It revealed someone unrecognisable to the boy, pale goose pimpled skin stretched over a wiry frame, more bone than muscle. Hair also began to sprout on his upper lip, this journey had changed him. He tread the freezing water until his feet began to go numb and the sun began to set. As he emerged from the lake, he noticed that the pile of guts was left untouched. No matter, it would be gone by tomorrow. With shaky steps he went back to the camp, barricading the entrance with stones and fallen branches to keep the heat in. He sat next to the fire clutching the gift around his neck, hoping he would see his family again soon. A sharp gust of wind entered the cove, waking the boy up. Through sleep blurred eyes he saw figures standing over him. He shot up, spun to the entrance, and saw them clearly. The pelt hunters. The eldest stood before him, a cloak of thick sandy coloured fur slung over his shoulder, grinning with teeth that were beginning to brown. An unseen blow struck the side of the boy's head, and he went back to sleep. | 9,728 | 2 |
Part 1 Chicago, 2016. Flinn Gerald is doing his best to make it in the city. Born in Selma, Alabama, he has spent his entire life trying to escape the ever tightening grasp of his small town. But alas, he made it out and is adapting to life in the big city. With a big fancy corporate job, an endless supply of friends, an apartment with a stunning view of the lake, and great distance from his family, what more could he need? Well, there is a lot more (or less) that he needs, but of course that is a story for later. On a typical Tuesday night at a bar, the regulars crowd in. Flinn is late, as usual, as he stayed late at work (again), but on his arrival, the cheers and hugs from all the friends make everyone forget of the regular inconvenience. Conversation ensued, starting with all the boring finance jargon, but as the drinks flowed, so did the conversation, moving away from work and more into life. This is what everyone preferred. “Another round, anyone?” asked Raheem, enthusiastically. After a murmur of concurrence, he stood up to make his way up to the bar. “Flinn, care to lend a hand?” Raheem Bartlett was Flinn’s college roommate and the first person he met outside of his hometown. The pair hit it off instantly despite having wildly different backgrounds. Even in their freshman year, the engineer and the finance major would get into all sorts of trouble together, but eventually they leveled out. Six years later, they still have each other’s backs just like day one. The pair made their way up to the bar and waited to get the bartender's attention. “What's up with you, bro?” asked Raheem. “You’ve been seeming a bit off.” “Oh, ya know. Work, life, everything kinda happens so fast. Work has been busy as of late, and the hours long.” Seeming displeased by this answer, Raheem stared back in concern. “Really, I’m fine… just long hours.” “Back in school you’d pull back to back all-nighters and then still make it to a morning class. I find it hard to believe that the mighty Flinn would be so setback by ‘long hours’.” Flinn took a moment to ponder, staring down at the bar covered in various stamps and postcards beneath the epoxy surface. “I guess, ya know, it's not all it was cracked up to be. I guess I had expected more.” Flinn had mostly dropped his accent, but occasionally it would still slip out. Despite coming from a long line of mill workers (mostly paper) and farm hands who never ventured further than the Dallas county line, Flinn yearned to leave his small town and conquer the world from a young age. Coming from the poorest county in Alabama, his family always squashed his dreams, labeling them as impossible. But Flinn knew better. Or, at least he knew he could do better. Graduating top of his class a year early and winning a full-ride scholarship to Northwestern University, he had proved everyone wrong and set his own path. The path he was told was impossible became his reality. “More what?” “Nothing, really. I mean, what more is there? This is what I always wanted, right? The stable job in the city, never having to worry about money. It’s great, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but… something is missing. Doing the same thing day after day staring at a screen, moving clients money around. I… just hoped it would be more fulfilling, especially after all it took to get here.” Before he could finish his thought, the bartender came up to take their order: another round for the table, plus a round of shots, plus two more shots. “What am I saying, really?” added Flinn. “I shouldn’t be complaining. Look at where I am now compared to six years ago. So much has changed. My home, friends, even my diet. I just feel a bit off. Like I need something more to do.. “I get it, bro. Adjusting to your new life can be rough. Enjoy it for a minute or two.” Raheem slides a shot in front of Flinn. “Here, take this.” Tuesday had become fairly consistent to this point for this group of misfits: Raheem and his girlfriend Amy; Jack; Jasper, from Flinn’s firm, and his wife Max; and of course, Flinn. For nearly two years, these six have been meeting at O’Malley’s every Tuesday night for drinks and trivia. Some nights are more wild than others, but Tuesday has become the staple of the week among them. Drinks flowed pretty regularly and heavy over the next few hours as the clock approached the end of day. Still going round for round on alternating tabs, the useless debates began to heat up. “You can’t seriously think Wicker Park is the best neighborhood outside the Loop. Y’all need to get out more,” said Flinn. “Bro it’s obviously Wicker Park,” argued Raheem.” Right on the blue line, getting to O’Hare is insanely easy, plus you can’t find better music in the city. Besides, Wicker Park has Davenport’s.” “No one ever says Wicker Park,” adds Jack. “Have you ever heard someone say Wicker Park before?” “Dude, but you can obviously get to O’Hare from anywhere in the city,” said Flinn “Sure, but beats walking through that dumb Block 37 Center transfer like you and your red line. No transfer is the way to go, plus the blue line gets you right to the center of the loop.” “So does every other L line as long as ya don’t mind walking a few blocks!” “You’re both wrong,” adds Max. “Neither matters because Midway is better anyways.” “Woah!” the whole table murmurs, sharing shocked looks as if she just confessed to a crime. Flinn rolled his eyes at this notion. “Who flies out of Midway?” asks Raheem. “What? Less people, cheaper flights, and more space. Why wouldn’t I fly out of Midway?” said Max. “Wait, wait, that aside,” interrupts Raheem, “can we go back to the fact that Jasper thinks Sheffield is the best neighborhood? I feel like we moved past that too quickly.” The debate rages on for many more minutes, until Flinn, seemingly out of nowhere, had enough. “Can y’all just shut the fuck up! Why does it even matter?” Everyone’s glance quickly shot over to Flinn as a deafening silence overtook the table. Everyone pondered how to respond, and couldn’t seem to find an answer. This behavior from Flinn was unexpected, nay, unheard of. Flinn was the most level headed amongst them by far. Not even Raheem, his best friend of six years, had ever seen him get angry, let alone over an inconsequential friendly argument. “I…” Not even Flinn knew what to say next. “I’m going to go home. Long day tomorrow.” Already on his feet, he quickly walked away from the table and out the door.” \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The walk home was fairly brisk, but Flinn had grown fond of the cold. He tucked his hands into his coat pocket and hunched his shoulders forward, only looking down at the pavement ignoring the mostly asleep but still wide awake city surrounding him. His thoughts ran wild and near out of control. Of course, his intoxication did not help with clarity, but the inner dialogue was deafening. Not even he knew what was bothering him, but he was obviously bothered, deeply. He made a fool of himself in a way he never had before, and right now he felt he did not recognize himself. Surely some sleep will help, right? He slowly made his way down the steps to the platform, carefully watching each step as to not fall, to wait for his train. He posted up against a pillar and stared off onto the dark, empty tracks. What has gotten into me? He did his best to calm his racing, wasted mind searching for some legibility amongst his thoughts. Once he finally got home, he slumped down on the couch and scarfed down some week-old sushi he found in the fridge. He turned on some old documentary and was asleep before he knew it. Suddenly, he was woken up by his phone ringing. It usually does not ring this time of night and was less than thrilled to be woken, so he let it keep ringing. It stopped after a couple of seconds, and he glanced down at the screen: Mama (2) missed calls Dad (1) missed call Now concerned, he calls his mom back in a hurry. “Hello?” “Flinn? Your grandfather, he’s dead.” Part 2 The wet air engulfed Flinn’s face as he stepped out the airport doors into a warm February day. Six years had passed since he smelled the Alabama air. Even after all this time, it still smells just as he had remembered as if not even a day had passed. The drive to Selma was another ninety minutes, and despite having five days to mentally prepare himself for his arrival, it was not nearly enough time. He had not seen or spoken to anyone from his town, not even family, since he left early that August morning all those years ago. He left everything behind to start his new life. The life so many told him to not start, that he needed to stay. He left anyway and never looked back. That was, until now. He had little choice in this regard. He knew he would have to make his return someday, but he knew not when nor for what. But today was that day. Flinn and his grandfather (Pops) had always been close. If anyone had been supportive of him, it’d have been Pops, but he was a man of little words. Even when he could talk, he hardly chose to. He was a great listener, and not just because he could not speak. He showed he was engaged and listening no matter what Flinn had to say. At times, he felt Pops was the only one who understood him as if he had been just like him before, but no one would ever talk about his past. All Flinn knew is Pops lost his tongue after a failed lynching. The familiarity of the scenery zipping past was bittersweet. He had not realized how much he missed the rolling hills and thick forests beneath the unforgiving southern sky. He kept his head pressed against the cool glass of the car window even through the constant bumps in the road. He couldn’t look away. So many memories happened here, and the closer he got, the more plentiful the memories became, and the more potent they were, and the more painful they’d become. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ As the dust settled behind him, he stood on the driveway staring at his childhood home still unsure how to process his emotions. It was all so overwhelming. He was thinking everything at once. He took a deep breath, rolled back his shoulders, and swallowed. He reached for the door handle, hesitating slightly, and took a step in. One foot, and then the next. “Martin!” Flinn smiled as his old friend and childhood dog rushed towards him without hesitation. He knelt down and embraced him as Martin excitedly rustled through his arms seemingly showing more energy than he had in years. He walked down the hall and around the corner into the living room. There, both drawn to the large television like moths to a flame, he saw his parents sitting beside one another on the couch watching some daytime program with their backs to him. They seemed to pay no notice to the commotion at the front door nor the loud creaking footsteps he took along the old wooden floors. They knew he was there; they just chose to ignore him. He walked into view to greet them. "Mama, dad." His father smiled slightly but caught himself and refrained. Mama kept a straight face, but seemed to be fighting tears."Howard, help Flinn with his bags, dear." “No, it's alright, I know where to take them,” said Flinn. “How are y’all?” “Service is tomorrow at eleven down at the ole First Baptist Church. Make sure to wear something nice.” “Alright, mama. I’ll... I’ll see you at dinner.” “Whole family is coming tonight. Dinner is served at...” “At seven, I got it, just as always.” “It’s good to see you, kid.” said his dad. “Let me know if you need anything” He did not expect things to go like that, not that he knew what to expect. He had hoped time would have been more forgiving. Perhaps leaving unannounced in the middle of the night was not the best plan, but at the time he felt as if he had no other choice. Everyone knew he was leaving. That was no secret and had not been for years before any plan had actually been set into motion. No one knew the date or time, except for Pops, of course, but he’d never tell. Of course he wanted everyone to know. He wanted everyone to be proud of him, but it was too big of a risk and commendations were too much to expect. Besides, Mama always had her schemes, and had she known, she would have found a way to stop him. Not much had changed since he’d been here last. The old wood paneling still lined nearly all the walls, crack in some spots, replaced in others, but all coated by decades of cigarette soot. On the walls were a combination of family portraits from over the years and cheap artwork found at the flea market. Old green furniture, too many house plants to count, and a tacky themed kitchen, it was all still the same. His childhood bedroom, however, was much different. Hardly even recognizable, what was once his bedroom was now a storage room filled with endless shelves and boxes. He set his things on the lonely cot in the corner, sat down, and took it all in. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ Not realizing he had drifted off, Flinn awoke and looked at the clock. 6:55. Convenient. He sat up and brushed his hair down with his hand as he suspected it was sticking up in the usual way. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the dining room. The whole family was there, probably about twenty people or so, all scattered about throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room engaged in various conversations. His nana, aunt, and Mama were cooking away putting the final touches on the large meal. “Well if it isn’t this fucker…” said a familiar voice to his left, laughing. Flinn looked over to see his cousin who’s just a year younger than him. “DeAndre, how are you?” “Never thought I’d see you again, even since you left. Thought maybe you ‘ood be dead.” “Nah,” Flinn laughed. “Still very much alive.” “I can see dat. Wearin’ your fancy suit and all.” “Yeah I’ve been doing pretty well. Work has been… good. I have a great job at a finance firm in Chicago. Everything has been… Good. Yeah, good. How about you?” “Now you ain’t goin’ city on us, are you?” Flinn laughed. “I think I might already be.” Just as dinner was finishing up, a line started to form and people found a seat wherever they could, be it at the table, on the couch, near the counter, or outside. “Flinn!” his dad called out. “I saved ya a seat here at the table, kid.” Flinn took his seat right next to his dad which positioned him right across from Mama. The table could sit eight, and the seats filled in pretty quickly so he was lucky to get one. Besides his sister, all of the oldest family members took the other four chairs. The dinner itself was mostly uneventful, except for the food of course which was extraordinary. Flinn had not eaten Mama’s cooking, or anything like it in six years. The southern food in Chicago was alright, but nothing like what you can get down here, and no restaurant is going to have the same quality and taste as a home-cooked meal. By God, he had not realized how much he needed this. It was almost healing, like a part of his soul had been lost and he found it once again. The last week had been incredibly overwhelming, and last Saturday he never foresaw being here now, but he was glad he was, regardless of the looming tension. All the stress from work and life back home in Chicago was now all gone. All he had to worry about was… oh yeah, the family drama. The dreaded interactions, what he had suppressed for so long, that had kept him up at night for years. All those long nights doing homework or anything else beside sleeping. They had not been by choice but rather necessity. He would have slept more if he could, and some of those nights he really needed to, but instead was kept motivated by the pain. The pain of knowing no matter what he did, no matter how successful in life he became, he would never be good enough for his family, good enough for Mama, because he left them. If there ever was a time to clear his conscience and get everything out of the way, it would be today, or at least over the next couple of days. When else would he have the chance? Not that any of this had been planned, and his therapist would probably advise against it. She did not even know he was here. What would she have to say? Avoiding conflict has always been his choice. He has always been quiet, never been at the center of drama, but some things need to be said. Just, maybe not by him. If he waited long enough, perhaps they would come up on their own. So he decided to wait, but he knew time was limited and he could not wait forever. “Mama, could you pass the butter?” Mama just stared back at him. “Get ya own damn buttah, since ya can do everything else on ya own.” Flinn stands up and reaches for the butter. “I can do everything myself, and I have. I hope you’re proud, Mama.” “Proud? What do I have to be proud of?” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe my job, my degree, everything I have been able to do to build a good life for myself.” “I don hear anything worthy of praise.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mama.” “Oh, so now you’re sorry? You could’ve fooled me. Is that how you felt when you left? Unbelievable.” “I left because I had no other choice.” “Oh don go lyin’ to me now. You did have a choice. You had a choice and you chose to leave us. You didn’t say goodbye, and you were just gone in the mornin’.” “If I had not just left, you would’ve stopped me.” “Cause you ain’t got no reason to go nowhere.” “I had plenty of reasons to want to leave, and not because of you. I’ve always had dreams, Mama, ya know that. I’ve always been bigger than just this town.” “Oh, so now you’re too good for us, city boy? Huh? I don wanna hear no more of it.” “It wasn’t about that, Mama. Look at all I’ve been able to do.” “I ain’t see nothin’. You never call and you never visit. How am I supposed to know what you been doin’?” “I thought you didn’t want me coming around any more?” “Well, you’ve got that right. Glad to see you still have some brains left.” “Well excuse me. Maybe it's best if I leave again. Sorry I ain’t make you proud, Mama.” Flinn got up and left the table. Part 3 Just as the early light began to peak through the blinds, Flinn was woken up by a firm knock at his door. “Flinn, may I come in? It's Uncle Terrence.” Flinn sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yep, come in.” “How are you this morning, kid? Ya know, she’ll never admit it, but ya Mama missed ya.” “I find it hard to believe.” Deep down Flinn knew it was true, but she was hard as a rock, and arrogant. She would always find a way to be right, even when she knew she was wrong, and she would never let you know she knew she was wrong. “Well, we’re all proud of you, kid.” Flinn hated when Terrence and everyone called him kid. “Just wish yoo’d come around and see us every once in a while. I know ya busy with all the big city stuff and all.” “I thought no one wanted anything to do with me any more?” “At first, maybe, but I miss ya, kid. Ya know who missed ya most of all?” “Pops?” “Yes, of course. He always wanted to know about ya, every time I’d come round. He couldn’t call, but always wanted me to.” “I should have called.” “I think everyone wanted to call, but as time went on, it became harder and harder to push that button. It was already so hard at first, and only got harder.” “I thought about everyone a lot, especially at first. Leaving was really hard, and I almost didn’t, but I always wanted more. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in this town, and if I had not left when I did I probably never would have. But it was still hard. I wanted to go home so many times, but I convinced myself no one wanted me here no more or that y’all would’ve said ‘I told ya so’ or sum bullshit. No one wanted me around any more and I had left, so I was stuck on the path I chose. And I’m happy, and I’ve done so much, but it’s never been easy.” “Pops was a lot like you when he was your age. Set on leaving as quickly as he could. Things were different back then, not that they are any better now, but Hank... my brother… Pops, was just like you.” “What changed?” “Well, he never did. Just no one talks about it anymore. After what happened on that day, they blamed his behavior. Said he should’ve played it safe and he’d still have his tongue.” “No one has ever told me the story.” “And they won’t. It changed the whole family.” “But you’ll tell me?” “Only if you promise not to tell. I don need an earful from ya Mama.” “I promise.” “Hank couldn’t be confined to Selma, just like you. He joined the army right out of high school, and after he was done in Lebanon, he didn’t go straight home.” “Where did he go?” “Everywhere but here. He used the small amount of money he got from the army and went anywhere that would let him in. Across Europe, parts of Asia, Northern Africa, even parts of South America. Of course, a young black man traveling by himself at the time was challenging, but Hank could hold his own pretty well. He still ran into all sorts of trouble. He spent more nights in jail than he would have liked, but he would have done it all again if he could.” “What happened when he got back?” “He was much different, but for the better. He couldn’t wait to get back out there again. He had confidence like I had never seen before. That’s what got him in trouble not too long after.” “How’d he lose his tongue? I’m guessing that is what changed everything.” “When he got back, he got involved with a girl, I think her name was Susan. She was the mayor’s daughter. They snuck around for a while. Their relationship was not acceptable, especially to her father. If he found out, Hank would be in a lot of trouble, and of course eventually he did find out. He spent about a month in jail in just awful conditions even for the time. They didn’t have anything to hold him on so eventually they had to let him go. About a week after he got out, he was walking downtown and some guys grabbed him. He took him out to a field and tried to lynch him. Luckily, they failed and he survived, but they took his tongue as a warning. He was never the same after that. All of his confidence was gone, and of course he couldn’t speak no more.” Flinn did not know how to respond. It all made sense now: why the family so desperately wanted him to stay, why they were so hurt by him leaving, and why they’d feared who he was becoming. They were all traumatized and wanted to protect him. They did not want him to suffer the same fate as Pops. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The funeral itself was fairly uneventful and went nearly as perfectly as expected. The church filled in with hardly any empty seats, tears were shed, and speeches were given. Pops touched the lives of almost everyone he met, and they came to show it. After the service was the reception, and yet again, the food was spectacular. Everyone got along just fine today and there was no more residual drama, at least for now. Today was Pops’ day. After the reception, the family gathered back at Mama’s house for the reading of the will. Pops did not have many possessions, at least not of monetary value, but what he did have was meaningful in other ways. He was very clear on who he wanted to give off, and handpicked what would be most substantial to each person. Everyone gathered around much as they did at dinner, and the lawyer began his reading: I, Hank Gerald, a resident in the City of Selma, County of Dallas, State of Alabama, being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby absolutely revoke any and all other wills and amendments previously made by me. The reading went on for some time as there were many beneficiaries. Flinn began to daydream about what could be left for him. Flinn was not a very sentimental person, so trinkets and heirlooms paid him little interest. Perhaps his car, or maybe money. Something that will be useful to him. To my dear brother, Terrence, I leave my 1964 Pontiac GTO and all tools and parts associated and necessary with/for the running and upkeep of the vehicle. The further down the list he went, less was given, but this is to be expected. As the end of the list neared, Flinn began to wonder what would be left for him if anything at all. The will had been in order of age, to this point, so he should be up soon. To my Granddaughter, Nia,... Nia? She's younger than me… Flinn thought. I leave her my grandmother’s locket containing a picture of my Grandfather before he left for the Great War. She looked at it everyday to keep the memory of him alive until he eventually returned to her alive. How could he skip me? Perhaps I should have called, or never left. Flinn got lost in his own thoughts and barely paid attention to the rest of the will. He and Pops were so close, and he never imagined he would be taken out of the will. But that is my own fault, afterall. I left, and I never even care to call. He died, and I never even said goodbye. Just as Flinn began to accept the consequences of his actions, they got to the last beneficiary listed in the will: Finally, to my oldest Grandson, Flinn, who is more and more like me than I ever could have wished to have been, I leave my journal. I hope whenever you need the motivation, you read it to find the meaning you are looking for in life. Part 4 Flinn sat at his desk unable to focus. It was fairly slow for a Friday, but he still had work to do. After a chaotic weekend back home in Alabama, he was ready to settle back into his monotonous routine. The experience had been healing in some regards, but still left a lot unanswered. What did he mean by finding the meaning in life? Flinn wondered as he flipped through the endless pages of Pops’ journal, all filled with endless recounts, drawings, symbols, and pictures from his travels, just as he had since Monday. The journal consumed his whole attention, and nothing else seemed important enough to focus on. He had even ditched his friends all week which he never does. He is supposed to meet Raheem for drinks tonight, but now he is wondering if he even wants to go. There is just too much in his head right now. He just wants to be alone. 12:37. The clock is moving too slowly. Flinn clears his calendar for the rest of the day and decides to go home. At home, he still finds himself flipping through the pages of the journal, not even reading them but just looking at them. Again and again, he flips through until he has enough. He drops the journal on his lap and stares off into the distance at the gorgeous view of Lake Michigan. The endless city and skyline take up most of the horizon until it just stops, cut off by the endless ocean-like lake. He stares at it for quite a while until something catches his eye. He has seen this before. Well, of course he has. He lives here and this is his view everyday. But he knows he has seen it somewhere else. He picks the journal back up and flips through in a hurry. There it is. He holds the journal up to the window to show a matching two-page drawing of this exact view. Well, not exact. It is a slightly different angle, but it was close enough. Pops was here. He would have loved visiting. I should have invited him. This made Flinn sad, and he threw the journal down on the table in frustration. Just then, that is when he noticed it. There was a page sticking out from the journal, but it was not like the rest. The page was white and pristine, aside from a few wrinkles, as if it was new, whereas the rest of the journal showed its age. He rushed over to grab it. He opened it to find a letter, addressed to him: Grandson, When you left, I knew that you would accomplish everything you set out to do. I also knew, however, you would find yourself lost someday, returning home for answers. I was hoping I’d be able to give you those answers myself, but as time goes on that seems less likely. I too found myself lost, and I knew not why. I had gone and seen the world, and it changed me, but I was still not fulfilled. I came home still looking for the answers, and it took a while, but eventually I did find them. Through this journal, I hope to share my findings so that you too, when you are lost, find the answers you seek. Whenever you are ready, follow my journey and the clues I have left for you. Go out and see the world, just as I did. You will find that what you want from life is less than what you expect. I hope the experiences you have are less harsh than my own, but still be careful. The world has changed a lot, but still not enough. But don’t skip ahead for the meaning may be lost. Take only one step at a time, and when it comes time to take the next step, it will reveal itself. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ Seven o’clock rolls around and Flinn walks into the bar to meet Raheem. He hasn’t seen Raheem, or anyone else from the group, since last Tuesday when he had his outburst. He begins by telling the story of the events of this last weekend, but leaves out the parts about Pops’ past. "Pops left me a hidden letter.” “What do you mean?” asked Raheem. “Like in his journal, I found a hidden letter. It was addressed to me.” “What did it say, bro?” “He says he was a lot like me when he was my age. He wants me to go where he went and learn what he did.” “In Alabama?” “No, everywhere but there. He wants me to start in Western Europe and follow his clues around the world.” “He traveled?” “A lot, apparently. I never knew. He was in the army, and after he got out, he traveled… everywhere, basically.” “Why did no one tell you?” “They wanted to keep me safe, I guess. "They wanted to keep the whole family safe after what happened to him.” “What do you mean, bro. What happened?” “I can’t talk about it, but it doesn’t matter now anyways. I’m living a different life now.” Flinn never shared much about his past or his family with anyone, not even Raheem. It has always been a mystery. This was the most he had ever shared with him. “Well, are you going to go?” “No, I can’t. I have work. It took too much to get here. I can’t just give it away.” “It’ll still be here when you get back, bro.” “If only it was that simple.” “It can be. You have money saved up. Chicago isn’t going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere. Plus, you’ve always talked about traveling more. Why don’t you take some time to do it.” “I suppose, but I like my life here.” “If you don’t do it now, when will you? You’ve taken a leap before, why not take another one. You’re smart, you’ll land on your feet, bro. Besides, your grandfather thought it was important enough to not only give you his journal, but hide you a letter for you to find when you needed it most. Maybe now is when you needed it most. You’re way too stressed at work anyways, and I can tell you’ve been off for a while now. Perhaps some change could give you what you need.” \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ On Monday morning, when Flinn gets to work, he walked straight to his boss's office. He turned in his letter of resignation. Two weeks later, he took the red line to the blue line to O’Hare. Journal in hand, he boarded a flight to Dublin. | 31,861 | 1 |
A reporter drives along a dark twisting road, to a secluded town called Halls Landing tucked away in the Appalachian mountains. He had heard rumors of a local legend about a man who lived in a cabin tucked away deep in the woods. Supposedly, those who visit the cabin come back "twisted", "broken", or "changed" a different word is used for every retelling. Sometimes those who visit are said to never come back at all. The reporters first stop would be the Due Drop Diner for a quick breakfast. He takes his seat and quickly decides on a cup of black coffee and the classic bacon and eggs. The waitress brings his meal to him. "We don't get many visitors here, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" The waitress, who's name tag read Stacy, asks in a very prominent Appalachian accent. "Well, I'm a reporter." The man answers. "I'm actually here to report on a local legend if you're not to busy." Stacy's face and demineaner suddenly shift. She goes pale and her warm smile and cheary personality fade for a moment to a look of anxiety, before quickly switching back. "I'm sorry but I can't talk right now, I have other tables to get to." She hurries off to one of the two other patrons in the Diner, who were here before he had arrived. Dispite his strange encounter with the waitress he was determined to find out more about the local legend who driven so far to learn about. Yet, everyone in town seemed to react the same way, either dismissing the topic, changing the subject, or finding some reason to leave. It's as if no one wants talk about it, as if it's a secret. After deciding that it might be a waste of time, he stops into an old country store, run by an older man he hadn't seen around town much, if at all. After purchasing a few items and turning to leave, the man speaks up. "You're that reporter right? The one the folks are so antsy about?" He turns back to old man, he has long grey hair and a thick beard to match. A pot belly coverd by a white tank top and overalls, and a voice that sounded like he smoked a pack a day sense the age of 6. The reporter replied "Yeah, I just wanted to know about the man who lived in the cabin, tucked back in the woods somewhere. Everyone always acts so dismissive and dodgy." Almost on instinct, the only man replies. "There's an old sawmill at the edge of town, behind it you'll find a walking trail. Head up that trail for about two hours. At the end you'll come to clearing, with what your looking for right there." The reporter, had been writing down what he could and hoped he could remember the rest. "Man, your a life saver thank you so much, you probably just saved my entire trip!" The reporter turns back to leave excitedly, before he can make it to the door, the old man says one more thing. "Just remember son, legends exist for a reason. " The reporter hastely made his way to his car, quickly turning the key and heading to the saw mill. Something strange he noticed, however, was that everyone he could see, was watching him drive. Stopping any and all activity, just to stare him down as he made his way up the winding road. Men, women, even children. As if trying to force the car off the road. He parked his car and made his way around the abandoned saw mill, until he found a break in the fence, with a trail leading up the mountain. After a grueling two hour walk up the trail in silence, he found it. A small clearing with an old cabin. The cabin was dark and decrepit compared to surrounding greenery. It looked as if it had been their first centuries, almost completely untouched. Feeling as if his hopes might've been dashed, he slowly makes his way to the front door, still panting from his hike up the mountain. He Knocks on the door, and to his surprise, after a few minutes, the door opens. Standing in the door way looks to be a man in his early 20s. Short, Dark brown hair, blue eyes, wearing a blue flannel, a pair of jeans, and heavy black boots. All of which look relatively new. The reporter, camcorder in hand, was expecting someone much older than the man that stood before him, and before he could get a word in edgewise. The man flashes a smug grin and speaks. "Let me guess, you want to hear about the man on the mountain." The reporter, having his plans laid bare before him, answers still tired from his hike. "uh yes, I had heard of the legends and thought I'd come see for myself. The towns folk seem pretty reluctant about giving me directions though." The man leans on the doorway, crossing his arms. "Yeah well, you know how it is. Superstition can cause people to act strange and weary, especially around new faces." His grin turned into a more friendly smile. "But where are my manners. The names Dean, and this old cabin was built by my great great great grandfather. He was the man on the mountain you've heard about." The reporter, as excited as a city boy can be after hiking up hill for two hours straight. Smiles back at the man, excited to learn what this man might know. "Well, what happened? Why are the towns folk so weary of this place?" The reporter asks eagerly, his legs shaking from exhaustion. "The man on the mountain was cruel to say the least. He'd lore people up here, he'd carve weird symbols into their skin, mutilate them, dismember them. Some say he could even twist up someone's soul, change them in ways no one, not even god can fix." There was a moment of silence between them, before the man speaks up again. "Well, you're probably tired from your hike all the way up here. Come inside I'll get you a drink and we can talk more about it." The man steps aside to let the reporter in. The doorway was dark, as if swallowed by some impenetrable void. Regardless, the reporter enters the cabin, the door closes behind them. The lock clicks. The reporter never comes back. | 5,820 | 1 |
This is the first time I have written something of this length, and is more of an exercise in self-therapy than anything else. Disclaimer: This story contains conversations about child abuse. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it. Nathan’s number appeared on my phone screen. I debated whether or not to answer it. We hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while, and while we did keep in touch sporadically, it was usually because of important family issues. I didn’t know of anything happening with mom or dad, nor with Talia or Rio, so I let it go to voicemail. I could always call him back later. I placed the phone back in my pocket, and returned to cleaning my camera. The phone buzzed again. A text message came through. I read the preview line from the home screen. “The city declared eminent domain on the house” I unlocked my phone, read the full text message, and dialed my brother. I wasn't able to get any closer to the house than a few blocks. Most of the area was blocked off with chain link fencing and construction equipment in preparation for the demolition that was supposed to take place within the coming days. The barriers didn’t prevent people from walking in to the neighborhood, but it hindered scrappers from coming in and stripping the houses of copper wiring and plumbing. I grabbed my camera bag out of the trunk of my car along with my tripod. I shouldered it and hooked the tripod to my bag. I pulled my water bottle out of the center console and shut the door. I stood next to my car surveying the neighborhood. 12 city blocks of old single family homes comprised the neighborhood where I grew up. Some of the houses had been empty for months, others for years. There was an eerie silence that permeated the still air. I could not hear the familiar sounds of people, pets, or cars. I locked the car and put my keys in my pocket. I patted my jacket down to ensure I had what I needed. After a quick check, I started my walk. The sidewalk of the old neighborhood streets still bore the familiar cracks and grind marks from years of buckling and remedy. Leaves dropped by the trees still lay scattered all along the pathways and sidewalk. Korina’s house was the first house I encountered as I made my way through a gap in the fence. The yard was overgrown with tall grass and thistle. I could see the faded blue paint of the old house contrasting the green and browns of the lawn. The chain link fence that marked off the corner property was nearly invisible through the thick brush. As I continued walking west towards 110th, I started to feel something was off. The streets seemed wider than I remembered. It took me longer than I’d like to admit, but eventually I realized what was different. There were no cars. The streets here typically had cars lined bumper to bumper in any spot available, and were visible from block to block. The absence of all these vehicles made me realize just how deserted the neighborhood really was. House after house, yard after yard, the telltale signs of desertion reinforced what I could see from the moment I passed the construction fence: This was no longer my neighborhood. There were no signs of life, and no one I could expect to find still here. Abandonment was the new normal here. I continued on, glancing at houses and recalling memories of summer bike rides, and daily walks with dogs I used to have. I remembered walks home from school, and chasing after ice cream trucks when they passed our houses. I smiled a bit as I remembered more and more of my years spent here. I don’t quite know just why I was smiling. There were plenty of bad memories here too. Fights, yelling, being beat up, being robbed. I could remember failed friendships, lost loves, and bitter feelings of failures too. Still, I felt a certain amount of nostalgia despite the weight of these negative feelings. I almost wanted to experience everything again, although I wasn't sure why I was feeling this way. Concrete, asphalt, billboards and liquor stores were the normal vistas of everyday life. Occasionally, after a good rainstorm, the grey haze of smog would lift, and the mountains would be visible to the north. At least, they would be visible until mid-morning when the exhaust from a million cars covered them behind a veil of pollution. It wasn’t until the first time I travelled out of the city that I realized there was more to see. Traveling up the coast north along the Pacific Coast Highway introduced me to scenes of deep blue ocean water spanning the width of my vision. Driving up Highway 3 introduced me to the permeating scent of Pine and Fir trees. The two-lane stretch of highway from Portland to Tillamook introduced me to lush green forests that I had only ever read about. When I came home to the same old dirty, dusty concrete and boiling summer asphalt, I had made up my mind. I would do everything it took to leave this place. I would not spend another day longer than was necessary living in cramped quarters and fighting for parking space. I arrived to the house, and paused at the gate. The house sat in contrast of what the rest of the neighborhood looked like. Instead of overgrown grass and tall weeds all over the place, the landscaping showed signs of relatively recent work. The guava tree in the front lawn still had some fruit ready to be picked, and the avocado tree on the other side of the pathway was still weighed down by its own fruit. Flowers still bloomed in the raised bed in front of the house. My brother had clearly tried to keep up on things until the last possible moment. The house, too, looked better than what I expected after walking up 4 blocks and seeing nothing but dilapidated houses and unkempt yards. I opened the gate and walked up to the small porch. The metal gate that enclosed it was gone having been removed by my brother when he took over the property. It looked nice to see it open instead of the cage it once felt like. I turned the knob on the door, but it didn't give. Ever a creature of habit, my brother had locked the door when he left. Of course, he did. I sighed and prepared to find another way in when I remembered my parents hiding a spare key. I wasn’t sure if it would still be there, but after running my hands along the back side of the gutter downspout, I was rewarded for my efforts. I unlocked the front door and stepped into the front living room, the sounds of my footsteps and the closing door echoing in the empty space. The room felt both larger and smaller than I remembered it. I suppose it was lack of furniture that made it feel larger, but it still felt smaller than I remember. The result of growing taller throughout the years I suppose. I slowly walked along the slate tile floor towards the central hallway that connected the front of the house to the back bedrooms. I wasn't entirely sure that just because the front door was locked, that there wasn't some squatter looking for a little temporary shelter within the back rooms. I carefully and silently crept step by step towards what used to be the bedroom shared by my sister and me. I stuck my head in and gave the room a cursory glance. It was empty, thankfully. I moved back into the hallway and peered into the bedroom across the hall. This is where both of my brothers had shared a room. It too, was empty save for a few boxes holding hardware and doorknobs from the closet doors of the bedroom. I walked back towards the back of the house where my parent's bedroom was. The walls in the hallway bore the dusty signs where picture once hung. The bedroom door was open. I stepped inside, and looked around. The old avocado paint that my mom had picked out years ago still adorned the walls. Walking further towards the addition that was the small room my grandma and grandpa lived in showed that there was no one here. I breathed a sigh of relief as I set my bag down and set up my tripod. I reached into my bag a pulled out an envelope of old photos. These were old snapshots that we had all taken at some point in time in the house. There were pictures of all of us sitting at the dining room table playing a game of Monopoly. There was a picture of my brother and sister sitting on a couch in the front living room. There was a picture of me hanging on the bars of the front porch. I looked through them all and held them in place in front of me as if I were holding a window to the past. Each picture made the lump in my throat grow as I started to struggle to control my emotions. There was history here, and soon it would all be gone. This is the place where my parents had raised four kids. They had taken care of my grandparents in their twilight years here. My Aunt and my grandmother had both died in this house. Birthdays, graduation parties, and anniversaries had been celebrated here. The echoes of life had reverberated within the walls of this place. Now, the house sat silent. It would never again know happy screams of kids having a water-balloon war out in the front yard, nor would it hear the cries of anguish as the matriarch of the family passed away surrounded by her family. What once was a home full of life was now just an empty house made of drywall and paint. I sat there for a moment contemplating just how much family history was actually made here. As I thought hard about my siblings and my parents, I felt pained at the thought of our strained relationships. We had all scattered once we had the opportunity to be free of each other. My oldest brother had married and moved away as soon as possible. My sister now lived in northern California. My parents too had moved away. I was now living in Utah. Only my older brother had remained behind. The lump grew larger in my throat as tears welled up in my eyes. I held back sobs of anger and pain. Why was I hurting? Hadn’t I dealt with these issues already? I walked back to my old bedroom and sat down under the window. I pulled my head down into my knees and cried. I could hear yelling and screaming in my head. Shouting matches between siblings and parents, brothers and sister, rattled inside my brain, making the pain grow. I sat there and cried. I hadn’t cried like this in a long time. Eventually I ran out of tears and tired gasps of sorrow and regret washed over me as a blanket of drowsiness enveloped me. I leaned my head back and fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of footsteps. It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing and hurriedly stood up. Had someone followed me? I knew the police were patrolling the area sporadically. Had they seen me enter the house? I knew there would be a possibility of getting a trespassing citation, but I figured I could either talk my way out of it seeing as to how I was a former resident, or I could probably fight the citation in court if the judge knew why I was there in the first place. Ultimately, passing through the gate had been a calculated risk that I was willing to take for the sake of my art. I got up from my corner of the room and moved towards the door. If there was someone in the house, I needed to know. I didn’t want my gear to stolen, and if there was a cop in the house, I wanted to ensure I didn’t get shot. I was greeted by the sight of a startled chubby boy standing on the other side of the door. His round cherubic face was crowned by a head of short curly hair. His hazel green eyes stared widely back at me. He clearly didn’t expect someone to be here in the house. His body recoiled in fear as he cowered back towards the hallway. “Wait, what are you doing here?” I asked as non-threateningly as I could. The boy muttered something that I couldn’t quite make out. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you” I replied. “Are you here to rob us?” he timidly responded. “Rob you? What are you talking about?” I asked as confusion set in. “What are you doing here?” It was his turn to be confused. “Uh…I….live here?” he replied. “What do you mean you live here? No one lives-“I stopped midsentence. I hadn’t noticed in my initial shock but the room wasn’t the same. A familiar blue couch caught the corner of my eye. In front of that was an old console TV with a partially broken antenna hanging on the wall behind it. I walked further in to the living room to notice wood paneling on the walls. A large mirror hung on the wall to my left. Familiar yellow lamps sat on round drop-leaf tables on either side of the couch. A large hutch sat in one corner, a collection of letters and bills, mail advertisements, and a phone book covered scattered over it. “What just happened?” I asked out loud to no one in particular. I was thoroughly mystified by what my eyes were seeing. I had walked into the house from the front door and had stepped into an empty white room with slate floor tiles, but somehow now found myself in a furnished room with brown carpet that was all so familiar to me, yet was nothing but a distant faded memory. I turned to look at the boy still startled by the intrusion of a strange man looking wildly around the room in total shock. “You can take what you want, just please let me go. I don’t want problems.” He stated his voice still shrill with anxiety. I blinked a few times as I tried to process just what the heck was going on. I gathered my thoughts as best I could and tried to reassure him. “Kid, I’m not here to rob anyone. I was just-“I shook my head “Where the hell am I? Am I having a dream?” I asked myself. “I must be dreaming. I’m just tired and still sleeping. This is all a dream. Yeah, that’s it.” I needed to sit down. Being back in the old house must have overtaxed my senses, I told myself. I’d having a dream about an old memory. I walked over to the chair next to the couch and sat down. I sunk into it and rested my head back towards the wall. The boy kept his distance, but sensed I wasn’t there to hurt him. He looked me over with anxious curiosity. He stood at the far end of the couch, examining me while he played out scenarios in his head in preparation for a quick exit. “Why are you in my house?” he asked me. “Dude, this is all just a dream I’m having. I’m not really here.” He reached over to the couch and picked up a pillow. He reared his arm and threw it at me. It landed in my lap. “I don’t know, man. You sure seem to be here.” He said to me. I opened my eyes, startled. I looked down at the pillow he tossed and examined it. I ran my hand over the fabric and felt its texture. I remember this pillow. This was the pillow I would roll under my head as I lay on the couch and watched TV as a kid. A sudden realization hit me as I looked around the room with fresh eyes. No longer was I blinded by the fog of confusion. I knew exactly where I was. I was home. I looked at the boy still standing at the edge of the couch. I looked him over and realized who he actually was. I stared in disbelief as I smiled and tried to put him at ease. “It’s ok Johnny. I’m not here to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you. Please, sit down” I told him. I motioned to his end of the couch. “Who are you, and why are you here?” he asked me. “This will be hard to believe, but I’m you” I said with an incredulous tone, “I’m not sure how I ended up here, but I’m here.” He looked at me as I had grown a second head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could you be me? Did we invent time travel? Oh! Are we secret government agents with the CIA?” I chuckled. “Wait, wait, wait. Let’s start at the beginning. I’m you at 38 years old. You’re…what, 11… 12 years old? It makes sense. I fell asleep under the window in my- our old bedroom. I didn’t come here on purpose or in a machine. And no, I’m not a government agent.” His face contorted to display understanding, disappointment and finally suspicion. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in towards me. “How do I know you’re really me?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment. How could I prove to him that I was who I said I was? A few seconds of silence settled between us. I stroked my chin, thinking of a solution. “I have a better idea. Ask me questions that only you know the answers to.” “Okay” he responded. He glanced around the room trying to come up with something. His eyes fixated on the Nintendo sitting under the TV cabinet. “What game do me and Nathan have a map of?” I looked over at the NES. I hadn’t thought about this for years, but I knew instantly what he was asking. “YOU don’t have anything. Nathan is the one that made the map for Section Z” His jaw dropped. He tried to trick me, but his plan failed. He knew well and good that Nathan never let him play. It was always ‘I’ll let you play when I die’ or, ‘you can play when I’m done’. The problem was that he never followed through. Usually by the time Nathan was done, the NES was overheated, and the game would no longer load until it cooled down. By that point, it was time for bed. “How do you know that?” he asked in astonishment. “I know these things because I’m you. Just like I know that you wear t-shirts to the pool because you’re embarrassed by what others will think of your body. I know that you used to think that people that die off in movies were prisoners that were set to be executed from death row, so they used them for making movies. I know all about you because I’m you” Johnny sat on the end of the couch in bewilderment, his mouth slightly agape. He had never told anyone any of this. He didn’t have any close friends to talk to about such things, and those friends he did have were more acquaintances than friends. There was only one way he could possibly know these things. He was talking to his future self. I could see Johnny’s mind completely explode. There lay endless possibility and the answers to a million questions he could ask about his own future. He started to ask a question, only to stop, close his mouth, and try asking another. I knew if he kept this up he would have a stroke or something. “Dude, calm yourself. Let’s talk this out rationally, otherwise you’ll end up stroking out or something.” I told him. He took a deep breath and I could hear him muttering quietly. I knew he was trying to form a coherent sentence before he actually spoke it. I did it all the time. “Ok, first of all, are we rich?” he asked with tempered expectation. I chuckled and grinned back at him. “No, not at all. If I was rich, would I be dressed like this?” I replied as I motioned to my beat up brown Vans and worn out jeans and T-shirt. “We-, I – make enough to get by. I’m not poor, but I earn enough to pay the bills.” His face grew a smirk as he commented “Yeah, I figured. What do I do for work? I mean, what do you do for work?” I thought about it for a second. I wondered how much information I should divulge to a younger me. I still didn’t think this whole situation was really happening, but if it was, I probably should proceed with caution. “Well, it’s complicated. I do a little bit of everything. You know how you’re constantly taking things apart? Let’s just say that it’s good to put them back together in order to keep them working. Take good notes on paper if you need to, and make sure you have a clean work area so you can keep track of all the parts.” He gave me a sheepish look. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I had spent countless hours sneaking dad’s tools to my room so I could figure out how something was built and try to figure out how it worked. I had gotten myself into some pretty bad trouble with dad over a drill, his timing light, and other stuff I had taken from his room. His belt had become quite familiar with my butt cheeks. I gave him a knowing smile. “What else do you want to know?” He thought about it for a second. “Do we have a girlfriend?” I laughed, probably a little more than I should have because his face contorted into a sour frown. “You don’t need to be a jerk about it” he scowled. I continued to chuckle. “Yeah we have a girlfriend. We have more than a girlfriend” I could tell he was irritated with my vague indirect answers. I knew what he was asking. I remember the crush I had on my neighbor across the street. We had been friends since kindergarten, and had been classmates for 1st, 2nd, and 4th grades. We got along really well, and I knew from around 12 or 13 that I wanted to be her boyfriend. Unfortunately, things never progressed beyond the ‘just friends’ stage of things. It wasn’t from lack of effort on my part. We had just grown up together most of our lives that she didn’t see me as anything more than a brother and friend. “Dude, look. You just started to go through changes and you are starting to notice girls, but that doesn’t mean that you need to love every girl that shows you a little kindness or subtle interest. You need to slow down and let things happen naturally. You can’t force a relationship with someone.” Johnny pondered these words for a moment. I sat back and put my feet up on the coffee table. I looked around the room some more while I waited for another question. There was so much I had forgotten, but being back here had unlocked more and more memories that continued to wash over me. I was trying to hold on to my cool as not all those churned up recollections were pleasant. I stood up and walked over to the front door to peer outside the small central window embedded into the center of it. I could see the old neighborhood as I remembered it all those years ago. The lot across the street that served as a parking area for those that worked at the wheel works at the end of the block was empty of cars. I furrowed my brow as I thought for a moment. An empty lot meant it was afterhours or the weekend. The gears in my own head started turning. “Wait, where is everyone?” I asked Johnny. Johnny turned to look at me still processing my last response. “Uh..oh, Mom and dad are out of town. They took a trip east this time. I think Rio said they are in Arizona right now. Rio and Nathan went out to get some food and to rent some movies from Video Showcase. Knowing them they’ll eat out first. Talia is staying over at Tia Rosie’s place today with her friends.” I grunted at his response. My mind was wandering as he mentioned Talia and Tia Rosie. A sudden sharp pain pieced my heart. The pain of a thousand memories now unsealed spilled out from the box I had locked them away in. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes as I turned back to look at Johnny. He felt it too. He stared at the floor with an intensity that made me think it would burst into flames at any moment. I walked back over to him and sat next to him. He didn’t move. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he threw himself into me. I could feel the tears dripping onto me as he sobbed intensely. “Hey man, its ok. It’s going to be ok.” I said as my own tears started to flow uncontrollably. I pulled him close and draped my other arm around him. I knew the pain he was feeling. It was such a heavy burden, and I knew there was no one he felt he could talk to. I remembered it all so vividly. We sat there for what seemed to be an eternity. When we finally stopped sobbing, and our noses ran dry, we tried to breathe our way through to calmness. I got up and knelt in front of him. “Johnny, listen to me and remember what it is that I’m about to say to you. You are stronger than you think. You are stronger than you believe. NO ONE should ever have to go through this. Just because it happened to Talia, doesn’t mean you have to put up with it any longer. I know you didn’t think it was wrong, but I’m telling you that what she is doing to you is wrong. Talking to mom and dad isn’t going to make them hate you. You are not doing this to her, she is doing it to you. I’m not making excuses for her, but she is also more damaged than anyone realizes, and she is also dealing with the same level of pain you are. Remember that we do unto others what has been done to us. That doesn’t mean we need to continue the cycle of abuse” The lump in my throat grew immense at my own statement. I swallowed it as best I could and continued “You are going to deal with this pain a little bit at a time, and you’ll slowly get over this. It’s like a broken bone. When it happens, you don’t realize how bad the pain is until the adrenaline wears off, but then the immense pain is there. Just remember that this will pass. Just like a broken bone, you will heal over time, and one day, you will realize that the pain is gone and the bone is no longer broken. You’ll remember the pain, but it won’t hurt anymore.” Johnny sat there in stunned silence. I knew he didn’t have anyone to help him through this. He couldn’t talk to Rio or Nathan about what was going on. Mom and Dad were constantly working to keep the family fed and sheltered and while they provided materially for their kids, emotional help was less available. Perhaps it was due to their energies being divided into 4 kids, a mortgage and multiple jobs, or perhaps it was also the culture of not talking about problems. Either way, they needed to know what was happening. They wouldn’t be able to fix it otherwise. “They’re going to be mad at me” he finally said after a few moments of silence. “No they won’t be. They love us all. I know you’re not used to hearing it, but they do love you. Everything they do is because of their love for us. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Telling them isn’t going to cause them to be angry.” I thought for a moment to find a good analogy. “You love Odie and Lady, right?” He nodded in agreement. “Ok, how would you feel if you knew someone you trusted was coming to the house and beating up our dogs when we weren’t around?” He thought about it for a second before his face changed to anger. “I’d want to kill them!” “Yes, but would you also feel sad that you weren’t there to try to protect them?” I reasoned. His face changed again. He understood what I was saying. Mom and Dad would be angry, but not necessarily at him. They would also feel a great sadness knowing that someone was hurting their child. I smiled at him. He understood. I nodded. “Dude…You’re going to come to understand that life is not what you think it will be. Life is messy and can change in an instant. The plans you make today may not make it to next week. A lifelong goal can be derailed because of something out of your control. Mom and dad have spent their life protecting us with the goal of keeping us safe, but circumstances out of their control have affected their kids, and now we- you all have to deal with the fallout. Just remember that you are not the culprit. Yes, mom and dad will be hurt and angry, but not at you. Trust them. They don’t do things to hurt us” Johnny hugged me. I- He didn’t have many people he could trust and open up to. He liked to talk a lot about everything going on in his life, no matter how trivial. Everything, except this. This was a shameful topic, and he didn’t feel like anyone would understand why he didn’t go to an adult sooner. The problem was simple. He simply didn’t understand that it was wrong. Now that he had an adult that he could talk to, himself no less, he wanted to lift this burden off his shoulders. He was happy to have found someone and he hugged me tightly. I hugged him back just at tightly. It wasn’t every day that I could meet my younger self and help to comfort them. “Thank you” he said to me. The world darkened, and everything faded to black. I lifted my head out of my knees and looked around. I was sitting under the window in my old bedroom again. Had I fallen asleep? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. I was emotionally drained and incredibly tired. I hadn’t had sleep like that in years. I got to my feet and looked around the room briefly before walking out to mom and dad’s old room. I grabbed my camera and slowly walked the house, snapping picture after picture. The only sound to be heard was the sound of the camera shutter and my soft footsteps. I thought about my dream as I took pictures. Upon entering my room, a random memory hit me. The stash. I was pretty sure I had taken the hidden box when I moved out all those years ago, but since I was here, I should double check. Heading into the closet, I pushed the panel that led to the attic space out of the way and peered in. I couldn’t see anything, so I reached up there to feel around. The box was indeed gone. I felt around for a few more seconds and was surprised to feel what felt like a thick envelope. I didn’t remember leaving anything up there, but after pulling it down and giving it a cursory glance, I figured it was an old envelope of lost love letters. It wasn’t until I blew off the thick layer of dust that I realized what I was holding. It was a letter. Not just any letter. It was addressed to me. Under the now semi-cleared layer of dust were the words “To be opened by future me”. I looked at it for a few moments before opening it. I couldn’t remember making this at all, much less storing it up in my secret hiding spot. If ever I hid something, it was in the stash box. My hands shook a bit as I started to open the envelope and pulled out the yellowed pages inside. I started reading. "Dear Future John. I have spent the last few years remembering a dream I had when I was younger. Life was…difficult at that time, and I spent a lot of time escaping my reality by reading a lot of books and watching a lot of TV. On the off-chance that what I think is a dream really happened. I wanted to write some things down in an effort to give you my thanks. I merely consider myself a conveyer of thanks, although I will pile on my own thanks to you for your words of encouragement. I remember finding a stranger in the house one day while I was home alone. I was afraid he was there to hurt me at first, but after a few moments, I came to realize I was meeting myself. Well, I was meeting me, but from the future. I think he said he was in his 40’s, but I couldn’t tell you with any certainty. Either way, we talked. We talked about life, and what the future held in store for us… Mostly though, we talked about the abuse. Well, Talked is being generous. We cried, and then we talked. I don’t remember exactly what he told me, but I remember how he made me feel. He made me feel safe. I felt like I could trust him. Trust myself. In the end, he gave me the courage to stand up for myself both at home and at school. He also gave me the courage to talk to mom and dad about what was going on between me and Talia. I do remember being afraid that I would be punished, but he reassured me that they wouldn’t, and that they loved me. It was a difficult and awkward conversation, but in the end, arrangements were made for me to share a room with Rio and Nathan. I didn’t have much of a relationship with Talia for a long while, but after some years, we managed to patch things up. She apologized to me, and I came to understand the abuse she herself was subjected to by so-called family friends. She didn’t tell me this in an effort to excuse it, but to merely help give me closure to a difficult time from my own childhood. Mom and dad promised to be more attentive to us and we sort of established what I guess you would call an open door policy. We talk more about stuff that’s happening in our lives. Mom is much easier to talk to now. Dad is a little more patient with us too. I apologized to them for not coming to them sooner, and dad gave me a “nugget of wisdom” that I think I’ll live by: We can’t fix what we don’t know is broken. I’ve tried to make sure I talk to them when something is wrong, and I’ve tried to implement that in my life so I don’t have problems with other people. I’m trying to grow up to be a good guy. I want to have good relationships with people. Nathan says I’m turning into a people pleaser, but I don’t necessarily see that as a terrible thing. I know when to say no to someone. Well, either way, I wanted to make sure I thank you for the help you gave us. I probably won’t remember writing this, but I hope I do find it again someday. Here’s hoping I turn into the man I feel you are. -John Age 16." I stared at the letter, the words blurring as tears welled up in my eyes. I quickly brushed them away as I quietly spoke to no one in particular. “Thanks guys. I hope I live up to your expectations” I folded the letter, placed it in my pocket, and walked out of the room. After picking up my backpack and tripod, I silently walked towards the front door, my footsteps echoing in the empty house. I turned to look back at the empty living room one last time, and after a moment, I walked out. | 32,624 | 4 |
this is heavily inspired by the movie Gravity i would highly recommend watching it All or Nothing I woke to the sound of alarms blaring, I opened my eyes to see nothing just empty black i began to panic but then the planet below came into view, and I was relieved but the realization of my situation began to creep into my mind, I was alone… truly alone. I tried the radio but I knew it wouldn't work I was too far away from anything. Cursing my situation in rage I began to panic once again after about 20 minutes I calmed down. I had a problem (a very big problem) but this is what I was trained for, first things first… stop my rotation and figure out where I am and how long I can survive like this. I am stable and not spinning anymore and I can survive for another 3 hours like this, but I still have no idea what my orbit is on the upside my last recorded relative speed is high enough that I'm in orbit and not going to be burnt to a crisp. I need to conserve oxygen so I lower the o2% but I begin to feel lightheaded so I turn it back up. It wouldn't be good to make decisions like that. “I need to find a station or an eleva—” Something caught my eye i rotated myself to see what it was i gasped at my luck, it was an old satellite. I used a little bit of my dwindling supply of fuel to get to it (if I could figure out what satellite it was then I could find out where I am). I slowly grabbed onto the satellite I saw a plate with the words “Mars Global Surveyor” I immediately connected my straps to the handles and pulled out my holo map that shows all objects in a close orbit to our craft and found it. I let out a sigh of relief because I am heading in the direction of an elevator, only one problem, I'm moving too slow by the time I get close enough to get to the elevator I would be long dead. 10 minutes passed and I'm still trying to think of a way to get enough velocity to not die of oxygen deprivation. I began to yell my heart rate began to elevate i let go of the handles and punched the satellite sending myself in the opposite direction, when it hit me, use the satellite as a counterweight to launch myself, i could maybe gain an extra 10m/s of velocity and I could also set myself up with a better orbit for a closer pass with the elevator. Anyway, I'm out of time… it's all or nothing I detached my straps and got rid of my now-empty main oxygen tank all I have now is my emergency tank with only 2 hours of oxygen. I'm ditching all the weight I can so I can get more velocity. I put my feet against the hull of the satellite and with my hands still holding on in 5 seconds I'll jump like my life depends on it. My heads-up display showed a countdown. 5, 4, 3, the seconds felt like minutes 2, 1 I jumped, and as I left the Surveyor behind. I used my maneuvering thrusters to orient and adjust my orbit for an intercept. Once again I'm floating through space. I got a little bit more speed than expected at 10.8m/s. I begin to lower my o2 to conserve oxygen giving me the largest possible margin for error. As time passed, each minute felt lonelier than the last. I checked and rechecked my oxygen levels, trying to eke out every last breath. The loneliness gnawed at me, a relentless companion in this vast emptiness. I thought of everyone I got separated from, wondering if they even knew I was out here, still alive. As reality set in my hope diminished faster than my oxygen and I began to question the point of all of this. But even as despair threatened to drown me that voice of determination and resilience continued to echo throughout my mind and that's all I needed to know that there is still a way, even if it's a 1 in a billion chance that I survive I'm starting to like my odds. In the distance, I could see the 5 cables that connect the ground and space i started my minuscule preparations consisting of grabbing the straps that I saved connecting them to my suit, and starting an ETA timer. As the clock ticked down time began to slow. I was still too far from the cables to make contact and I needed my fuel to slow down, but I planned for this and I still had the straps that I had when I connected to the Surveyor right before I passed the first cable I braked as much speed as possible using the last of my fuel and threw one of the straps around one of the cables and caught the other end that swung around the cable. My heart began to settle but then the strap snapped, unable to control my movement I drifted into another cable and grabbed ahold i used my second strap to connect myself. But, the struggle wasn't over I began to slowly let myself slip down the cable, and after 500 meters of sliding I reached a maintenance catwalk where there was an emergency alert button. I sat down after hitting the button and As my heart rate began to settle I finally noticed the blaring alarm that indicated my oxygen was almost completely gone and I passed out. When I came to, I was lying on the cold metal catwalk. The alarms had stopped, replaced by a distant sound of machinery reverberating throughout the cables. My head throbbed. With a groan, I pushed myself up and fell, struggling against the weight of exhaustion. The emergency alert button I'd pressed blinked nearby letting me know it worked. feeling a sense of relief wash over me. Help was on the way, I hoped. As I waited, my mind raced with thoughts. How long had I been out? Minutes? Hours? My oxygen was almost depleted when I passed out; I could only pray it hadn't run out completely. Footsteps approached, breaking the silence. A voice reverberated through the ground distant yet reassuring. "We've got a signal, someone's out here!" Relief flooded through me. I'd been found. I managed to sit up, weakly waving my arms to signal my location. Soon, they arrived, faces covered by helmets, but their urgency was all I needed to know. They rushed to my side, checking my vital signs and oxygen levels. I was hoisted onto a stretcher, surrounded by flashing lights and the sound of people's voices. "Stabilize him and get him back to the station," one of the rescuers ordered. The journey back was a blur of motion and noise. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the weight of my ordeal finally catching up with me. When I woke again, I was in a sterile white room, surrounded by monitors and medical equipment. A doctor stood nearby, monitoring my condition. "You gave us quite a scare," the doctor said with a smile. "But you're going to be alright." Relief flooded through me again. "Where... am I?" I managed to ask, my voice hoarse. "You're aboard Anchor an orbital platform," the doctor replied. "We picked you up just in time. You're lucky to be alive." I nodded, the reality of what had happened sinking in. I had faced the vast emptiness of space and survived. As I lay there, surrounded by the beeping of monitors, I knew one thing for certain: I was not alone. Even in the darkest reaches of space, there were others who would come to your aid, a reminder that no matter how dire the situation, there was always hope. | 7,076 | 1 |
TRANSMISSION LOG: [Radio Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2056.7.20): I am Doctor Romona Shultz, the medical supervisor of the starship Neogenisis. The cryogenic systems are online, the vitals of our clients are within the expected range, and the generators are operating at normal capacity. The vessel will reach top speed in one month, as expected. As the only supervisor of the ship's systems, I will be a fail safe for our clients. The radio receiver is fully functional, and I look forward to the mission control’s response in September. [Radio Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2056.8.20): The ship's systems report no errors in operation, and the clients are showing the expected vital signs. The medical marvel of this operation is truly astonishing, slowing the metabolic rates of the clients while maintaining brain function. In effect, they can stay “frozen” indefinitely, without suffering physical trauma or brain damage. My hopes are high for the settlement of Alpha Centauri, 120 of the brightest minds to found a settlement 4 light-years away from earth. I will continue to report my findings, and look forward to hearing from mission control next month. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2056.9.24): I have not received the expected transmission from mission control. The system continues to function without fault, and the vital signs of the clients continue to be regular. The only aspect of note is the clients display a higher rate of mental activity than expected at this point. I will continue to monitor. Please retransmit the mission control response. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2056.10.4): Please retransmit the mission control response. The ship's systems continue to function. The clients are all in stable condition, but their mental activity has not decreased to the desired level. The expected level is 40% peak functionality, and is required to achieve the comatose state. The current average level is 72% brain function, with a 15% average deviation. No client has achieved the desired cognitive reduction. Please advise. [Transmission from Brussels Control Center] Date (2056.9.30) Received (2056.10.7): This is UN delegate Simon Vance, broadcast from Brussels Control Center on behalf of the United Nations project Neogenisis Mission Control. Your objective remains unchanged, travel to Alpha Centauri and establish a colony. Unfortunately, an engineering problem was discovered after launch. The communication system on your vessel is incompatible with the Mars orbiting satellites they broadcast to. An additional oversight means your system cannot be reprogrammed, so broadcasting to the Earth orbiting satellites that can receive your transmissions is impossible. Your transmission will remain indecipherable for the duration of the voyage. In addition, navigation cannot be altered once maximum velocity is achieved. We apologize for the inconvenience, but the UN has faith in your ability Dr. Shultz. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2056.12.22): If this can be decoded, advice is urgently required. The ship's systems continue to function, but the clients’ conditions have continued to show irregularities. The average brain function has stagnated at 62%, above the threshold of total unconsciousness. 12 clients are in the 50-60% mental functionality range, and they all have vital signs within the expected range. 91 clients are in the 60-70% range, and 34 of them show increased heart rates and respiration. 17 clients show 70-80% mental capacity, and they all have elevated vital signs. 4 of the 17 seem to be experiencing an adrenaline response. While the evidence is inconclusive, I fear some of the clients are showing signs of consciousness. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.1.14): If this is received, please advise. A client that had 78% cognitive function entered cardiac arrest 15 hours ago. The life support systems stabilized his condition, but the sedatives administered decreased his cognitive function to 28%. His condition will be closely monitored as I attempt to increase his cognitive function to at least the desired 35%. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.1.17): Nobel laureate Omar Lazaar, the pioneer of agricultural genome manipulation, is deceased. His cognitive function could not be restored, after a slow decline was pronounced dead by the ship's systems at 19:43 gmt on January 16th. Six clients have blood pressure above 140/90. Please decode this transmission. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.2.2): Former U.S. Secretary of Energy George Henderson, the champion of Fusion Power Plants, and Dr. Alicia Stammond PhD., renowned astrophysicist and education advocate, have been declared deceased after cardiac incidents. Another client is in critical condition after a stroke, and two others have extremely elevated blood pressure. The cause is similar to that of extreme emotional distress. The life support systems are not designed to handle such variable vital signs. 67 of the clients have increased vital signs and brain wave patterns consistent with distress. Please decode this message, these issues are beyond my expertise. [Transmission from Brussels Control Center] Date (2057.1.3) Received (2057.2.4): This is UN delegate Simon Vance, broadcast from Brussels Control Center on behalf of the United Nations project Neogenisis Mission Control once again. A 5-4 decision by the UN special committee for astronomical exploration has reaffirmed our priorities, your objective continues unchanged, travel to Alpha Centauri and establish a colony. No further transmissions are expected from your vessel, but are appreciated for archival purposes. Continue on your mission Dr. Romona Shultz, you have the full faith of humanity behind you. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.2.8): Please decode. I, Dr. Ramona Shultz, request digital authorization to bring clients out of cryogenic containment. I have reason to believe that a significant portion of clients retain enough cognitive function to be distressed by containment. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.3.20): Please decode. 7 clients are now deceased, 72 clients show clear biological signs of distress, and the 41 clients are above 60% cognitive function. I once again request digital authorization to bring clients out of cryogenic containment. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.5.1): Please, for the love of God, decode this message. 13 clients are deceased, 85 show very clear signs of distress, and the remaining are above the threshold of cognitive function. I am not once to be swayed to hypotheses or conspiracy, but I have strong evidence that the clients are to some degree conscious, possibly even fully conscious in the case of certain clients. Please decode. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.7.19): Tomorrow will be one year since departure. 22 of the greatest minds in history have died an unceremonious death. 98 are likely being tortured in a waking nightmare. I do not morally believe I can let them suffer. Please decode my message, and grant me authorization. [Transmission from Washington DC Command Center] Date (2057.6.1) Received (2057.7.29): This is Richard Harmon, President of the United States of America, broadcast from the Pentagon on behalf of the United Nations project Neogenisis Mission Control. I would like to congratulate you on continuing the mission, the whole world stands behind you, and you have the undivided support of these United States of America. Our great-great grandchildren will look forward to the transmissions from Alpha Centauri. Dr. Romona, you are a true American hero, and we thank you for looking out for our greatest up there. You have been granted permission to enter cryogenic containment, at easy hero. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.8.1) Please decode, I need digital authorization. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.8.6) Erwin Randle, marine veteran, and Steven Willard, electrical engineer, died today. Cardiac incidents, likely caused by extreme stress. This makes 30 people dead under my watch. I cannot allow this cruel experiment to continue, please give me authorization. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.10.1): I cannot wait around for something that will never come. My rations are depleted, and the cargo hold for arrival is beyond my access. I will be taking drastic action. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.10.2): SYSTEM ERROR PWR-09 – Critical failure of electrical generation system. SYSTEM ERROR PWR-41 — Critical failure of backup electrical generation systems. SYSTEM ERROR ENG-14 – Critical failure of repair drone deployment system. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.10.3): SYSTEM ERROR BIO-19 – Multiple life support systems failure. [Transmission from Brussels Control Center] Date (2057.10.7) Received (2057.12.24): This is UN delegate Simon Vance, broadcast from Brussels Control Center on behalf of the United Nations project Neogenisis Mission Control. Your attempt at communication in August was received. A decision by the UN special committee for astronomical exploration has ruled in a 9-0 decision to continue monitoring of your transmission. If you are in a crisis, please continue transmissions. Special authorization can be granted, and an attempt to launch a compatible satellite in Mars’ orbit could be arranged. Keep up the good work Dr. Shultz. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2057.11.20): SYSTEM ERROR BIO-00 – Total life support array failure. [Transmission from Brussels Control Center] Date (2057.12.27) Received (2058.2.16): This is UN delegate Simon Vance, broadcast from Brussels Control Center on behalf of the United Nations project Neogenisis Mission Control. Your three broadcasts in three days has been taken by the UN as a sign of crisis. Digital authorization for emergency controls will be given to you, Dr. Shultz. If issues continue, continue transmissions. A properly equipped satellite for Mars orbit is in proposals. [Transmission from Brussels Control Center] Date (2057.12.27) Received (2058.2.16): COMMAND INPUT AUTH-1 – Full administrative authority granted to Ramona Shultz. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2066.1.1): SYSTEM MESSAGE SYS-20 — Communication system deactivating for the remainder of the voyage to conserve power. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2158.4.7): SYSTEM MESSAGE SYS-1 — Arrival in orbit of Alpha Centauri. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2158.4.9): SYSTEM ERROR Null-000 – Unknown error, awaiting input. [Transmission from Starship Neogenisis] Date (2183.7.6): SYSTEM ERROR SYS-51 – Total system failure imminent. | 10,856 | 1 |
Chapter 1 Morning Glory *“Making money is hard. Building wealth is easy. You put your money in the right place and tell it to sit. Then, when you come back for it years later, it's grown from a small pile to a large one!”* -Lord Cushonbottom 10 chubby little Piggly wigglies jiggled awake at the foot end of a feather mattress that slumped upon a fine mahogany frame. 2 black ringed, thickly-layered-as-Canadian-bacon-still-in-the-package eyelids followed the lead piggies in this morning procession of porcine body parts powering up. One by one the hands flapped, the arms rolled in the pit mud that night terrors accumulated, the big pink belly rumbled, and finally the red little upturned nose oinked. Lord Fistburn had awakened. “Lawrence, ohhhh Lawrence!” The calls flapped from his overstuffed jowls. Ever attentive, Noble Lawrence answered his Lord. “Yes, m’Lord?” “Oh Lawrence! It was horrible. Just horrible I tell you!” Lawrence stood before his master patiently as the overgrown farm animal bleated and howled about how he once again had the dream where the figs “ate him instead”. He scratched at his bare cheek, right in the crevice left by a scar from when he’d been called up as a boy. “Ahem. Lawrence don't scratch your face that's awfully droll” the fat little piggy sputtered as he finished the ridiculous tale of his ridiculous subconscious. This man, Lawrence thought as Fistburn hobbled out from his covers and off of his poor, dilapidated, dying bed, this piggy must be the worst creature Lawrence had ever met, and each day he just gets worse. ‘For Christ’s sake, the dreams are actually getting scarier by the bloated chaps renditions! What began as one sole fig nibbling his fingers is now a ravenous horde eating him from the inside out!’ he paused mid thought for just a second ‘what in the fuck could be causing this fat lazy shit so much internal strife!? It doesn't make any sense! Each day he just eats and farts and gets fatter and fatter and eats some more and…’ “Lawrence!” The jowls jiggled “Lawrence help me with the corset” Poor Lawrence could barely hold it together at the word corset. The fat piggies’ “corset” was like a stretcher for whales folded in two. The greater part of the next half hour was spent stuffing and tying and trying not to burst out dying laughing. But alas, Noble Lawrence is not the hero of this tale. No, we shan't be so lucky as to hear of his humble origins, how he cared for his sick mother right up til her untimely demise, how he lied about his age to serve his great nation, went over the top countless times and survived countless others. Traveled through country after country, loved and lost, only to settle down into a life of gentle luxury, the caretaker of a prized hog of a man. No, this tale is of the hog. The wet, slimy, greased up hog. He needs just a little grease each morning to truly make the corset fit. After the last button in his spring sport coat was laced into its wife, clinging on for dear life, flying in the face of the most ancient physics, Lawrence patted Fistburn on the back, and released the creature into the wild. “Breakfast awaits in the hall, m’Lord” And onward unto glory our hero waddled. Right up until he got stuck in the doorway. | 3,345 | 1 |
I wrote this for a writing prompt in r/writingprompts, but not many people will see it because the prompt is a little old. I just wanted to share. Wrote during breaks at work so forgive me if it’s a little rough around the edges. The prompt was, “Watching the man or woman of your dreams fall in love with someone else.” feedback appreciated ::Caitlyn:: I watched her through her kitchen window. She stood by the sink—wine glass in her hand, gently swirling it as she looked at her phone. God, she was pretty tonight. The yellow kitchen light cast a glow upon her skin, and I swear she was the brightest thing in the room—more so even than the bulb itself. Fishnet lace snaked up her legs, red as summer wine, and her bathrobe parted just enough at the top to tease—just enough to draw your attention to it so that she could playfully scold you for looking. It’s what she did. I knew what she was waiting for, though. This was the first night he hadn’t shown up in over a week. I didn’t get it. That guy—the guy who tracks muddy boots through the house, the guy that smokes cigarettes in the laundry room even when she specifically tells him not to, the guy who hasn’t touched a single dirty dish in as long as he’d been there—a dirty anything for that matter, and he’s the one she swoons for? Fucking bastard. That’s all he was. A dirty fucking bastard that didn’t deserve a woman even half as nice as my Caitlyn. She doesn’t get it—really, she doesn’t and it makes me feel kind of sorry for her. God, I mean if she only knew the things I’d do for her—the things that we have in common. We would be so happy together. I like to read just like she does, the same genres and everything. I even picked up the book she started last week, and it’s already one of my favorites. She likes to jog; I like to jog; she likes binging shows; I like binging shows. Both of us have a horrible sweet tooth as well. I can never help but smile at the thought of that. Now, it’s three hours past eight, which was the time that he was supposed to arrive. She’d moved to the couch and was lying on her back, letting one leg dangle to the floor. Blue light from the TV illuminated her features in the dark of the room, and it wasn’t difficult to tell that she was upset. God, I hate to see her cry. Occasionally, she would glance over. She would peer out the window with that sad face and look in my direction. At first, I thought she was trying to see over me, to look over the hedge and into the trees behind her drive. After a few of her glances, though, I wasn’t sure anymore. I was almost convinced that she noticed me and was looking directly at me. Maybe she needed me. Perhaps this was her way of saying, “Come get me, Richard.” And what if it was? What if this was my chance, and I missed it because I thought about it too hard? Maybe she knew I’d been out here, watching all along, for all this time. If that was the case, then she surely knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist those watery eyes. It was time—time to be the man she needed—to finally confess my love for her, then hold her tight in my arms as she did the same. I straightened myself—no more hiding. No more lurking in the shadows while she filled the void in her heart with all of these other worthless men. It was time she had a real man, a man who cared. I walked to the door. For a second, I wondered if she’d left it unlocked for me. She’d done that before and pretended she was asleep whenever I made my way inside. She always did like to tease like that. I almost just opened it and walked straight in, but on second thought, I figured it might’ve been a little jarring. I decided to knock instead. My throat felt as tight as a fist. Why was I so nervous? She loved me; I knew she did, but still, I was nervous. Sweat beaded down the side of my face like condensation. I wiped it away with my sleeve and took a deep breath. This was it. In a few moments, I’d finally have my Caitlyn. I’d finally hold her in my arms like I’d always dreamed. I brought my fist to the door, and my stomach tightened into a knot. Just as I was about to do it, I heard gravel crunch in the distance. Quickly, I darted back into the safety of the shadows. I could see two bright headlights through the trees as they bounced down the dirt road. It was him—the old Chevy Silverado with the silver toolbox in the back. Of course, it had to be him. He’d messed up this time, though; there was no way she’d forgive him now, not after tonight. With a smirk, I watched, wondering what kind of pitiful attempt he’d make to try and win her back this time, knowing that whatever it was wouldn’t be enough. Then he stepped out of his truck. He was covered in black grease from head to foot and wore a mechanic uniform. He held something small in his arms, something with a bright red bow tied around its neck. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a little black lab from where I stood. Trustingly, it pressed its head against his chest and darted its eyes around the new scenery. He walked up the porch steps. He was going to knock, but before he could, Caitlyn flung the door inward and glared at him. As much as I hated how she felt, that twisted expression of anger she shot him gave me more joy than I could’ve imagined. That joy was only fleeting, though. The man flashed a smile as he looked down at his arms, rubbing the puppy’s head. It melted the expression right off of her face. “Oh my God!” She squealed, happily shuffling her feet as she held her arms out. I was appalled. A puppy? A little dog and all of his sins are erased? The two of them seemed so giddy together. They laughed and hugged and spoke in high voices to the puppy while they rubbed its head. The whole scene made me sick to my stomach if you really want to know the truth. I don’t know how he did it—how he managed to weasel his way back into her heart and occupy the space that was so rightfully mine—truly, I didn’t. Who knows, maybe it was all an act. Perhaps it was her way of telling me, “you should’ve knocked.” And now, this was my punishment. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe then I could’ve been the one to answer that door. A puppy wouldn’t soften my eyes, not like hers. I failed her, I know, but I will not fail her again. That is the last night he will ever come knocking on her door. I’m certain of it. | 6,357 | 2 |
The year is 2096. Galabba, 17, is chatting with his great-grandfather. Grandpa: "*Shame* used to mean something different. It didn't used to mean being a proud underdog, like you guys say it now. To feel ashamed was an alarming feeling." Galabba: "How did it feel like?" Grandpa: "At the extreme, it can feel life-threatening. It most cases, you just feel like finding a hole to hide from being made fun of." Galabba: "That's an interesting feeling. Why did people used to have such feelings?" Grandpa: "It's built into evolutionary biology. People used to live in a tightknit group and depended on each other. To shame someone means to cast them out of a group. Being alone in the wild can mean certain death. The feeling of shame ended up being associated with severe danger." Galabba: "So it was a passed down behavior, just like how animals are." Grandpa: "Yeah well, but humans don't live that way anymore. We no longer live in tight groups in order to survive. We do depend on each other yes, but in a systematic but isolated way. Look at us, you and me are not even in the same physical space right now. Today, casting people out is not really a concept. For your Ethereum address to be blocked is at most an annoyance." Galabba: "This all sounds very foreign to me. How did things change?" Grandpa: "At some point when I was young, the meaning of shaming someone started to change. Rather than it being about the person being shamed, people turn their attention to the person doing the shaming. The act of shaming was considered predatory." Galabba: "Wait, that's not how I understand shame at all. How did mankind manage to get rid of such an intense emotion?" Grandpa: "It began when people started to experience the world via media more than the real world." Galabba: "What does that mean?" Grandpa: "It's hard for you to understand because that's how it's like since you're born. But stick with me." Grandpa continues: "Here's something you and your friends know: the desire to be seen by millions. Why is it so important? Because to be seen is profit; to be clicked on is to stay alive. To achieve anything of note at all, it requires people's attention. Getting attention is incredibly important, isn't that what you learned in school?" Galabba: "Sure." Grandpa: "Soon it was discovered that doing socially unacceptable acts gains you attention. Any attention is good attention. Call it perverse incentive if you have to. With enough attention, you could make easy money by redirecting the attention to people who are willing to pay you. There was even a person who became the head of state with that strategy." Galabba: "But how did that change the meaning of shame altogether?" Grandpa: "Well, people who committed detestable acts gained status and wealth from it. People who did not had a hard time rising up. You see, low status people tend to copy what high status people do. In order to overcome their cognitive dissonance, they changed the meaning of shame over time." Galabba: "Hang on. If feeling shame (using it as you mean it) is natural, why did we get rid of it?" Grandpa: "Language is a weird thing. No one really invented it, but everybody invented it together by agreeing together about what words mean. After all, we do things to overcome our natural tendencies all the time. A negative emotion is no exception. The question is should we have done that." Galabba: "Are you suggesting shame could be good?" Grandpa: "In the past, to be called shameless was derogatory. That's true across cultures." Galabba: "That's quite rare." Grandpa: "For what it's worth, being ashamed affected my self esteem, it made me wanted to improve myself." Galabba: "Improving yourself? That's so lame." Grandpa: "I know that's not what people do now, but you'll get that eventually." Galabba: "People must have felt so constrained back then. Like all the time." Grandpa: "Not being able to feel ashamed became a superpower. It freed them up to do anything. As soon as people realized that, everybody wanted this superpower. And now everybody has it." Galabba: "What used to be shameless acts started to be labeled as acts of empowerment. What used to get punished by public opinion now gets rewarded." Grandpa: "You got it. As a result though, there were widespread behavorial problems that common societal protocols are no longer capable governing. To deal with that, laws got stricter as a result. And that's why you need to apply for a permit to go out to the street." Galabba: "That's just a click. It's for everybody's good." Grandpa: "If you say so. | 4,600 | 1 |
Vi walked the all-too-familiar streets of the slums. A child lay in the street, abandoned. The young girl sobbed into her dress as townsfolk passed without a second glance. Memories rushed to the surface at the sight of her. Vi fought back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. When this assignment was over, The Order would finally accept her as a member. No one would hurt her again. \ Vi chewed her lip as she tapped her fingers together in succession—thumb and index, then middle, ring, and finally pinky—repeating the motion several times. I’m not ready for this. I’m going to fail. They’ll kill me if I fail. \ She scanned the street, trying to disentangle her mind from the waves of customers crowding the vendors, each patron haggling for the best deal. The smells of bread and sweetmeats wafted in the air, fusing with the merchants touting their wares, composing the symphony that was the market. Finding her mark in this mob would be complicated, and The Order would accept nothing less than perfection. \ Vi double-checked her disguise. Her vibrant red wig flowed down in waves to rest upon her shoulders. She wore an apple cap pulled tight to hide the wig’s shoddy craftsmanship. Accompanied by the motley of ragged clothes, she was indistinguishable from the other beggars who plagued the streets. \ Satisfied, Vi twisted the ring on her finger; a small needle protruded from a hidden groove underneath. Carefully, she reversed the spin of the ring to conceal the weapon. She scanned the street for her target, ready to do what she needed. \ A young man across the street caught her attention; he wore a red scarf embroidered with silver daggers, just as The Order described. Vi’s heart rate doubled as he stopped at the bread vendor directly in front of her. She took a deep breath and tapped her fingers methodically one last time to steady herself. \ This is it, Vi. If you do this, there is no going back. She thought about her life before The Order took her in. She had barely survived the streets, begging and stealing what she could just to prolong her wretched life. There was no way she would go back to that now. Convinced, she scanned the exits—families, merchants, beggars, and guards flooded the streets, creating a maze of sorts. \ Content, she slid down the steps and weaved through the masses towards the young man like a snake slithering towards its victim. Her hands shook as she approached him, doubt creeping up with each step. He was barely old enough to grow hair on his face. Did this man deserve to die? \ The memories of that night washed over her like a wave. Her father lay on the ground, a knife protruding from his chest, the shine erased by the dark blood that surrounded it. A man with jagged teeth knelt over her mother, gradually turning to look at Vi. \ He smiled at her with a crooked grin that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. "Don't worry, child. I haven't forgotten about you." He chortled a rough, cracking laugh that turned into a cough. \ She snapped back to reality. Tears welled in her eyes as all reservations shattered. She would go through with this, no matter the cost. She twisted the ring as she advanced, her eyes blank from emotion. \ Vi feigned a trip and stumbled into the man, stabbing him with the needle. "I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t eaten in a week and I just got a bit dizzy," she lied as the needle dug into the man's arm. \ He regained his balance and paused before handing a piece of copper to the bread merchant. The man picked up a loaf and ripped a bit off for Vi. He smiled. "Here you go. No one should have to go so long without eating." \ Her face wilted. What have I done? She spun without a word, refusing to take the piece of bread. Her eyes filled with tears as she walked away. \ The sound of a thud reverberated as the young man's body hit the hard dirt. It was too much for Vi. Tears flowed down her face uncontrollably as she ran. She didn’t look back. She would never look back. | 4,162 | 2 |
Bill Rogers locked the garage door, slid the hose into the driver’s side window, climbed into the back seat, laid down and shut his eyes. When he woke up, he was surrounded by clouds and a blue sky. A man, neither young nor old stood next to him. He wore a coat like an Afghan goat herder, Bill thought, maybe made of sheepskin, or cowhide—tough to say, as Bill was no expert in husbandry. The man was small where Bill was large. Bill was six-three and two hundred and fifty pounds. He had played tight-end in college and lorded his physical stature over small men all his life. He felt it gave him an advantage at contract negotiations. He always made sure to be sitting when the opposing lawyers walked in because his size was hidden. Then he would stand up from behind table—a great reveal, a physical imposition—in an effortless attempt to intimidate the other team. It was mostly an effective strategy. The man, nearly a foot shorter, and a petite lady’s-weight less was standing almost eye-level with Bill. He sheepishly looked at Bill and asked if he was happy now. “I suppose so,” Bill answered, rather dazed and unaware of all that was happening. “Are you God?” asked Bill. The old man smiled knowingly and set his delicate hand on Bill’s shoulder. “What can I do to make you comfortable?” Bill attempted to stand up but the man’s hand held him in place without applying any extra force. “A scotch would be nice! Do they serve scotch in heaven?” he laughed. The man laughed and gave Bill a scotch. “Let me tell you, God, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it! When do we go through the pearly gates?” “I’m afraid you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. That’s not how it works. Tell me, how was life on Earth?” “Well, I guess you can tell by how I checked out it wasn’t great. But I am feeling better now. Sometimes you just need a good night’s sleep, I guess, right?” “I guess so. You weren’t very happy down there. But that’s what I’m here for. You can fix it all now. Tell me, what went wrong in your life?” “Wait, is this Purgatory then?” He chuckled, “No. Don’t be silly. What went wrong down there?” “I knew it—those nuns were all off. Well, for one, I worked too much. I spent 80, 90, 100 hours a week every week for years—hell, probably decades when you add it all up—in the office, chasing the ring, getting the promotion.” His thought broke and he looked at the man and said, “you know I cleared 950-k last year?” Sinking back into his thoughts, “but it wasn’t enough for her. She could give Cleopatra a run for her money. Man she could spend. I worked all the time, always on the road to a different client’s office, eating airport food, never exercising. Traded my health and youth for wealth, then she got to enjoy it. I ended up all alone in my big house, all by myself and my LonelyFans Platinum subscription. Look at me, I got so fat no pretty woman could stand to look at me. If I could do it again, I’d go back and just make 60k a year, keep my health, my good looks, and go to clubs every night and dance with beautiful women. I wasted so much.” “Wow, thanks for being so honest, Bill. I’m glad you were honest, because now I can give you the chance to fix it. I am going to give you the opportunity to craft the life you always wanted, the life you dreamed of! This is your chance Bill, to do it right this time. You had a full life, you tried out things: some worked, some didn’t—that trip to Tokyo probably didn’t help your marriage, did it; but now that’s all behind, now you get to create the perfect one based on everything you learned. Now you get to play God to yourself. You will have the power to create any life you want: money, women, food, servants, power, glory, the revenge on everybody who did you wrong—anything.” “Oh, Good Lord, heaven is even better than Mother Superior led on! I get to do that? Now?” “Yes, I’m granting you this power. Total freedom to do what you want. You deserve it! You’ve earned it, Bill.” “Ok, so what do I do? Just point and make something happen?” “Sure,” he said with a chuckle, “everybody always wants to point at things like some Vegas magician. The entire creation was spoken into existence, but ever since Adam people want to point things into existence—whatever makes them happy, I guess. Anyway, you’ve got the power of the Lord, do it however you want!” Bill pointed to a cloud in front of him and a new truck appeared before his eyes. “Holy moly, I can’t believe it’s real.” The sun reflecting off the chrome was just a big blur to Bill Rogers water-filled eyes. He had to squint to see that it had the turbodiesel engine he had imagined. “I’m not going to get carried away on the wealth. I learned my lesson there. It doesn’t buy happiness. I had eight digits in my savings account,” he looked to see if the man was listening, “and look at where that got me. No, just a simple life for me,” he pointed to a cloud and four-bed, three-bath house with in-law suite and three car garage next to a lush green lawn appeared. It fronted a cul-de-sac. “You can’t take it with you, right?” he laughed. “Is that it, Bill? What else do you want?” “Well, like I said, I want to be young and healthy.” His stomach disappeared into his abdominal muscles and the brown spots and wrinkles on his hands vanished into a smooth clear skin. “And what are you going to do with your time? Go back to your old job?” “Ohh, you got a good sense of humor, God!” The old man laughed along with Bill. “Like I said, I just want to live a normal life and go to the bars at night, talk to beautiful women. Dance with them, smile, laugh. Have fun, that’s all.” “Your wish, is my command,” he said, and Bill asked if that is how it really worked, and the old man laughed: “no, but people really started to ask for it after Aladdin got big, so I started doing it.” “You’re a real people-pleaser, aren’t you, God?” The small man’s sheepish smile resurfaced and a faint pink tint rose up to his pale cheeks. “That is it for now, enjoy your new life, Bill. I’ll be back to check on you after a while.” “Thanks, God, you really are great.” “Oh, wait, one more thing—I almost forgot. In your newly made, perfect, heavenly life— do you want your children here?” Bill let out a huge laugh, “of course! How could I forget! Yes, of course, I want to see my children! Not every day—and don’t have the Queen of Sheba bring ‘em by either, if you know what I mean,” he nudged the old man with his elbow, almost knocking his small frame over, “but yes I always regretted not having more time with the kids.” “Great, I’ll make that happen. I’ll be ba-a-a-a-a-ck,” he said as he turned around. A door appeared out of nowhere and the old man glided over to it, with his sheepskin coat dragging behind him. The door opened and he walked through it. It began to close, but his coat got caught in the door, and he had to reach back and yank it through. As the coat flew up, Bill thought he saw the tip of a German Sheppard’s tail and wondered if the dog had been there all along, but soon didn’t care as he saw his new neighbor, a young blonde woman in yoga pants and high heels getting into her Mercedes coupe. He tried to get her attention, but she was focused on fixing her lipstick and hair in the mirror as she drove away. Bill settled down into his new life, got comfortable in his small house and extended cab truck, and began going out to bars and clubs, just as he had imagined. Every night there was a bar to go to filled with beautiful women, and they all were happy to let him buy drinks and chat for a while. Sometimes he would invite one or two to dance and they’d agree, and then disappear with their friends. Other times he would meet a young woman in pub and talk to her; they’d laugh and joke and maybe she would give him her number and maybe not. But he never saw the same woman twice. If he called or texted a woman, she never responded. If he asked a woman if she’d like to go somewhere for coffee she always declined and said she had to get back home. On the rare chance that a woman did sit down and talk with him, the conversation was always the same: polite introductions, niceties, some flirtatious exchanges. He tried to talk to the beautiful women about life, what they wanted, what mattered to them, but they all just said they liked to have fun to some degree or another. After three weeks of going to the bars and trying to talk to women, Bill got tired of going out. He stayed at home for a week, then he tried to find his neighbor again. He saw her car in the drive and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. He only ever saw her driving away. After a couple slow weeks, he tried going out again, but it was the same routine: a few drinks, a few laughs, nothing to talk about and goodbye, never to be seen again. Bill sat in his truck in the garage and contemplated his after-life. He wiped a tear from his cheek and heard someone knocking on his front door. He let the old man in, and Bill sat down at the barstool. “Can I take your coat?” “No, I like to keep it on. I came by to see how you are doing?” “This isn’t what I thought heaven would be like,” said Bill, hunched forward, hands between his legs, staring at the floor.” “Heaven?” said the old man, looking up at Bill. “Where did you get that idea?” “Who are you?” The old man took off the sheepskin coat and Bill saw the gray and white fur all over his body. The gray tail dragged on the floor, and the old man’s face looked like the snout of a grey wolf. “This is your own doing, Bill. You made the life you wanted. You’ve had two chances now. This one you are stuck with, forever. No escaping. No crying, no laying down in the back of your truck for eternal sleep. This is the eternal sleep.” “This is hell.” “Call it what you will.” The wolf got down on all fours and walked to the door. “Can you let me out?” Bill opened the door and the wolf ran outside, almost knocking over the two people walking up Bill’s sidewalk. “What are you doing here,” he shouted at them. “We came to see you!” “No! Get away! Get out of here, go! Go!” The neighbor was getting into her Mercedes and looked over to see what the yelling was about, but then looked away before she could make eye contact. “Dad, we missed you! So, we followed you here. The old man told us how to find you! He asked us what our perfect life would be, and we told him ‘we just want to be with our Dad.’” \*\*\* Follow u/quilandtrowel for more at Medium & Twitter. | 10,657 | 0 |
\*Chapter 1: Fate\*\*** On a cold, dark night in the city of Cornwall, the markets buzz with villagers bustling about, their breaths visible in the icy air as they prepare for the harsh winter ahead. Amid the crowd, a mother and her young son, Henry, weave through the stalls, searching anxiously for her husband. As the first snowflakes begin to fall, casting a soft glow in the lantern light, Henry shivers. “Hush, Henry. We will be home soon,” she says, offering him a comforting smile that belies her own concern. He lets out a long sigh, tugging at his mother’s hand as they make their way toward the dock. As they approach, the woman’s eyes narrow; something is amiss. The guards stationed on the walls that loom over the city appear unusually tense, their movements quick and eyes darting. Villagers hasten their steps, their earlier chatter replaced by an uneasy silence. Abruptly, the stars and moon vanish, swallowed by an impenetrable darkness. “Henry, help me find your father. Please son, hurry,” the mother urges with a hint of desperation, leaving Henry by the bustling dock as she calls into the growing wind. “Harold? Harold!” Her voice, warm yet laced with fear, is snatched away by the gusting wind. Henry, feeling a swell of worry, shouts for his father, but his small voice is lost in the chaos. Suddenly, a group of guards rushes past, inadvertently knocking him to the snowy ground. Stunned, Henry lies there for a moment, the cold seeping through his clothes. When he looks up, the sky holds a terrifying sight—where the moon once hung, now two beady purple eyes gaze ominously down at him. A chilling shriek vibrates through the ground, sending shivers up his spine. Scrambling to his feet, Henry calls out for his mother, but his voice is drowned out by a deafening explosion. The city walls shatter, sending stone and dust into the air. Amid the pandemonium, the ominous eyes in the sky watch, unblinking. **\*\*Chapter 2: Alone\*\*** Henry stands frozen as the explosion's echo fades, replaced by the sinister skittering and groans of night creatures pouring through the crumbling walls. Amidst the chaos, giant arachnids with gleaming eyes crawl over debris, their legs clicking against the cobblestones, while figures that once were human stagger aimlessly, their moans chilling the air. Summoning every ounce of courage, Henry plunges into the billowing smoke, calling for his mother. His voice is just another whisper in the wind, drowned out by the desperate cries that fade into eerie silence. With each step, his hope dwindles, smothered by the thickening fog and encroaching dread. Then, faintly, a voice—her voice—cuts through the chaos. "Henry!" No more hesitation; he runs, guided by her calls. Dodging twisted limbs and leaping over fallen market stalls, he is driven by a single purpose. He stumbles upon her at last. She lies crumpled on the ground, the family sword clutched in her grasp. Dropping to his knees, Henry barely notices the fog lifting, or the encircling danger. His mother, with fading strength, touches his cheek tenderly. "Son, remember, wherever you find yourself lost, think of my love for you. It’s a beacon that will never dim." Her hand slips away, her voice a lingering echo in his heart. **\*\*Chapter 3: Harold\*\*** The circle of nightmarish creatures tightens. Desperate, Henry hoists the heavy family sword, feeling its weight as a literal and metaphorical burden—a legacy of his lineage. Despite his trembling arms, his mother’s final words echo in his heart, giving him the strength to stand firm. The creatures lunge, their snarls filling the smoky air, but Henry holds his ground, swinging with all his might. Suddenly, a bony hand strikes, sending the sword clattering away. As he stumbles backward, the haunting purple eyes bore into him, sealing his fate. Just then, a familiar voice cuts through the despair. "Over here!" It’s Harold, his face bloodied, his clothes torn, yet his stance defiant. The creatures turn, distracted by the new challenger. Harold charges, dodging gnashing teeth and slashing claws with a dancer's grace. He reaches the sword, lifting it effortlessly. A glance at his fallen wife fuels a surge of anguish and rage. With a guttural cry, he unleashes a whirlwind of vengeance upon the horde. Each movement, each strike is a blur—Harold is a tempest, unstoppable in his fury. Henry, overcome by a mix of awe and relief, watches as his father decimates the attackers. Soon, silence falls—only the two of them remain amid the carnage. Dropping the blade, Harold rushes to his son, enveloping him in a fierce embrace. "I thought I had lost you, son," he murmurs, tears mingling with the grime on his face. "Never again. I swear, I’ll protect you no matter what." Sobbing, Henry clings to his father, his young heart overwhelmed by fear and relief. Harold lifts him up, together with the sword, and they head towards safety, leaving the chaos behind. **\*\*Chapter 4: From Ashes\*\*** With the dawn casting long shadows over the debris, Harold and Henry tread carefully through the remnants of their city. “We need to get to the town center; maybe we'll find other survivors,” Harold suggests, wiping the dust from his son's cheek with a gentle hand. “Stay close. I don’t think we’re safe yet.” Every step they take is haunted by memories, as they pass the shattered facades of shops and homes once filled with laughter and love. Henry's gaze lingers on a crushed flower stall where he had bought his mother roses last spring, the vibrant colors now dulled by ash. Suddenly, Harold’s sharp eyes detect movement in the rubble of what was once the town's general store. Without warning, a figure bursts forth, tackling him to the ground. The two struggle fiercely, dust and debris kicking up around them. With a decisive shove, Harold frees himself and stands, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. The scavenger, recognizing the threat of steel, backs away slowly, fear overtaking desperation. Regaining their composure, father and son continue towards the town center. The harsh sunlight beats down on them, reminding Henry of the sinister eyes that watched him in the dark. He shivers, but the sight is gone, replaced by the stark reality of the day. Upon reaching the town center, they find a small group of survivors huddled together. The sight of other living souls sparks a flicker of hope in their hearts. Harold and Henry exchange a look of relief; they are not alone in this new world born from ashes. | 6,701 | 0 |
tell you exactly how I failed my semester. Everything was foggy. One thing for sure, I recalled spending more time with Al than with my studies. With her, I discovered the ins and outs of Boston: its neighborhoods and surrounding towns. She would take me to different areas to countless parties, hosted by her friends. We would sing reggae together, dance , drink, smoke marijuana, *a lot of marijuana*, and, afterwards, would go to her place, where we would sleep together a lot like rabbits. The only time I ever set foot in my dorm room was near the end of the semester, where I came across a stack of urgent notes from my academic advisor. These notes pertained to my parents and, particularly, their demands that I should “call them at once!” It was through my parents that I learned about my academic failure for the semester and how I failed: not attending a single class. Prior to calling, my plan was to keep quiet like I normally had done before and let them do all the talking. That was supposed to be the plan. Upon dialing, my mother picked up the phone after the first tone and, without exchanging any pleasantries, proceeded to blast me with her sweet voice and biting sarcasms. I was the son “scamming them out of their hard earned money” and one who was doing something that I was “finally more than average at,” making them “shameful parents.” I expected all of this from her, but what caught me off guard was the raw anger in her voice. Still, I stayed silent and listened as usual. My father, on the other hand, was far angrier and did not mince his words with sarcasms. After my mother had said her piece, he took the phone and cussed me all the names he knew under the sun, even cussing me in his mother’s tongue. His anger made his nasal voice even more pronounced, making it difficult for me to remain silent compared to my mother's words. It felt like each word was a punch to the ear through the phone. I fought to keep my composure, but frustration surged within me. "Mary, I bet this whole thing is all over some stupid asshole girl." That blew me up. I took it as a direct insult to Al. He hadn't even met her, hadn't seen her warm smile or her inviting eyes. He hadn't experienced her nonjudgmental nature or known how easy she was to talk to. Yet, he felt he had the right to insult her. “So what the fuck it is!” I remembered yelling over the phone. I remembered there was a brief, deafening silence after I spoke, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Mind you, at this point, I was no longer the same Howard that my parents were used to talking down to. They were exposed to a rude awakening. A different Howard who had long thick dreadlocks that stopped at his knees and who could look you directly in the eye and cussed you out like a seaman. “Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you. “Bite me.” I had answered him and hung up. That was the last time I talked to my parents. I had many regrets in life and this was among the top ones. Looking back now, I probably should not have done what I did. First off, I probably should have called them when I was off sound mind or sober. I also underestimated how cold and unforgiving my parents could be, and how far they would go to maintain their family's image. I had two younger brothers and a toddler age sister. When I did not take that next plane back home, my parents, as far as they were concerned, still had a legacy that they could build up and make their name proud, even after they left this world. I was the first child: the mistake and experiment that they could learn from when rearing up my siblings. **Not surprisingly, I** was kicked out of MIT as my parents did not pay for my next semester’s schooling. I did not care at the time. At least, I had my Al and she was nice enough to offer rooming to my bicycle, suitcase and I. We were officially together under one roof. Only this was not to be permanent. About a month after moving in with Al, we found ourselves in a situation where we couldn't afford the rent and had to move out. Al had lost her job a few weeks earlier because she showed up to it high, a decision I blamed myself for since I had encouraged us to attend a party the previous night. Living with Al's friends was initially a relief, a temporary solution to our housing predicament. But as the days turned into weeks, we began to overstay our welcome. Our presence became a burden, straining the patience and resources of those free spirits who had graciously taken us in. Eventually, we found ourselves with no place to call home, facing the harsh reality of homelessness. During this period, finding work proved to be a near impossible challenge. Despite my best efforts, no employer wanted to even touch me. It was then that I truly understood my immigration status on a student visa and the obstacles it presented to securing employment. Until then, I had never considered or entertained such thoughts, leaving them up to my parents. The idea of marrying Al for a green card never even crossed my mind. I refused to burden her with my problems or pressure her into such a life-altering decision. One way or the other way, I was going to find a solution on my own. Though it looked like a grim reality check, strangely enough, Al and I were the happiest when we were homelessness. Freed from the burdens of parental or societal expectations, we embraced our status as free birds in the city, viewing it as our own personal playground. If there was no luck at the soup kitchens, we would scavenge food from trash bins by restaurants. Surprisingly, we often stumbled upon untouched treasures like whole pizzas, pieces of chicken wings, discarded birthday cakes (often anniversary cakes), pies, and many other items. People's wastefulness became a lifeline for us, and we were deeply thankful for it. Beyond mere survival, we reveled in the adventure of exploring the city's hidden corners. From navigating the labyrinthine subway tracks to stumbling upon alleys adorned with vibrant street art to sneaking into buildings with magnificent views of the city’s skyline, every discovery fueled our sense of wonder and curiosity. And we certainly were not shy to fool around in all these places as no place in the city was safe from our escapades: not the museums and not even the stadium. But even with all the craziness and unpredictability, the most important thing about being homeless was the bond we shared. I fondly recall the nights spent huddled together under the stars in quiet parks, wrapped in blankets and sharing our dreams. Al wanted to go back to school to pursue nursing, while I had ambitions of completing my engineering degree at a community college. With that qualification, I hoped to secure a well-paying job that could sponsor both of us, paving the way for us to settle in a cozy home in the suburbs. There, we could begin our journey of building a family together. Each time I shared my dreams with Al, her left *blue moon eye* seemed to radiate with an illuminating glow, serving as a source of hope and strengthening my determination to believe that anything was possible. **Eventually, I managed** to secure employment the other way: under the table at a slaughterhouse. But even with a steady income, my wages were barely enough to cover our basic needs, let alone secure permanent housing. However, luck seemed to smile upon us in an unexpected way. At the slaughterhouse, I crossed paths with a fellow countryman named Archie, who had faced similar challenges with work status. Our shared nationality sparked instant camaraderie, and Archie eagerly offered his assistance upon learning about our homelessness. He revealed that he had a friend at the Port of Boston who could help us find shelter in one of the abandoned shipping containers there. Archie assured me that living in a shipping container wasn't as bad as it sounded, sharing his own experience of finding temporary refuge in one upon arriving in America. He explained that as the weather cooled with the onset of fall, we wouldn't have to endure the sweltering heat of summer. However, he advised us to prepare for the winter chill with plenty of blankets and, even better, a portable heater. Despite its unconventional nature, it was a far better option than braving the elements out on the streets. As Archie led Al and I through the lively Port of Boston, I couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for his unexpected generosity. Here was a man who did not know me from Adam and was offering to help me and my woman, with no payment or strings attached. We soon arrived at a secluded corner, where Archie introduced us to his friend, JJ. JJ was a short, stocky man with large muscular arms, a stark contrast to Archie's tall and malnourished skinny frame. Despite their physical differences, JJ exuded friendliness and kindness, much like Archie. He welcomed Al and I very warmly. Hence the reason, I could never forgive myself for what I did to him. That was also one of my biggest life regrets. With a nod from JJ, we followed him to an abandoned shipping container nestled away from prying eyes. It was a hidden gem, shielded from the outside world by stacks of cargo containers. JJ assured us that it was a safe haven, far from the scrutiny of port workers. As we settled into our new home, JJ's kindness continued to shine through. He provided us with port safety jackets, ensuring we could blend in seamlessly with the workers. He even offered his assistance if we encountered any issues, emphasizing that he was always available at the main loading dock during his night shifts. The shipping container began to feel more like home with each passing day. Thanks to Archie and JJ's assistance, we were able to transport an old mattress, dresser, and milk crates— repurposed as shelves— from various junk sites and donation bins using JJ's cargo van. Despite the simplicity of our accommodations, the mere presence of these familiar items filled us with tremendous joy as we finally had a place to call our home. Al's creative touch transformed the interior, adorning it with artificial bouquets she had found at a dump site. The vibrant colors breathed life into our makeshift home, infusing it with warmth and charm. As we settled into our newfound sanctuary, a wave of relief washed over us. For the first time in months, we felt a sense of stability and security. With our basic needs finally met, we could now turn our attention to our goals for the future. Eager to continue my education, I made plans to dedicate myself to finishing my engineering degree once the upcoming winter months had passed. Little did I know at the time that my student visa had already been canceled, making this goal completely impossible. Being a youth and all its naivety. However, I never got the chance to find out about my visa status or even make the attempt to finish my education. At the start of winter, Al went missing. **Next Part 4 Preview**: It was a wicked, cold-blooded anger that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I tried to release my hands from his shirt, but it was too late. He seized my wrists like a vise grip and, in one swift motion before I had time to react, picked me up, slamming me onto the concrete. /The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. | 11,814 | 1 |
Jackie West glanced between the bars and boards on his windows, seeing the sky redden. He set about taking inventory of everything in the one-room cabin. Fresh light bulbs: check. Radio: check. Animal traps under the windows: check. Medical supplies: check. Guns: check. He emphasized the last with a satisfying pull on the slide of his shotgun, checking the chambers of his revolver, then sat in the chair facing the door and per his new routine, he waited. He began to ponder what had happened for it to come to this. He thought back to the first Eclipse, three months before. It had been a regular day in the small town of Red Leaf, AL. “Town” might have been too generous; it was little more than a small collection of houses, shops, and a tiny police station connected by a crumbling road running through it. One would need to go well out of their way to get here. Jackie had gone into town to purchase more hunting supplies for the oncoming winter and exchanged small talk with the kindly store clerk, Roger Orson. The clerk had asked Jackie if he’d heard the news about the eclipse that was set to occur. Jackie hadn’t, so Roger advised that he stay inside when it began to get dark; according to the papers, it was set to be a rather long eclipse, lasting at least five hours. The Shades had appeared soon after the Eclipse came. It had cast an odd dark-red glow over the town. Jackie had gotten back to his cabin a mile and a half away from the town proper, only to find Red Leaf beset by a host of living shadows. Before long, screams erupted from the homes, followed by ghastly, inhuman screeches, the sound of vehicles being destroyed, and ghoulish laughter. His poor townsfolk had been claimed by the Eclipse. Jackie’s focus snapped back to the present when the radio began to buzz with static. Soon enough, a chorus of distorted, fiendish words began. Whether he was a paragon of willpower or a shameless coward, he couldn’t say, but all he knew was that he never opened up for the creatures. Five hours, he instructed himself as always. You just need to wait five hours and you’re home free until next time. He kept his eyes trained on the door. There were only a couple of other boarded windows in the cabin, so they didn’t concern him as much as the Shades deciding to barge in head-on, which he knew they could if they wanted. All of a sudden, he heard it. The crackling of leaves underfoot, the sound of objects dragging across the ground, heavy breathing from distorted throats. His grip on the shotgun tightened. Once again, the Shades had come for him. Looking around, Jackie noted, not for the first time, that the sturdiness of his cabin was matched only by its restrictiveness. He could—and had—held out for a long time in this cabin. However, for all of its safety, he felt as if at any moment, it could squeeze him to death like a boa constrictor. The one-room nature of the structure could only offer so much peace of mind, as it gave him fewer places to check but also fewer places to escape if need be. As if summoned by this thought, he heard the first of them at his door. The creature began its usual performance of wheezing, snarling, and chittering in a distorted voice. The radio quickly did its duty and broadcast the beast’s message. “Jackie?” called the twisted, two-toned voice of Roger. “Jackie, open up, bud. I think it’s starting to clear up out here.” Even with the windows boarded, Jackie knew it was lying. He could see rays of the reddened sun slashing through the cracks, rays he dared not enter. He just stuck to watching the door as the radio continued to speak for the beasts. They all spoke with the voices of his neighbors, his friends, just as they always did, except they used a horrific parody of their voices. They always coaxed, begged, screamed, and threatened with the same goal: making him leave the house. Then another voice chimed in, and as soon as he heard it, he knew that tonight was going to be different. “Mr. West?” asked the timid, tearful voice of Ken Edwards, once an outgoing, happy-go-lucky young boy who never failed to say hello to Jackie when he came into town. “Can you please let me come in, Mr. West? I don’t like it out here. It’s scary, and something’s wrong with Mama and Daddy.” The radio’s sadistic interpretation made his heart sink. Each time, there had been some kind of tell, a distortion to the voices that gave off the impression of it belonging to a Shade. But Ken’s voice, though filled with static, sounded as normal as ever. “Mr. West?” the voice called again, sounding more desperate. “Mr. West, please.” He trailed off in a series of sobs, then continued through them, “Everyone out here’s gotten real mean. Mama and Daddy started fighting, and she hurt Daddy with a knife, then he hurt her with an axe. He kept hitting her over and over again. He grabbed me and…” Fresh terror took the boy’s voice as he began screaming, “Please, let me in! I see him! It’s Daddy, but it’s not! Why won’t you open the door?! Please, Mr. West! He’s gonna hurt me! He—” The voice was cut off by the sound of a blade striking flesh, followed by choking and failed attempts at screaming in agony as the axe hit the boy again and again. Jackie listened to all of this, feeling bitter tears running down his cheeks. By now, he was feeling sorely tempted to go out there and shoot as many of those bastards as he could, but he remained steadfast. It was an illusion. Then the boy’s voice came back over the radio, only now it was a malicious, croaking cackle. “You knew about it, Jackie! You knew about the Sun, and you didn’t even warn anybody! Just so you know, it took a lot longer for the boy to die than this. You should have seen the look on his face, Jackie. It was exquisite.” Growling, Jackie began reaching for the radio, keeping his eyes on the barricaded door. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the voice sang tauntingly. Curious, Jackie looked at the radio, only to find that he was not reaching for the device but now his hand was reaching into the steel jaws of one of the bear traps he had set up. He tumbled out of his chair to pull his hand away from the steel teeth as they just barely missed his hand. The shock of what had just happened seemed to paralyze him as he realized his chair was in a different position than he had initially set it. Then he heard the wild, raucous cackles over the radio and outside as the beasts mocked his mistake. Jackie tried to ignore them, but he was still quite shaken up as he stood the chair back up to face the door. All of a sudden, the radio fell silent. Then he heard something strike the door hard enough to shake it. He jumped back in shock, then took aim with the shotgun. It shook again and again. Jackie slowly backed up before it burst open. There they were: three deformed, mutilated figures with long, crimson strings attached to their bodies that pulsed like veins and seemed to stretch to the sky. The one on the right carried a pickaxe, the one on the left held a claw hammer, and the middle one held a hatchet. They all grinned madly at him, though even now he wasn’t sure if they were grinning because of the curse or because of how disfigured their faces were at this point. Outside, the moon gazed down on Red Leaf, having taken on the shape of a lidless scarlet eye with a colossal, black pupil. It glowered at Jackie, causing horrific images to flash through his mind. He was nearly taken off his guard as the intruders began their assault. The middle Shade charged at Jackie in an attempt to swing the hatchet, only for Jackie to blow its leg off with a blast from his shotgun. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating the foyer in a grisly shower of vermillion. It showed no pain, just continued to try and stand on the remaining leg, whereupon Jackie pulled back the slide, ejecting the shell, and shot it in the head. The veins it was covered in seemed to absorb its corpse with a horrid slurping sound. The other two attempted to do the same as their fallen compatriot, Jackie just barely dodging the pickaxe swinging for him as it lodged itself in the wall. He capitalized on this by pumping the shotgun again and firing at the Shade’s head. Then the monster with the hammer rushed at him, receiving the same treatment. Their ocular puppeteer in the sky slurped them back up. That was when Jackie heard the chainsaw. He whirled about in horror as the sound of the tool at one of the rear windows, then he saw the tool cut through the boards. Swiveling his head from his door to the window, he tried to keep himself calm despite knowing that at any moment, he could receive another ambush at the door. He was just hoping that the Shade’s entry through the window would have the results he was hoping for. Once the boards were cut open, the Shade, a hulking brute of a man, stepped through. Before it could charge at him with the saw, it was halted by one of the bear traps which had bitten into its ankle. Without hesitation, it began to saw away at the leg, but Jackie stopped it with a shot in the chest, then the head. More Shades began appearing, all bearing makeshift weapons and pierced with the same veins as their predecessors and all receiving the same treatment from his weapon. Now they were getting more aggressive. After killing at least ten more, he aimed for another swinging a large plank of wood, only to hear it click. The Shade swung the plank into Jackie’s left shin. He cried out in pain, but frantically dodged as it tried to bring it down for a finishing strike. Jackie grabbed the hatchet one of the first three had been carrying, then slashed at the veins. An enraged roar sounded from the sky, though whether it was because of control over its puppet being severed or from pain, Jackie couldn’t tell. Either way, it seemed to shake the confidence of the being somewhat, as the Shades suddenly ceased their siege of the cabin. Jackie stared out at them, confused. He still kept his distance from the red beams of moonlight. Then something new happened. A figure descended from the sky. The Shades all parted, then knelt before it. From a distance, it looked like a man. As it approached, however, Jackie could see the sheer inhumanity of the thing. It too had veins sticking out of it, but unlike the Shades, it only had one vein attached to the moon. Furthermore, all of the veins seemed to run from it into the Shades. The multitude of eyes that coated its sexless, nude figure all resembled the moon, and they all turned their gaze on Jackie before the images raced through his mind again. Then it began addressing him. *Return to us what is ours, thief,* it spoke into his mind with soft yet vicious authority. *Give to us, the Sanguine Eye, what you have taken, and we shall yet allow you to retain your will. We will let you take the place of this Shade as our Seer. There is no greater honor or pleasure to be found. All you need to do is give us our rightful property.* For an appalling moment, Jackie thought the offer over. Then that moment passed as he saw the moon beginning to move out of the eclipse. It was getting desperate. It was running out of time, so it had resorted to bargaining with him. He responded by removing his revolver, aiming at the Seer and firing at one of the eyes on its torso. It burst open with a cascade of blood and other fluids. The Seer clutched at the remains of the optical organ in pain, letting out a howl of agony, followed by fury. It pointed a finger at Jackie, then all of the Shades leaped to their feet and charged at the cabin. Jackie began counting the seconds. Just as the Shades entered the cabin and one was about to bring a lead pipe down on his head, the red light from the moon vanished, along with the Shades and their Seer. Sunlight bathed the town of Red Leaf, and Jackie sighed as he lay down, then groaned as he remembered the blow to his leg. Once he had bandaged his leg, which was thankfully not broken, Jackie headed into the cellar, seated himself at his desk, and took the book out. The design of the hateful, scarlet eye on the cover watched him, judged him. He flipped to the pages with diagrams of an eclipse and hoped the bizarre trance would come over him again, illuminating some means of reversing things. He knew he was responsible for all of this. If he had just left that damn book alone, he wouldn’t have been possessed by the knowledge of what to say to call down the Sanguine Eclipse, as the book referred to it. This was his penance: staying in Red Leaf, surviving the attacks by his former neighbors. The force behind this book, the Sanguine Eye, made no attempt to leave town. Whatever it wanted, it would be incomplete without him. Without the one who summoned the Shades, the “collection” was incomplete. What’s more, it was getting desperate, and he thought he knew why. The book spoke of an event that had always occurred within a year of the Eclipse: the Azure Sun. Evidently, it was the equal and opposite reaction to the Sanguine Eclipse, a force that would cleanse the world of its doings. As long as he drew breath, he was going to make sure the Shades and their master stayed confined to Red Leaf. If he could no longer defend the cabin before the Azure Sun, he would burn it down with him and the book inside. He owed his neighbors that much. | 13,436 | 4 |
It’s dark. Loud. Screams, terrible screeches all around. A metallic scent wafting about the air. A vast unending sea lay within the surrounding shadows. Something takes hold of his leg, his leg tucked away within its jaw. He is dragged through the iron scented, pitch black swamp. Can’t breathe. A putrid taste meets his tongue, trying not to swallow as animal instinct takes over in a helpless bout for air. Like fresh morning coffee, the liquid nearly soothes his throat. The revolting taste would have made him heave it all back up if it hadn’t happened so fast. His consciousness is slipping away, this is it. He awakes. The entity that had wrapped its maws around his leg lay stiff. On close inspection he finds it hadn't suddenly been blessed with grace or any such virtue. What remained of it lay hollow yet with the faintest spasms. It is being consumed. A slave to a system that would like to see to it that it is dealt with and subsequently forgotten within the days passing. He gets up, wading his hands through this decrepit pool. Putting pressure onto his leg is met with a sudden and excruciating force. He falls before hobbling on hands and knees further into the void. No way to know how long it had been. Days, hours, minutes, seconds. He feels his body beginning to give out. He continues on. Again his body feels as though it is about to fail him. Again he continues. On a loop he begins to tire only to keep going on. In the midst of this monotonous process he has his first real thought; Almost there. He stops, sits up. Looks around. Still nothing. He thinks to himself some more; Where? He doesn't move. Another thought reaches the forefront of his mind; This is hell. His head sinks. He has given up. Content with whatever is to come next. A stomach barren of anything resembling nutritional value in tow with a throat dry enough to collect dust argued in opposition to the sentiment. He waits silently. Doesn't make even the slightest tremor. For how long yet to be determined. The faintest rise of liquid followed immediately by its descent. Then again. And again. The ripples become more violent. Soundwaves now reach his ear with frequencies so low the most seasoned hunters could miss. Plip. Plip. He listens. Plip. Plip. The noise becomes louder. Something light is making its way towards him. Plip, Plip. Plip, Plip. On four legs. Small. Easy prey. Just need to keep waiting. PLIP, PLIP. He launches toward the noise. Nearly had it. He scrambles, crawling towards the startled entity. Got a leg. He holds on tight, not content with letting his meal get away. Puppeted by his own biological limitations, he uses the leg as if it were a rope with his prize at the other end. Running off of his own body fat he claws his way up, dragging the helpless creature closer and closer. It tries to kick him off. He pulls the leg down towards the bed of that metallic pool. He summons the strength to snap something in the leg, leaving the creature crippled. This is his opportunity to overtake the creature. His reason and steady thinking smothered by the threat of starvation permits him to pull the poor creature's head below the surface. It struggles. Both these creatures fight with everything on the line. The more desperate of the two will determine which one is to go on with the suffering and strife that comes with being in a world such as this, and which will go on as an offering to the cycle of violence that rules the beings that inhabit it. The creature's will is broken. Its struggle leaves it without energy or oxygen. By sheer reflex it takes a breath, opening the floodgates for a great wave of dense liquid to make its way into the lungs. His body has won. It has procured the necessary resources for the sake of his struggle. With a warm belly he sluggishly pulls himself further along. He tries to wait out the rest of his time, trying to outwit his animalistic sense of preservation. He gives up fighting it. Keeps his mind occupied in another way. What else is in here? How long before I'm the one with my head held down? The very thought of this sends a spark down his back as he halts all movement. He moves with greater purpose, making methodical calculations in his mind as to how much force and speed he puts into each movement. No matter how cautious or slow it's always too loud. If he can hear it, so can anything else. During his gradual progress he takes note of the depth of this shallow metallic sea. He feels for any fluctuations within it. Nothing abnormal yet. Perhaps some beast skulks just beneath the surface remaining undetected. He tenses up in anticipation of such an attack, waiting, conjuring up a myriad of strategies to employ against the unseen enemy. The liquid rises ever so slightly. He attacks. Nothing. He goes stiff. He knows he has just revealed his immediate location to this lowly beast. It got the better of him. After all this time? No. He won’t let some cowardly animal with no more thought process than basic instinct beat him. He is better, more clever, far more deserving of life. He snaps back from his trail of thoughts, diverting focus back to his surroundings. He closes his eyes, putting his other senses at the forefront of his mind. Nothing. He could feel there was something lurking, watching him. It has to be waiting for him to lower his guard, the perfect moment of weakness to take hold of. The liquid around him remains calm with only slight movement. There is no noise. There is nothing. He continues on, weighed down by the things he cannot see. Time stops once again as he continues his slow trek through the unending sea. The eyes do not, they are just far enough to remain undetected. That much he is sure of. He hopes and prays that something will happen, anything to break the stagnant, menacing aura he is encased within. He prays. Prays that something, even death, will free him from his solitude. His prayers go unanswered. He knows this feeling too well. He has been shunned, if not outright forgotten by whichever force made him come to be. This is the only reasonable conclusion he could possibly draw. No omnipotent presence would subject its own creation to this type of isolation. As he reflects on these thoughts he can feel something deep within his chest ignite. Quickly, it turns into a magnificent blaze. It spreads like a wildfire throughout his body, if it doesn't escape now it will scorch him until all that remains is ash. He screams incoherently. He subjects the void around him to a fury of pure hatred with words alone. He intends to use this great flame within him to burn everything around him, but there is nothing to burn, nothing he can cast into ruin. This only makes the fire more intense. He begins to flail his body around like a ragdoll. He needs for something to come find him. He needs to tear something apart. His screams grate his vocal cords into a bloody heap of flesh. His bloodlust grants him the energy to stand for the first time in a millennium. He runs into the darkness. He will not stop. He cannot stop. Then he feels it. A guttural vibration echoes across the waters. He goes still. A low hum follows. All at once the liquid begins to bubble, small finned creatures jump out of the water in a repeated frenzy, propelled by powerful tails. They explode into a sporadic boil, extending far beyond his field of view. From the darkness protrudes what appears to be a human figure. He braces himself as it slowly makes its way towards him. He can hear his heart rate increase with every step. It pushes forward at a steady crawl. His breathing begins to fall out of sync. It continues on, seemingly unphased by his presence. He knows how little time he has to act. It takes another step forward. He must act now. He runs toward the figure with stretched arms, able to finally satiate his bloodlust. He grabs the figure by the throat, digging his nails into it. It lets out a pathetic whimper. This is his chance. He bites down on its neck resulting in a satisfying crack one might hear snapping a branch. There is no struggle. The figure gurgles as its body lay limp. This game isn’t fit for someone of his caliber. He wants a fight. He takes a moment to look upon his trophy as it lay in the fetal position, pleading for mother to come and make it all better. A boy, likely a squire of some sort, stared up at him. The boy's eyes were blank and begging him for some sort of relief. All he can do is watch as the reality of what he has just done sets in. The boy had a lightweight sword which now lay submerged. He knows there is only one way to save the boy. He searches for the blade, it can’t be far. Wading through the liquid, he searches, knowing each additional second it takes to find only contributes more to the poor boy's misery. Every second that passes he can hear the exasperated breaths that only turn into choking spasms. Here it is, the boy need not wait any longer. As he stands over the boy his attention is diverted. His body tells him to look out into the abyss. He stares for some time, unable to look away. His eyes fixate on the darkness. He sees it. Its unhinged jaw with many lengthy black vines floating atop the surface of the waters. Its eyes stare through him in the same way the boys had. Knotted hair is draped on either side of its head, it appears as if clumps have been ripped out by force. There is skin flaking off of its face revealing gray necrosed patches. Its body stays completely still in a hunched position. Nestled in its mouth where the vines originate are small white dots that appear as though they were the only visible stars in the night sky. The vines extend as they float towards him slowly creeping along. He had always been well acquainted with fear. It has been an ever present force that has pushed him to do the things he never would have otherwise. It has become a comforting presence, reliable, trustworthy. Though at times they may have been at odds, fear has been his greatest supporter, a true companion to guide him throughout life. He knows as long as he listens to fear he can pull through. | 10,138 | 0 |
Prince Ezekiel looked in the mirror examining his suit, wishing that he would be struck down. His hopeful thinking was interrupted by pounding on his door. “Master, I’m coming in. If you’re not ready for the wedding I swear to the gods that I will-” Ezekiel didn’t even let the voice finish before jumping up and quickly putting on black pants and a regal purple coat, and finishing it off with a white bow. “Ok! I’m dressed.” Ezekiel said nervously, chittering his teeth as he watched his maid come in. She examined him carefully before hugging him. “Oh your majesty, you look handsome. Your bride will be so happy! This will be great.” He teared up a bit and looked into his maid’s eyes “I don’t want to get married. I don’t even know what she looks like! Why can’t father be the one getting married to her?” His maid kissed his forehead and rubbed his back. “Ezekiel, your father needs peace with the trolls. I know it’s hard but this marriage is a symbol of bond between our kingdoms. The princess asked for our prince. She’s probably just as nervous as you.” Ezekiel took a deep breath and nodded to his maid. She lead him through the corridors and into the royal hall. It was filled with humans and trolls with all eyes falling on him. The troll king and his father both watched him step in front of the altar. “Welcome, boy.” His father whispered whilst shaking Ezekiel’s hand. The troll king grabbed Ezekiel’s head and pressed their foreheads together. “I am glad you will be family. Your father speaks of your kind heart.” Ezekiel nods and thanks them both, trying to calm his nerves. A drum beat echoed through the royal hall as Trolls bowed down, paying respect to their princess. Her skin was as blue as sapphires, and two small tusks protruded from her mouth as she smiled. Ezekiel was taken aback for her beauty, her emerald eyes pierced through him. She looked like a dream he would never want to wake up from. All he could mutter was three words. “Am I……Dreaming?” Ezekiel heard chuckling behind him as his father softly slapped his shoulder. He realized he was staring, quickly bowing to the princess. She took his hands in her own. Her strength surprised Ezekiel. “I am Thakita. You must be my husband.” She said softly, smiling at him with a light blush. Ezekiel locked eyes with her again, he slowly realized that she was taller than him now that they stood together. “I’m Ezekiel. I must admit, I didn’t want to be here. I was scared. But seeing you, I’m glad I came.” Thakita’s ears twitch as he says that, her blush deepening. “As am I, darling.” The troll behind the altar spoke in a gravelly tone “We come here today to welcome Britannia into our nation, and its people to our family. With this marriage we join together in a new age of allegiance and peace. We welcome Prince Ezekiel into our lineage and let Princess Thakita into theirs. Let them join together now, as husband and bride.” Ezekiel cupped Thakita’s face and whispered “may I?” “You may.” Thakita said with a smile. Ezekiel leaned upwards and kissed her, causing applause flooding the room. | 3,103 | 2 |
Huh........ What a boring day...... I look out the window as the world passes by and people who are but robots. It's time I guess! Me the savior of this world shall bestow upon these morning snorts the greatness of life! That's what goes through my head every time I break anything made out of glass with my voice making it feel like it's a ghost. Oh the sheer volume of people who piss their pants is hilarious to say the least! That one time when I kept doing this to that boooooooring catholic family The Hudsons, they had to get the priest from the local church to do his hocus pocus! O The blaspheme! Father have mercy on my soul for my sin is but to make people interesting. So when he came out with his glass vessels and holy water...... You guessed it right! BAM! I knocked all of 'em out at once baby! You should have seen the utter horror on the poor father's face. The moment he grabbed hold of the cross and started threatening me.... Errrrrr... The ghost... I used my voice to sound holy and grave like God himself. (See mom! That weekly acting gig wasn't all for nothing! Taught me how to speak like Biggots! ) My son it's The Lord Almighty himself! Father!!!! But..... No it can't be! It must be that wretched spirit taunting me! I'm not falling for that you scallywag! My Son! I know you are scared but hear me out. I know being rejected by little Molly when you are but a teen age boy hurt you enough to become a priest but it matters not to me my child. I'm just glad that you found your way to me (p.s. molly is my mum XD! She rejected him for my dad who was the local bad boy who could use his voice to bed any married woman he liked!) That's impossible! No one but my baby Jesus knows of this confession! How..... Your baby Jesus is my Baby boy you fool! Who do you think he reports to? Oh that boy. Such a sweet child. Love him to death man! Oops sorry you know how parenthood is right? Damn it! My apologies forgot you were a virgin. But worry not my son when you finally rollover and die I'll make sure the heavens finest will bed you! But father isn't that a sin! Worry not my child. I'll let that slide for the sake of my love for you. You love me father! Of course I do my baby boy! I'm your baby boy?! YES YOU ARE!! YAHAHAHA.... But I'll have to ground you as a parent's duty does. Oh father! What did I do? I have always followed the bible. Follow everything that baby Jesus asked of me but thee say me hath but committed a sin against you! I'll take my life if that's true! (Wowowowoooooooo......... That escalated quickly!) Bloody Mary you stupid boy! I said ground not 6 feet under the ground! Don't take me calling you a boy that seriously! You 80 years old expired food!! Just go back to the church and dont speak for a week that will do! As for me being here I am just testing these Hudsons. All day long they ramble about me and my baby boy so I decided to put their faith to test but guess what! What father? Bloody stupid idiot has the gaul to ask me what! You see... senile old men have no damn idea what fun is!..... I mean you my child became a bit too overzealous. O father! Your compassion hath no bounds! For sin this grave a week of silence is nothing but a pat on my back. I'll leave at once and never turn back! Thank you father for seeing me worthy of a direct audience. Quick now boy! I have other stuff to do like spinning this mud ball of a planet and stuff universe management isn't a small thing ya'know! At once father! I'll wait for my judgement day when we reunite in heaven. Of course we will. You horn.... I mean my honored soldier. Now go and do your priest stuff! I love you Father! Love you too chump! And that's how that fool now has become the celebrity of the local! Even the atheists respect him now that he got to speak with God! Well that was then and this is now. And now says it's time to put some life back into these fleshy robots! Until next time Yours truly George Clooney aka Glassed crusader GC. P. S. Love you mom! and F***** you Dad! Because of you I can't even moan! Fu**** these super powers. | 4,156 | 1 |
In the heart of Fye, the City of Fire, the air crackled with relentless energy. Flames danced in the streets, mirroring the fervor and passion of the city’s inhabitants. Fye was a place of paradoxes: beauty and danger, freedom and oppression, where fire dancers captivated audiences with their daring performances. Among them was Lysandra, a young dancer whose every movement was a symphony of grace and fire. But Lysandra held a secret she guarded with her life: she was a fire mage. During her adolescence, she had been mysteriously transported to Umbra, a shadowy mirror world where she bonded with her familiar, a phoenix named Pyrrhus. Marked with a tattoo-like symbol of a phoenix on her upper arm, Lysandra had always hidden her mark, summoning Pyrrhus only when necessary, knowing that the mark would reappear once Pyrrhus returned to her. One night, after a particularly exhausting performance, Lysandra returned to her modest quarters, her body aching and her spirit weary. She collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the shadows. A spark of defiance flared within her. She raised her hand, and with a thought, summoned Pyrrhus, drawing in the heat from the nearby candles. The mark on her arm disappeared as the phoenix materialized, its fiery wings lighting up the room. Word of Lysandra’s abilities had spread among the magi in hiding, but she had kept her power secret from the city's elite. The ruling class of Fye, always seeking to control and exploit powerful magi, would see her as a valuable asset. Meanwhile, rebel factions fighting against the city’s oppressive rulers saw her as a potential weapon in their struggle for freedom. Caught between these forces, Lysandra had to maintain her guise as a simple fire dancer while secretly honing her powers. She practiced in secret, mastering the flames that now answered her call. But with each day, the stakes grew higher. Her every move was watched, every action scrutinized. She knew that if she was discovered, her life would be forfeit. Lysandra’s only solace was in the hidden sanctuary beneath Fye, where other magi had gathered in secret. Among them was Kael, a charismatic leader with a vision of rebellion and hope. Kael saw in Lysandra not just a powerful ally, but a symbol of resistance. “We can’t keep running,” Kael said one night, his voice steady but filled with urgency. “We need to stand and fight. Fye can be more than a city of oppression. With your power, we can turn the tide.” Lysandra looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of his words. “I just want to be free, Kael. I didn’t ask for this power.” “None of us did,” Kael replied. “But we have it, and we can use it to make a difference. For all of us.” Lysandra sighed, her gaze dropping to the ground. “What if we fail?” Kael’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting the weight of past decisions. “I fled Crux, thinking it was the only way to survive. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.” Their conversation was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. The sanctuary was under attack. Enforcers, led by a ruthless fire mage known as Seraph, had found them. Flames and shadows danced as magi and enforcers clashed in the darkened tunnels. Amid the chaos, Lysandra’s powers surged, uncontrolled, causing devastation around her. In the aftermath, she realized the cost of her power—lives lost and the sanctuary compromised. Kael approached her, his voice gentle but firm. “Lysandra, you have a choice. You can run, seek your freedom, and live in hiding. Or you can join us, fight for something greater, and help us bring down the tyranny that enslaves us all.” Lysandra looked at the faces around her—faces filled with hope, fear, and determination. She saw herself reflected in them. The flames within her burned brighter, fueled by purpose. “I’ll fight,” she said, her voice unwavering. “Not just for me, but for all of us.” In the following weeks, Lysandra trained with Kael and the rebels, honing her abilities and learning to control her power. She became a symbol of hope, inspiring others to join their cause. Together, they planned an assault on the heart of Fye, the citadel where the ruling elite held their grip on power. The night of the attack, the rebels moved through the city like shadows, their resolve unshaken. Flames and shadows danced in the streets as magi and enforcers clashed. Lysandra faced Seraph once more, their battle a whirlwind of fire and fury. Seraph stood tall, his familiar, a massive serpent wreathed in flames, coiled around him. Lysandra took a deep breath, drawing in the heat from the surrounding fires, feeling the energy surge through her veins. Pyrrhus flapped its wings beside her, ready for battle. Seraph sneered, his eyes blazing with malice. “You think you can defeat me, girl? I’ve been a fire mage long before you even knew what magic was.” “We’ll see about that,” Lysandra retorted, her voice steady. With a roar, Seraph sent a torrent of fire towards her. Lysandra raised her hands, directing Pyrrhus to intercept the flames. The phoenix absorbed the fire, growing brighter and more intense. Lysandra countered with a stream of fire, her flames intertwining with Seraph’s in a dazzling display of power. The ground beneath them scorched as they exchanged blows, their familiars clashing in a fiery dance. Seraph’s serpent lunged at Pyrrhus, but the phoenix dodged nimbly, striking back with its talons. Lysandra focused, drawing more heat from the surroundings, feeling the power build within her. Seraph’s attacks grew more frenzied, his control slipping. Lysandra saw her opportunity. She summoned a massive fireball, hurling it towards Seraph with all her strength. He tried to counter, but his serpent was too slow. The fireball struck him, engulfing him in flames. Seraph screamed, the sound echoing through the burning city. Lysandra stepped forward, her voice calm and commanding. “Yield, or be consumed by your own fire.” Defeated, Seraph collapsed to the ground, his serpent vanishing into the ether. The citadel fell, and with it, the oppressive rule over Fye. The city was free, but the cost had been high. Lysandra stood among the ruins, the weight of her choices heavy on her shoulders. She had gained more than freedom; she had found her place in the world, a beacon of hope for others. As the sun rose over Fye, casting a warm glow over the city, Lysandra knew that the fight was far from over. But for now, she had won her freedom and sparked a flame of rebellion that would burn for generations. The flames of Fye, once a symbol of oppression, now represented hope and resistance. And Lysandra, the fire dancer turned warrior, stood ready to lead her people into a new era. | 6,853 | 1 |
The Sunlight is almost unbearably bright reflecting off the snow, but my eyes have grown to tolerate it. Still, everything is blurry and the wind kicking up the frost into my face doesn’t help, but I don’t care. We’re far enough down the mountain that there are now some very small trees able to grow, about the same height as me. The snow is deep, and it’s been frustrating to trudge through, but right now it doesn’t bother me. I strain my eyes to see off over the next ledge, it’s quite a ways ahead but, I can see far into the wilderness beneath. We’ve been running and falling over, laughing, and screaming for an immeasurable amount of time, probably somewhere between an instant and infinity. I’m not too certain about anything, but I feel at peace with everything. Delirious probably. But I don’t care. In this moment we don’t need anything. The sun is beginning to set. The orange light makes every drop of moisture sparkle on the trees, on our clothes, on our eyebrows. I feel like I can see every piece of snow as an individual tiny flake, every drop of moisture that drips melted from the sun's heat. And we march on, Godlike giants among the tiny trees. Daniel has spotted a fox, and he is trying to coax it over to him with something. This is the first animal we have seen. I should be excited and hopeful, finding an animal, clear skies, these are things we’ve gone without for so long. But the euphoria I was feeling has faded into worry. My mind back where it should be. How much longer can we go on? And Carrying Alex makes this all the more difficult, but we couldn’t leave him behind, in fact, we need him. I'm not sure exactly how long we’ve been out here. How long ago did the storm start? How long ago did the mountain seem to collapse on us, snow swallowing everything recognizable? How long ago was Alex’s fall? I start spiraling when I think about these things, it’s better not to focus on them. Once the questions start I become helpless to their repetition. I obsessively go over what we should or could have done. Should we have stayed put longer? But we didn’t have anything left to spare to burn for warmth. Should we have tried to see if we could find more supplies? But I feel like we searched and salvaged what we could. Could we have prevented the fall? No, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Could we have waited longer? I’m spiraling again, I’m about to scream. Then, thud, right in the head, a snowball hits me. “What the fuck Daniel!” It’s becoming dark now. We’ve gathered some wood and I’ve been gathering and hanging on to anything I can use for kindling, trying to keep it dry. The fire starter was one of the tools I had, unfortunately the flares were all in Alex’s bag. When he fell his bag fell further, it was unreachable. At least I thought so, Daniel disagreed. He seems more indifferent to surviving than he used to be. The fire is getting going I open my bag to pull out the meat. Daniel asks, “So, what’ll it be?” I suppose, trying to be funny. I say nothing. I slowly cut a hunk off of Alex’s calf, sparingly, but we are also pretty hungry. I place it on the fire carefully. We’ve split the pieces between us for the purpose of carrying more efficiently. It’s been some time now since he passed. After he fell, we did our best to stop the bleeding. We tried to care for him, wait out everything. Some of the days were so cold and relentlessly windy that melting the snow to drink was almost impossible and eating it didn’t satisfy much of anything. But with so much liquid around I was really more concerned with what we would eat. We ran out of food not long before he died. We still have a decent bit of him left, but I hate to waste anything. So, as I’m watching it cook, I feel I have to say something. “You really shouldn’t be throwing food around you know.” I say without looking up from cooking duty. Daniel wrinkles his nose up, eyebrows furrowing. Then scowling he tilts his head sideways to show how baffled he is by what I’m saying. Though I know he’s not confused he’s just pissed that I said something. “What... waste?” he replies agitatedly. “You were trying to feed that fox, I saw wha..” He cuts in, “It was a fucking finger are you seriously gonna eat..” “Do you seriously think you’re going to catch a fox dumbass” I cut in back at him. I eat silently, angrily. Daniel chews mouth open like a child, starring off vacantly. I wonder if he’s trying to irritate me. I’m not sure he’s the person I thought him to be. Biting through the rough skin proved challenging. I charred it to a blackened crisp because I feel that is better than undercooking it. It was chewy, tough, muscly. Tonight, the mountain is quiet. The only sounds besides that of our gnawing are the faint gusts of wind blowing peacefully. I try to pay attention to other things while eating. I stare up at the sky for a moment before burrowing back into the sleeping bag to try to sleep. In that moment I remember how Daniel would sob at night. In my head it plays out in a voice so pathetic and cowardly. “Why isn’t anyone coming?” he’d say. I remember how Alex, while suffering and dying, would console this selfish baby. Getting up the next day is more difficult than anything ever has been. Not because I want to go back to sleep. The sun is especially bright, blinding. It’s that the pain in my feet is so immense that standing seems impossible. I can’t look at my feet, not that I want to, but my socks are stuck like they’ve been grafted to me. I finally get to my feet with a loud roar of agony. And we walk on and as we move the pain moves to numbness. I can’t imagine this is a good thing. The wind is picking up as well. I can see a small grove of little trees. And I tell Daniel we should take a rest there. He keeps going, paying no attention to me. I yell to him that I’m going over there. My legs are about to give out and the wind is biting my face. As I approach the grove I look toward the blinding light. Then wham! Right in my face another snowball. “Dammit Daniel! that one really..” I pause because I realize I’m bleeding. I stumble, catch my balance and a glimpse of something running past me. My head and body feel light. Between the blood in my eyes and the blinding white, I can barely see. “Daniel what the fuck are you doing?!” I exclaim exhaustedly as I collapse into the tiny trees. I can see a silhouette of Daniel standing above me. Then I hear it! It’s the sound of a helicopter! I try to scream, and I see Daniel is moving toward it. I can hear him screaming “Help us please!” It’s getting closer I can feel the wind from its blades. I don’t know why Daniel was acting this way, but I don’t care because I’m surviving, this nightmare is ending. Suddenly an excruciating pain in my head like a metal stake driven through my skull. And now I hear nothing, I don’t feel anything. Wait, I can hear something, but where is the helicopter? Like being pulled out of a dream, suddenly I can see. Through the blinding white and red I see Daniel on top of me, his knife slicing through me. | 7,092 | 1 |
In the enchanted realm of Eldoria, where the forests glimmered with the light of a thousand fireflies and the rivers sang melodies of ancient times, there lived a beautiful fairy named Elara. Her wings shimmered with iridescent hues, and her presence brought joy to all who beheld her. Elara was known for her kindness and her deep connection to nature, often seen flitting between the trees, whispering to the flowers and healing the wounded creatures of the forest. One day, a dark shadow fell over Eldoria. The once vibrant land began to wither, and the creatures grew fearful and restless. The heart of the forest, an ancient tree called the Eldertree, was dying. Its life force had been stolen, and with it, the magic that sustained the land. Elara, feeling the pain of the forest deep within her soul, knew she had to act. Gathering her courage, she embarked on a perilous journey to find the source of the darkness. Her only guide was an ancient prophecy that spoke of a hidden artifact, the Heartstone, which had the power to restore the Eldertree. The prophecy also warned of great danger, but Elara's determination was unwavering. Her journey led her through treacherous mountains, across vast deserts, and into the depths of dark, ancient forests. Along the way, she faced many dangers: fierce beasts, treacherous landscapes, and dark sorcery. But Elara's spirit remained unbroken. She found allies in unexpected places—a wise old owl who gave her counsel, a mischievous sprite who guided her through enchanted traps, and a brave knight named Kael who vowed to protect her. Kael was a warrior of unmatched skill and a heart as noble as Elara's own. As they journeyed together, facing countless trials and growing ever closer, they fell deeply in love. Their bond gave them strength and hope, and together, they seemed unstoppable. Finally, they reached the lair of the Shadow Sorcerer, the malevolent being who had stolen the Heartstone. In a fierce battle, Elara and Kael confronted the sorcerer, their love and bravery shining like a beacon in the darkness. They triumphed, and Elara reclaimed the Heartstone. With great joy, they returned to Eldoria, ready to restore the Eldertree and save the land. However, as Elara held the Heartstone, a dark whisper curled around her mind, revealing the truth she had never known. The prophecy was incomplete—it spoke of a fairy who would save the forest but also of one who would bring about its doom. The Heartstone, powerful and ancient, contained not only the power to heal but also to corrupt. In that moment, Elara's heart twisted with a realization: the darkness had not come from an external enemy but from within the Heartstone itself, which now sought a new host. The whispers promised her unimaginable power, the ability to reshape Eldoria as she saw fit. Her love for Kael and her desire to save her home warred within her, but the allure of the power was too strong. Kael saw the change in Elara's eyes and tried to reach her, but it was too late. With a single, sorrowful glance, she turned away from him and embraced the darkness. The Heartstone's power flowed into her, and she became the new Shadow Sorceress. Her once-kind heart now burned with a desire for control and dominion. Eldoria, now under the shadow of the one who was once its brightest light, fell into despair. Kael, heartbroken but resolute, vowed to save the land and the woman he loved, no matter the cost. The beautiful fairy who had set out to save her world had become its greatest threat, and the adventure was far from over. Thus, Elara's journey of love and heroism twisted into one of sorrow and darkness, a poignant reminder of how even the purest hearts can be corrupted by the lure of power. | 3,748 | 2 |
"Well, me and Rachel have known each other for years, our mothers were friends and so were we." I said taking a deep stabilizing. "Alright, tell me about the night of the murder." The detective said. "I ran into Rachel at about 8pm, we had a brief conversation and we wished each other luck after that I had ah, 'work' to do with um, six clients then I…. found Rachel's body." I said slowly to stop myself from shaking. "Alright, and?" The man asked. "Is that all, Miss Helen?" The detective asked. "Yes." I responded. "You may leave then." The detective said. "Where are the restroom? Also what is your name?" I asked. "The bathrooms are down the hall to the left and my name is Joe Sherrigan." Mr. Sherrigan said offering his hand for me to shake. I shook his hand then headed to the bathroom. I then proceeded to run into someone, knocking all the papers out of their arms. "I’m so sorry." I apologized, rushing to help them pick up their papers. "It’s fine." They said, scooping up their papers and walking off. I then noticed that they hadn’t noticed one paper and I went to give it to them but before that something caught my attention, a witness described the butcher of Grennichville as a, *Tall white man with graying hair and a thin mustach.* I walked home to me and formerly Rachel's apartment. The second the door closed I dropped to my knees. I was truly exhausted both physically and mentally. My breathing became rapid and soon I felt tears roll down my cheek. "Oh Rachel, I’m so sorry." I choked out through tears. I’m not sure why I said that because a dead woman can’t speak. I sobbed my heart out until I fell asleep from exhaustion. When I awoke I showered and changed clothes. It was then I noticed something. Rachel's diary, it was red, its leather cover well worn and faded. I leafed through the pages of the diary most of it was mundane or information about meetings with her clients. As I read through the pages I particularly noticed was the last page, it mentioned only one client, *Joe Sherrigan.* Was the man I just talked to the murderer who has been terrorizing this town? Oh, god help me. But then I knew what I needed to do. That night I was doing my usual client searching but tonight I had on my person a pistol but none the less I knew that I had to be careful. A man approached me and work began as usual. But it was after my forth client that I found something that would shock me. I was walking down an alley, my heels clicking slightly against the haphazard pavement when I had the misfortune to chance upon Joe Sherrigan, dressed in the same outfit he had been wearing at the interview this morning ax in his hand with his back to me kneeling over a woman who was either dead or close to dead. Silently I lifted my pistol, aimed, and pressed the trigger. | 2,813 | 1 |
Alivia strapped her daggers to her thighs, ensuring the blades were easy to access without impairing her movements. It was hard enough to escape The Order alive, and after I met Richard, I swore I would never go back to my old ways. Now that he's gone, what else am I supposed to do? Her short auburn hair framed the delicate features of her face, drawing attention to her eyes. Blue as sapphires, those eyes could distract almost as much as the rest of her body. The only thing that marred her beauty was a small scar running across her collarbone, a souvenir from a battle long ago. She checked the fitting of her leather garb one last time before placing her short bow and quiver on her back, ensuring they were secure. I need to provide for my children. They’re all that matters to me, and I don't know what else to do. Donning her balaclava, she stepped onto the windowsill. She took one last look at her children fast asleep, then leapt through the window, ready to begin her journey. I have to do this for you two. I would do anything to make you happy. Alivia approached the mage's keep, leery of any magical traps that might give her away. The manse looked abandoned, with broken windows, chipped paint, and a sagging iron gate. With any luck, it would be empty, making for an easy job. Even with that hopeful thought, she was just as careful as if it were guarded by a dozen men. She crossed the lawn, sliding into a basement window where the bars looked gnawed off by some sort of monster. The room was damp, with racks of wine bottles splintered on the floor, their contents long seeped into the cobblestone. Alivia carefully stepped over the broken glass and splinters, making her way to the only door. She checked the door for traps and found a simple conflagration weave. Clumsily, she disabled the trap and stepped into the hall. Blue light flashed across the ceiling. "Crap," Alivia muttered under her breath as she readied her bow. She wouldn't have missed the enchantment if she hadn't been so rusty. It was layered under the first weave, something only a novice would overlook. But she was no novice and had no excuse for the mistake. She slowly made her way down the only path, ever more careful now that her presence was known. She came to an ornate door, symbols she couldn't recognize etched along the frame. A thorough check showed no traps. She stepped through, arrow nocked and ready. An old man sat in front of a fireplace, the Tome of Flame resting on his lap. "So you're the mighty mage that lives in this pile of crap you call a home," Alivia said, sarcasm dripping from her lips as she stepped through the doorway, her arrow pointing at Rothgar. "I’ve come for the Tome of Flame. Just hand it over unless you want the last thing you taste to be my arrow." Rothgar soaked in the heat from the fireplace, red mist swirling in his eyes. This was his sanctuary, and he would not tolerate intruders. Rage burned within as Rothgar spoke firmly, “You will never leave here alive. You have disgraced my wife's memory by entering this place!” As the words passed over his lips, Alivia loosed her arrow and dropped the bow to draw her daggers. Her aim was true, but she had learned never to underestimate a mage. The arrow flew straight for Rothgar’s head. He raised his hand and shot forth a ball of flame, disintegrating the arrow mid-flight. “You call that an attack? A kitten would put up a better fight.” Laughter echoed through each word to taunt her. Before he could say anything else, Alivia was already on him, one dagger slashing towards his throat, the other stabbing at his ribs. Rothgar dodged the attack and threw out a quick wave of heat to distance himself from his attacker. Once distanced, he took in more heat and threw another fireball. Alivia barely escaped behind a table as the fireball exploded on the wall behind her, throwing hot stone everywhere. She was going to have to be more careful not to underestimate the mage's speed and agility. That last mistake had almost cost her life. She rolled from the table to a pillar, subtly throwing one of her daggers mid-roll. The table burst into flames as she eluded another of Rothgar’s fireballs. Rothgar barely sidestepped the dagger as it flew past, cutting a shallow gash into his shoulder. Blood dripped from the wound. “Much better. You actually drew blood with that attack. This might actually be a decent fight after all.” But even as he spoke those words, his eyes glazed over from the poison coursing through his veins. He fell to one knee and then toppled over onto his side. Alivia slowly approached the dying man, wary of a last desperate attack. “I’ll be taking your tome now. Apparently, I need to have a conversation with my buyer. This was supposed to be a simple snatch and grab,” Alivia said coldly. She never wanted anyone to get hurt, but she had to do what needed to be done. Besides, her heart was long dead to the guilt of murder. As she bent down to take the tome, Rothgar stared at her with a look of relief. With his last dying breath and a twinkle in his eye, he spoke. “I was too much of a coward to take my own life. Oh, how I have missed my dear Elizabeth. Thanks to you, I can finally see her again.” With those last words, he faded from this world, his soul finally free. | 5,315 | 2 |
Susan’s trembling fingers hovered above the remote’s blinking button, its light pulsating like a heartbeat. The Temporal Messaging Service was humanity’s greatest invention, allowing you to send a one-way message to your past self. At 87, Susan flicked through her mind like a book, trying to select the one time in her life she regretted the most. She was ready to send her final message. The room was quiet, the pressure of the moment was the only weight that was pressing upon her. She had rehearsed the words she was going to say, 7 short words in attempt to remove the errors of her youth. “Be courageous, love fiercely, and leave him.” She wrote. The message was for her 24-year-old self, who had yet to endure the type of love that promised gentleness but delivered bitterness. With a sigh that seemed to carry her breath, she pressed the button. It turned green, a confirmation that the message had been sent. It was time to wait and see if the ripples would reshape her pond. Young Susan was a vision of hope, full of life and excitement for the future. The letter arrived, scattered amongst the bills and spam letters, a white envelope waiting to be opened. Her name was written on the front, the writing eerily familiar. “Be courageous, love fiercely, and leave him.” The note read, signed with a simple, “Trust me, S.” She froze. Her eyes located a photograph on the mantelpiece – it was herself and Fred, they were grinning, and Fred on one knee. Beneath the smiles, lay unspoken words and a subtle coldness that never reached the camera’s lens. The message followed her everywhere, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Fred was her everything, her provider, the charmer, and her future husband. Yet, there was an inkling of the truth in the message that she couldn’t escape. One evening, as Fred’s temper had flared over something trivial, Susan had a lightbulb moment. It was if the message had been a key, unlocking a door she didn’t realise was there. She packed her life into a single suitcase, left, and never looked back. Old Susan sat by the window, oblivious to the monumental shift that had just occurred. She was thinking of her life; her relationship had gotten more abusive by the year. She was disappointed with the life she lived; she never got the chance to see the world. Fred died 5 years ago, and as they had no children; Susan was alone. As these thoughts raced through Susan’s mind, the memories started to dwindle. She recalled him but the last memory was the night she left. They were substituted by memories of her solo travels around the world; her dream had finally come true. As a tear rolled down her cheek, she smiled at these newfound memories. Her disbelief of the things she got up to. She thanked the invention of the Temporal Messaging Service and finally gained peace in her life. It was all thanks to The Final Message. | 2,882 | 2 |
The people quacked and the duck talked. The earth poured and the sky smelled of the rocks. It rained, snowed, stormed all at once, while the sun shined bright. An all-red rainbow continuously twinkled. The stars were of all seven colours, that a certain English physicist described coming out of a prism. It was a cold afternoon in 12x 12y 12z. The world had never been such a happy place as now. Everyone laughed precisely every pi-minute. Racism that plagued the previous ages was no more; everyone was painted deep blue. Sexism was just a joke now, as every person was born with seven different kinds of genitalia. If they so happened to not like one they could just rip it off and no blood would come out. And if anyone was not happy with the ones they were given, they could get one attached. Societal problems were like water in an ocean; completely still in time-that- was and were no longer to be seen. "Nice to meet you Sam" said Sam to Sam standing in front of them. "Sam, what's your finance Sam up to these days?". "Well Sam, you know Sam is trying his best to save some money for our alliance." "Sweet!" "Sam, this is your fifth fiancé right?" "Yes they are my fifth fiancé this year. At the end of the year I will have more than twenty partners!" "Sam, that's delightful! Now the special ops won't need to punish you for not having partners at least as many as you are old." "Sam, what about your sibling Sam, how are they doing?" "Well believe it or not, Sam and I are going to have a baby soon" "You and Sam? Sam as in your sibling Sam?" "Yes, then I'll finally have a hundred kids and won't ever be punished by any special ops." "Sam, promise me something" "Sure what do you want me to promise?" "Can you be my -" "Your what?" "My sibling" "Actually... I've always wanted to be your sibling" Sam's face was now almost as red as the rainbow in the sky. Sam turns around and asks Sam "Can you do it?" "Sam rips Sam's shirt and registers themselves as Sam's new fiancé on the screen at Sam's back. "I did not think you'd actually do it now." "Well, you know what they say; The sooner the sightly" "We should go inform the council right away". "Obviously we don't want to be erased from physical existence while still having our consciousness exist all hopeless." "I sometimes wish that I could just not exist in any form whatsoever. It is only inevitable for a person's physical existence to be erased if they live for long enough." Sam holds Sam's hands and says "I pity you". They reply "I am rather pathetic aren't I?". Sam denies. "what is it then?". Sam doesn't say a word but just looks in Sam's eyes. They just keep on looking in their eyes. "What is it, tell me?" asks Sam. Sam put their hand on Sam shoulder and close the distance hugging them. Sam passes his hand through Sam's heart. Sam cries" NOOO! No, I should have listened to my instinct." "Doesn't matter you people will stay stupid" says Sam. Sam calls headquarters and says "My job is done here. | 3,005 | 1 |
He got stuck there for a while, waiting for them to cut his last tether to the world. While waiting in the aether, he laughed, because he always did in the face of drama and tragedy. He’d gone and done it for the last time, hurtling along for that one extra grasp of goodness, and all the karmic bills came due at once. There wasn’t much he could do but laugh, getting a glimpse of his unresponsive body with the swollen face and the umpteen tubes sticking out of him. He couldn’t quite hear what his wife was saying, he saw his daughter on a screen briefly, and he had a feeling his sister got involved, but that was it. He kicked a random rock in the space between, and it crumbled to dust on impact. He couldn’t stop grinning as the remains dispersed, vanishing as they returned to the aether that formed them. Somehow, just this once, everyone else had been right. He had his money, his freedom, his support, his “family” (and the daughter he left behind), and in the end, he was left with nothing more than himself in the void. He’d destroyed the rock that could have kept him company. Days passed, or that was what he gathered from vague flashes of the material world. Though he had nothing to do but wait and his sense of time was gone, he’d begun looking for other forms of substance in this space. There had to be more than one rock, unlikely though it was. After all, it still solidified against all odds, even before he shattered it. There were no directions or landmarks in this liminal space, but also no boundaries. He could wander as much as he liked until they took his body off life support. Assorted whispers and sentiments brushed by him as he walked. Warm jokes, indignant expressions, comments of approval and complaints all flowed past. There was no priority or pattern to them. All of these memories and emotions were equal in the void. Even if he was still smiling, he might have grit his teeth a little. At least he had his teeth in these final moments of existence; they were the definition of pearly white and a source of pride, even to his daughter who inherited his dental advantage. She had also inherited his mouth, his feet, his eyes, his body chemistry and the rampaging neurochemical disasters attached to it, his ability to nod off anywhere, and some of his turns of phrase and gestures. At some point, he finally found a clump of dust. This dust had gathered around something that kept it from blowing away, a tumbleweed anchored by treasure. He picked it up and began to tease apart the outside to get to whatever was shimmering within. When it was exposed, it dissipated into shining sparks in the space around him, and visions of his history assailed him. Memories flowed and rushed past him, a rapid river of time and experiences. He was born in a large city. His sister made trouble for everyone from the moment she was born. He met, loved, and married a charming woman with a funky leg. He held his daughter and was told he couldn’t name her Jeleanor. He played video games with her, fell asleep during some of her IEP meetings, gave warm and sturdy hugs. He betrayed all of them at one point. He laughed as his daughter sobbed and slapped him for what he was doing to his family. Even the dog looked him dead in the eye as she pooped on the floor next to him. He broke free of it all and flung himself halfway across the world. He chose a new family, did important and high-paying work, and he was free of all influences for a while. The daughter he’d left behind was the only exception. Things got better at some point, maybe. Somehow, all of these events ended with him here, waiting to be free from the mortal coil, holding a now-empty clump of dust in his hands. New words filtered in from elsewhere. “Brain test is negative. Dad’s gone.” “So that’s it, then?” That was it. His body was allowed to die. With the tether released, his form shimmered into a common perception. When he touched his face, the mustache he’d shaved for over a decade had returned. His hair remained sparse, but that was an adequate compromise. A memory resurfaced of a little girl bawling when he first shaved his mustache lifetimes ago. When he was done chuckling at the world that gave him his final justice, he turned around and walked towards the light that had appeared. Upon arriving on the other side, he was promptly mobbed by a small bearded dog, his mother who got the action star railgun of her dreams, his befuddled father, and his ex-wife’s mother completely ready to rub in how he died first after all that. All of it ended in a cartoonish cloud of comedic violence. | 4,620 | 1 |
"Why did you do it?" He asked, eyes fixed to hers. “I… I don’t know.” She turned her head down but never broke his gaze. “I guess, I just liked the way he looked.” She seemed to be scanning him, looking for a sign of empathy. “The way he looked? That’s all it took?” A troubled expression was awarded with this information, it didn’t seem to fill his desire to understand. “What about me? Do you like the way I look? Would you have done the same to me?” Her expression changed into one of remorse, and regret. Not of authentic origin. She had strategically made this change. If silence was deafening before, it had become maddening in its tone now. The room filled with the air of dread, and a weight was cast down upon the two men. Standing in the corner, was the eldest of the two. Sporting short auburn hair, not yet touched by gray. He was donning a pair of round frame, wire rim glasses. His mustache short, well kept, and just stretching the length of his top lip. The other man, was about ten years younger. His shaggy mop, dripping down over his forehead to his eyebrows. Only stubble decorating the length of his jaw line, and chin. This man was sitting across from the woman, asking the questions. Their hearts, (while not racing) were thumping rhythmically and strong. They could feel the anticipation building in them with each thump getting stronger. Thump, thump, thump… “Would you?” His voice heightened in pitch. Thump, Thump, Thump… They never broke her gaze, eagerly awaiting her response. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP… She looked as if she was about to speak, her lips pursed together, indicating the thought behind her next move. Then a flicker of the single overhead light, with both men uneasy, it caused them to reach for their hips. Their faces now beaded with sweat, and eyes narrowed on to her. She was smiling… “Do I scare you gentlemen?” A genuine question, filled with malice. Out came a gruff voice “We saw what you did.” The older of the two, stepping from the corner right hand hovering on his hip. Left shoulder turned toward the woman, and his left leg rooted in front of him. “What if I was attacked? He hit me, threatened me, he was crazy!” Feigned innocence. “No sign of struggle, and you show no indication of injury.” The smaller of the two voices claimed, sitting to her parallel. Her smile deepened, and her gaze fixed only to him. Gave the impression, they were the only two in the room. “You don’t have to struggle either,” she claimed “I can make it quick.” He stood up, fast. his chair shot out from behind him. He attempted to pull the cold steel from his waist. In a blur, her arm swiped up, smacking the swinging light off its fixes. Launching it across the room and into his chest, sending him back to the wall, with the sound of metal clanking onto the concrete floor. Four shots rang out from toward the corner, deafening from inside the small room. POP, POP, POP, POP… The room being illuminated with each trigger squeeze, then a pause. Blackness, silence, the interrogation room was filled with the manic mixture. Then a wet *THUD* from the far wall. Two more shots. POP, POP… Ringing ears, and strong rapid heart rate. The detective steps back into his corner, weapon out In front; scanning the width of the concrete box. Peering for any sign of movement. “Jay,” he quietly calls out “Jay, are you alright?” Silence for a moment, then a voice from **HIS** corner. “I told him, I’d be quick.” A whisper. Before he could rotate his body, a pair of hands were on his face. Shattering the metal spectacles. The fingers, with nails sharpened into shiv like instruments, dug into the skin. One claw at the bottom of his brow piercing through his eyelids. The other protruding through his eyeballs, each popping like soft grapes. “Ahhhh” a panicked scream echoed out. He fell to his knees as she pulled her arms away from each other. One up, one down. Ripping his cheekbones from their respective place. Exposing the fleshy insides once hidden by laugh lines, and crows feet. The sound of a hollow clatter as she released the mass in one hand. Then the soft thud of the body as she loosened the grip of the other. The door swung open, low light peering in from the outside. An officer swings through the door, and peers around the void. A shadow passes through the open gap, as he draws his flashlight and places it under the gun in his right hand. *Click* The beam darts across the room. His breath stops, as he looks upon the gore fest decorating the cement box. The building is silent, and the danger is gone. Though the horror still looms. | 4,636 | 3 |
I move toward it and I put my thumbs under its arm pits and pull it out of the pile of crates it was under. I pulled it to the center of the room and check over where the missing arm was attached and then rolled it over to check the power supply and main processor unit to ensure it’s still intact. As I leave the cargo area I yell for the mech() to come and see if it can get the synth put back together and powered on. I go towards my quarters praying that it’s still intact and my gear isn’t damaged. I start to slow down as I approach the door and hold my hand out to see if I can feel any heat coming off the door. Once I make sure it isn’t hot I lean in close to see if I can hear anything that might have made its way inside from any of the exposed parts of the ship. Once I’m satisfied that I’m not hearing anything moving around I start to pry the door open. After about a minute the doors finally give way and slide open and lock, I enter with my gun at the ready slowly scanning the room taking everything in making sure nothing is hiding in the dark corners. I sign in relief to see that nothing made it into the room and I move towards a footlocker at the foot of my bed, once I’m there I put my hand on the palm scanner to unlock it and pull out the combat suit and rifle that was stored. After about ten minutes of messing with the suit, it was finally on and sealed, I grabbed the helmet and it started to sync to the suit once I dawned it. I went through the sensor calibrations and finished searching the ship for any possible intruders. I made sure there were no other breaches and nothing else in the ship, from there I started to move back to the cargo bay to see if the synth is repairable or scrap. To my surprise I saw the synth moving when I entered the room, well the head at least, it seems that the only damage was the torn limb and some gashes on its body. I kneeled down to talk to the synth for a few minutes to make sure its processor or memory unit wasn’t damaged, I inquired to see how long it would take for both it and the droid the be able to start repairs on the ships haul. I inform them that the client probably doesn’t care if we use the fabricator or any of the other supplies we were transporting and having a sealed place to sleep and possible power would be nice for the upcoming night. I looked at the droid and the synth and explained that I will be stepping away to recon our crash site and see what might be in the immediate area, hopefully there’s some no hostile life on this planet because if not it’s going to be a pain in the ass. I start making my way to the exit hatch on the top of the ship, when I get to the bottom of the ladder I stop and stare at the hatch praying it isn’t jammed shut. I drop the rifle so it catches on its sling and start to climb, with one arm hooked around the bar I use my other to twist and open the hatch. As the hatch pushes up and over it lets in a soft morning light, and the sounds of animals and insects. I slowly pop my head out doing a slow 360 to take in the immediate surroundings and once it’s clear I pull myself out and close the hatch locking it. I start walking across the top of the ship to check on some of the haul to see how badly it was damaged, and surprisingly it’s not in bad shape, minus the giant hole in the cargo area. As I jump down I hear something big moving in the forest to the left, and as I start to head that direction I hear what sounds to be a scream from a human to the right. I pivot and bring my gun to the ready and start moving towards the screams, hoping that what ever I’m walking away from doesn’t decide to follow the screams also. | 3,683 | 1 |
As she lets me in, the real estate agent says that I am responsible to return the house to its original condition for the new tenants, otherwise the landlord will hire professional cleaners and claim the bond to cover the cost. She threatens to pursue the estate if the bond money does not cover the clean. I don’t know what gave her the idea that there is an estate. ‘A good family would do at least that much for each other, wouldn’t they? I’m sure there is lots of family… treasures in there you’d like to keep safe.’ she says, but I can see the disgust on her face as she discovers the state of the house. My stomach drops and squeezes my throat as her words bring back the guilt from our phone call. Seeing this place makes me pity them. They had nothing. Why had I been so angry with them? The agent was able to find me because legislation requires real estate agencies to have a next of kin for tenants. My parents nominated me as next of kin. Hearing that made me feel guilty. There was nobody else they could nominate. I don’t reply to the agent and stare into the house. Roots of overgrown junk seek out space across the floor and holes in the wall break up the colour scheme of brown dirts, grey/green moulds, and black holes. One hole must be above a horizontal wall stud because a bottle of rum is sticking out at a 3 o’clock angle from it with its lid off. The agent continues to talk, walks away to her car, and then drives away. At least, I assume she did when I finish staring into the house. I walk through the house and open the door to my bedroom. It is the same as I left it years ago. The mattress festers, the walls remember cigarettes, and stains remain the only decoration. It hasn’t changed since I was born. I know that there are thousands of events that make me who I am, but there a few which I like to remind myself of. I like to remind myself of absorbing the project slides of ENGIN103: Engineering for Transit and dreaming about what it would feel like to ride a train route that I had designed. I like to remind myself of arriving for an internship at Foley and Sons and not leaving until 10pm, so that I could see the nightworks for the motorway. I like to remind myself of sitting with Foley as he assigned me as project manager for the tunnel across the river. Last month, I apologised for the project issues so far. “Projects have issues. That's why there is a project manager. We are lucky to have you,” he said. I like to remind myself of that. This house makes me remember what I don’t remind myself of. I remember my mother telling me that nobody she knew was smart enough to be an engineer and refusing to drive me to campus because it would be a waste of her time. I remember getting a sore back at 21 from having to study on my bed and staying at university all day so that I had a space to study. I remember studying on the 90-minute bus commute with only a single ham and cheese sandwich for lunch that sometimes made me sick because the fridge wasn’t cold enough at home. I remember my father telling me that I, “Don't know shit,” and that I would be dead in a week if I moved out in a housing crisis when I said being closer to university would be good for me. A lump in my throat forms and it brings back a memory where I cannot speak, “You have one new message. Message received today at 8:55 PM. I knew you could do it. Looking good in those grad pics that Auntie Shirley posted. Let me kn–Message deleted. You have no more messages.” Couldn’t I even text them back? I pull my old bed out from against the wall, and it rattles the room as it grips the old timber flooring. There is still a loose floorboard. I pry up with a key and part the old collection of junk which I had stored over the years. I see a single scrunched up piece of paper. I pry it out of its ball and see the floor through numerous holes chewed out by rats. This is my first academic transcript. I showed this to my family after finishing my first semester of engineering. It reads that I was in the awarded a certificate for academic achievement after scoring in the top 5% of the grade. I had never worked so hard for anything. I had never achieved anything. My eyes swell with tears, and I hear them laughing, ‘Lot of good that does us. They only accept money at the grocery store.’ My guilt returns to anger. I knew it was right then and I remember it now. I turn around and I leave. | 4,441 | 1 |
There is some potentially triggering content in this story Did you know that memories aren’t real? No? Not really, you can misremember or change a memory without ever knowing you have. It’s a sinisterly important fact for me, some would be worried but I find it freeing, I can share this memory without fear or shame. I most likely haven’t remembered what happened as it happened, and considering what happened on the 9th of May all those years ago, I’d say it’s likely I don’t remember. It’s a relief really that memories aren’t real; I have always hated talking about my memories, about myself in general. In my experience, people are not interested in what I have to say, unless it relates to them or it makes me look less than them. Maybe it’s all in my head, everything is really. I’m not the most people friendly these days, I think you could call me a cynic, I call myself a cynic, but I’ll try and keep true to this memory, without the influence of hindsight and my cynicism. It’s about that puddle and the 9th of May. Why the specifically the 9th of May? Well I don’t actually know why that day, it could have easily been the 8th, the difference is hours. I do wish I could change the setting; it’s almost poetic, I could always be misremembering, it was a long time ago, and I have been told many times since that I have a flair for the dramatic. A dark and rainy night, with the wind howling, well that’s a backdrop I can enjoy. I’m sorry. Let me start at the beginning for the sake of clarity, otherwise I’ll never finish what I start to say, and I’ll never say what I need to say. Once upon a time I went to a party. I enjoyed drinking back then, a healthy amount for most people, but for me, a dangerous amount, I had a tendency to get inside my head when I drink. No again I’m sorry, that’s not the memory I want to share, I want to tell the 9th of May, I think this memory will be harder to tell than I first thought. It was a birthday party for a friend, well a friend of a friend, I knew two people there, I was speaking my wisdom at the party, normally people would just nod and slide away from that kind of wisdom, but this was during the university days, everyone is intelligent, insightful and understanding at university. We few were the self-proclaimed leaders of the future, and so understood all, my green wisdom spewed with no start or finish was always well received. I remember some of what I said, you can walk into any pub or club and listen to the drunkest person in the room, they would have spewed the same wisdom, wisdom that I thought at the time was original and wise, but really was just old sentiment repeated with new words. Despite what I wanted at the time, wisdom comes with age, not self-assurance. But this time was my spring years, that sweet age just before I faced reality, the real harsh reality of life, I had just begun to explore the world inside my bubble, and my exploration lead me onto the well-trodden path of clubbing and drinking, the respectable rebellion. I began as I always did, by talking, talking of going to some event, a lecture, a monument, an underground pub, of all the things I could do that evening, the places I could go, I and the other future leaders of the world, the potential was ours to squander. This ended as it always would, in that night club, the very same one I would always go to, my slice of reality. Apologies my dear reader, I have a cynical mind, it’s hard to keep at bay, I’ll admit that I haven’t really tried to keep it from being an influence here, I can’t seem to help myself, but this next part of the memory is less clear, but I can relay it with a real, shame filled joy. This part of the memory feels more like a dream now, I don’t have the energy to do what I did that night, I don’t have the energy for much these days, I think that makes the memory more fond to me, drinking, dancing, worry free. Maybe fond was the wrong word to use here, jealous is more fitting, jealous of the innocence and time I wasted. The power of a drink back then was incredible; I miss the feeling, that burn in the mouth, the after taste, the saliva, the heat in your chest, and that feeling of being unstoppable. Of course drink has more than one effect, and while I’d like to believe my cloudy memory is caused by false and misremembered facts, or by the merging of a hundred single nights into one endless night, that’s too poetic. No, the memory is clouded by the amount I drunk that night, and many years after as I tried to forget this very memory. Yet despite this, even now, the fragments still makes me smile, whether it’s because I enjoy the memories of the innocence I held then, or I’m jealous of them I cannot say, I’m a self-proclaimed cynic, not a philosopher or a psychologist, I’ll leave the analysis to better men than me. Instead I’ll try to give you an idea of what happened in the club without my opinions bleeding through. This night in the club was no different from all the others, they all start the same. Moving around the club in a daze, my head feeling big and unsteady, but also incredibly light and empty, my fingertips warm, my feet numb, I remember dancing to songs, dancing on tables, screaming out lyrics, smoking outside, stealing a bottle of champagne, fixing my hair in a mirror, buying a round of drinks, the lights flashing, the bass thumping, fog spewing, standing on my own staring at the old chandelier, crawling on the floor looking for money, I remember walking out the club and how quiet everything seemed in comparison while I tried to keep standing in the night air, looking at my hands, how bright the lights were, how blurry the world seemed and how beautiful the moon was that night. Here, here the memory starts to come back into focus, the bright street lights and night air always helped me to sober up at night, plus I’ve always enjoyed being outside in the dark night or under the moonlight, I find it comforting to stand under the moon, it’s as if I’m suddenly alive. As I came to my senses my memory sharpened, but that’s all, my drunkenness remained. I was with a couple of friends, some who I had been at the party with and some who I met in the club, we got food, and we spent such a long time talking, our conversations were mixed, some happy, some sad, all just more green wisdom. Much later on, me and my friend, maybe the one I went to the party with (it might have been someone else, who’s to say?), walked back towards our homes not because we wanted to walk as we said over and over to our screeching friends, but because the taxi was expensive and we couldn’t afford it, we lived in different places but close enough that we could walk together. Its funny to think of this moment, back then I had the money for a taxi, but I wouldn’t spend it on a taxi, now that I’m a poor man, I’ll spend money I don’t have on taxis I don’t need, apparently the youthful idiot I was, was wiser than I am now in some regards after all. I don’t remember walking with my friend, or rather, I know where we went, how long it took and what we probably talked about, I had walked this walk so many times before this night, and so many after, they are all the same memory to me now, I enjoyed the walking in the night, the exhilaration of that has stayed with me more than the company on those walks. I always used to break it down into three segments, and so that’s how it comes back to me now. Leaving the club, past the library, past the race track, over the river across the bridge, up the steep hill, past the first university gates (which were actually the back gates), round the campus on the public roads, to the second gates (which are the main gates), a long walk with company, a painfully short one with alone. He was still living on the Campus my friend, I lived about ten minutes away from the campus, I said goodbye and goodnight, we agreed to speak in the morning if we survived. He went through the back gates and headed towards the halls, I continued on my way, onto the second segment of the walk past the gates. I was on my own for the rest of the walk; this happened a lot, both during my university days and many years after. I lived on the opposite side of the campus to most of my friends so this part of the walk was always mine alone, even when I started the night with the people I lived with. I didn’t mind, it was nice to enjoy the feeling of being drunk without having to show I was drunk, a few assured moments of peace under the moon light. I never deviated from my path, round the outside of the campus, opposite some housing estates, till I got next to a little shop that sold cheap, bottles of spirit. I would always stop for a moment to wish that shop was open. Then it was down that straight road, the final part of my walk, big houses on either side, well-lit but not busy. It looked like it was a five minute walk but once you started it felt like it was never ending, and at the end of the night, in the night air, it was never ending. Sometimes I would run, sprint to see if I could make it to the end of that road without stopping, something to break the monotony of walking, other times to tire myself out so I could fall straight to sleep, and sometimes just because I wanted to run. Nearly every day for two years I walked down that road to go clubbing shopping or studying, to go for a meal, see a film, meet a friend, it was a constant part of my life, an unwanted companion and witness. Walking down that road, reader I don’t think I’m able to describe how I hated that road, but I always walked down that road, there were other ways I could walk, quicker ways, but I always took that road. This particular night, actually at this point I suppose it was the morning. I was walking down that road in the rain and dark between the streetlights, bitterly cold staring straight into a street light walking on the right hand side. I’d always walk on the right hand side, I’m not sure why, whenever I walked on the left I had a bad day. Except for on the 9th, the 9th is the one exception. I have no clue where the car came from; I didn’t see it until after the jump, just a blurred headlight, a door, a wing mirror. The driver, the make, the model, even the color is a mystery. It appeared and left like a phantom. There was no thought, I moved forward, but I don’t recognize that I was the one who leapt forward. I remember the fall. I fell backwards. As if my strings had been cut and I fell limp into the puddle, there was no splash as I landed in that puddle. The feeling I felt in that puddle, it was something I had never felt before or since, an overwhelming pull I was powerless against, I pray to never to feel it again. Should I describe it? How to describe it? I have to describe it. I can describe the fear it inspired, but not yet, it’s easier to describe fear, but this isn’t meant to be easy, this memory never is. No the actual feeling, that’s harder, It wasn’t a happy emotion, not a powerful emotion, not a sad emotion. Hopelessness? Yes it was hopelessness. Nothing more, nothing less. No hope for the future, no point to anything, I think it is possibly the only time I felt hopelessness. You can’t live without hope. I couldn’t stand could I? No, I wouldn’t have laid there if I could, to begin with I didn’t want to, didn’t care to, my legs wouldn’t move, arms were like stone, every muscle in my body cramped, I could feel everything. My eyes were open, rain hitting them, rain dripped from my lips to my chin, it tickled. The fingertips were warm, hair moved, stand by stand off my face. Puddle water lapped against my cheek, socks soaking up water, shirt getting tighter and heavier, jacket sleeves filling up with water, keys and wallet resting on my leg. I just lay there staring at nothing, seeing nothing. I think to begin with I was gone; that everything I held myself up to and was trying to achieve, had suddenly left me, except my memories, memories that weren’t real. For the longest time that’s how I was, empty, even down to my emotions there was nothing I laid there empty. I could feel my body, but I couldn’t move it, I wasn’t welcome, I felt awkward, out of place. I’m not sure how long I lay there, dead (I had to be dead because I had no hope), it could have been a minute; it could have been hours, days or years. The light was wrong. It was dark, only the light seemed to come from a streetlight, the sky was empty, the moon had left me. Some portion of my mind came back, I started crying, I had failed, failed at even this simple task, I lay for a long time waiting, waiting for something else to come, I should have gotten up, but I just lay there waiting, I was muttering my secret . If that had been my mind for the rest of my days, I would have spent those days in that puddle unmoving; declared brain dead on the spot. The moment raises such disgust in me, I grieved my most important failure, hated my greatest success. I’d like to lie here, to say anything other than the truth, to save myself the pain and the shame, but I said I would try to tell this memory as it was, not as I wish it, so while I’d like to say I had a vison, a burst of strength, that hope returned to me, I can’t, because in reality it was two words that saved me. Two words. The Two words that cut through it all. I’m still not sure if I just heard them from somewhere else, said it myself or imagined it afterwards. “Get up” it was angry, disgusted, the words were almost spat out, “Get up”. Those words have burned themselves into my mind, and affected me every day since. The fear and inspiration it awoke in my mind, throat pricked and butterflies in my stomach, anxiety. Next to the hopelessness it seemed like life had spoken, with a voice that wielded fear. I took control of my body then…… No dear reader I didn’t…. I am almost finished, I have to be true to the memory, I can’t spare myself now, it’s too late for me to take it back. I didn’t take control, I wasn’t there yet, it took me such a long time to regain control again, but it gave my eyes back to me for I had seen nothing long before the fall. I watched as fear drove me, took the strings of my life and moved them, dragging my shell in the dust, screaming. I cursed everyone and everything, hated myself for what had happened, Oh and the fear, fear of the voice, fear of dying, the fear that someone would see me at this moment, see me and misunderstand me, I didn’t want to die,(I don’t want to die now) I was terrified that I had tried to die, terrified I didn’t know where that urge came from, that moment of energy and intention that was actioned without the consent of my mind, that I was powerless against. Fear drove me, commanded me out of that puddle. I’d gone insane, truly, completely, utterly mad, I was dragging myself to the curb, screaming, crying, laughing, I ripped my finger nails out, shredded my palms and hands into bloody messes my knees into bruised pulp, my head and face cut by being dragged along. I heaved up that curb fucking curb, shaking. I started to stand and scramble forward, to escape that spot, that puddle on that road. I stood up hunched and bent, buffet by the wind, laughing, crying, waving my hands in all directions spitting, shouting, wiping blood on my jeans, I was staggering side to side shaking, soaked to the bone, I was mad, insane, disgraced and humiliated. Why say more? I won’t go further, there is so much more but to understand it…. This was not the place for such memories. That moment all those years ago, was not the eureka moment, the next day I turned this into a joke, a story to tell. To this day, I cannot tell you what really happened that night all those years ago, as I sit here writing and rewriting the words over and over. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I wonder what would happened if I could relive that night again, doing everything again now. This was the time that my bubble began to burst and the real world hit me like a wave. Perhaps it was just a moment of growing pains. I’ve said it before, I’m only a cynic, all I have left is the memory of the 9th of May, a memory I visit daily. | 16,215 | 1 |
It was difficult to find the right moment to ask Marcus about any past escape attempts. Madeline was very conscious of how much she’d already asked of him — something that Billie’s constant teasing definitely wasn’t helping with. She was also nervous about being overheard. If the wrong person noticed her asking questions, she could only imagine the trouble it might get her in — and the trouble it might get Marcus in. That was if Marcus wasn’t the wrong person himself. So she kept putting it off. After all, it wasn’t like they were in a huge hurry. There were still so many people to ask after in here — so much more to learn and pass on to their allies outside. But all practical excuses Madeline could come up with couldn’t silence the voice whispering at the back of her mind. She was being selfish. She didn’t want to do anything that could jeopardise her upcoming visit with Liam. It was getting close now, and she was counting down the days. Every second she spent working in the fields — mindlessly harvesting potatoes by muscle memory alone — her thoughts were full of imagined meetings. What would it be like to see him again? Would he have grown? Would he be as pleased to see her as she was to see him? Would he blame her for him being captured? Would he blame her for leaving him behind — even if it had been at his own request? When Marcus finally came to tell her that the day had come — her free day tomorrow — she thought that she might explode with all the nervous excitement. She hardly slept that night, keeping Billie up with all her wriggling and shifting, and she was up and out of bed as soon as the morning light blared on. Breakfast was barely touched as her mind raced with more important things. Whenever Billie tried to talk to her, the words were muted and garbled to her ears, as if underwater. After the first couple of attempts to start up a conversation, they stopped trying. Her leg bounced up and down as she sat, waiting on the bottom bunk. The wait was agonising. It was as if, the closer she got, the more each second dragged on and on and on. Her eyes remained fixed on the door, heart jolting every time it opened. Soon, she was cursing the comings and goings of her roommates. Until, finally, it opened onto Marcus’s familiar face. Madeline leapt up and ran towards him. “Is it time?” She felt a presence at her shoulder as Billie caught up. Marcus beamed. “It’s time.” He looked between the pair of them. “Are you both ready?” “Yes!” Madeline knew she sounded impatient, but she didn’t care. “We’re ready,” Billie confirmed. “As I think you can tell, this one,” they gestured their head towards her, “has been ready for a loooong time.” The young guard chuckled. “Yeah. It’s good to have someone so happy to see me for once — even if it isn’t actually for me.” He beckoned. “Come on then. I’ll take you to the visiting room.” As they walked down the corridor, Madeline silently willed Marcus to speed up. Soon, she was glaring daggers at the back of his head, wondering if he’d always been this slow. Then, she was not so silently sighing and tapping her fingers together to let out her frustration, but it didn’t nothing to speed up the journey. The walk dragged on and on and on. Down endless corridors. Through endless buildings. Waiting for Marcus to unlock endless doors. By the time they reached the visiting room — one final door for the guard to unlock — Madeline was ready to burst, a scream boiling up inside of her as Marcus fumbled with his keys. But all that melted away when the door swung open, revealing a familiar pair of large blue eyes staring at her. Liam. All the anger and frustration couldn’t survive that wide-eyed stare. All the circling thoughts and worries and woes. All the questions and regrets. Gone. All that was left was a warmth swelling in her chest, yanking her towards the small figure waiting in the room. She barged past Marcus, stumbling on trembling legs as she hurried forward and dropped to her knees to embrace the boy. As Liam’s arms closed around her too, it was like a piece of her that had been missing was finally found. The hollow in her chest had been filled. She was whole once again. Somewhere, far from her concerns, she heard shuffling footsteps, followed by the door clicking shut. She and Liam held each other like that for Lord knows how long, without a word passing between them. Words weren’t needed now. What they needed to communicate went much deeper than words. It was only when the weight of a familiar hand settled on her shoulder that she finally drew back from the embrace — and even then, only enough to glance up at the only other person in the world who held such a strong claim on her heart as the boy in her arms. Liam shifted too, feeling her movement. His eyes widened as he took in the unfamiliar face, pulling back further to glance at Madeline. She gave him her best, reassuring smile. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “This is someone I’d like you to meet. Do you think you could manage that?” He nodded. Taking care to never lose contact with him fully, Madeline let her arms drop from where she held Liam, grazing down an arm to his hand before she turned around to face her friend — her love. “Liam, this is Billie. I look forward to telling you all about them and how wonderful they are.” She smiled up at them. “And Billie, this is Liam. I—” “I’ve already heard how wonderful you are!” they said, crouching down to be on the same level as Madeline and him. “And any friend of Madeline’s is a friend of mine. Now I just can’t wait to get to know you for myself!” Madeline looked back at Liam, hoping that this wasn’t all too much at once for him. “Nice to meet you, B-Billie.” Her heart soared. | 5,920 | 4 |
Mikan has a habit of pondering many things while waiting for her mother to use the restroom. It is not aimless daydreaming, but rather akin to how some people would keep different books by their bedside, toilet, and office. Mikan always use this time to think about light but continuous things. Typically, she'd spend three to five minutes, with the first minute warming up, recalling where she left off in the book from the last time, then staring at her nails, progressing her thoughts bit by bit. She developed this habit during her first visit to the zoo. That spring, she graduated from kindergarten, and before leaving the house, her mother was in front of the mirror, adjusting Mikan’s elementary school uniform. The zoo was on a seaside cliff, connected to the foot of the mountain by a narrow path lined with cherry blossoms. Children of all ages sat on the steps, waiting for a gust of wind to blow so they could shout for their mothers to take pictures. Mikan buried her head and walked up, thinking the others were childish. At that time, her father was still young; his neck had not yet thickened, and his eyelids had not drooped. When they left, she asked her mother who the strange uncle was, the one who knew so much about giraffes. She couldn’t remember how her mother answered, but she remembered seeing a kitten lying on the hillside, showing its belly to the sunset, making her exclaim "wow" to the cherry blossoms. From that day on, one weekend a month, she would go to the zoo with her mother to meet her father. During the time her mother was in the restroom, Mikan used it to think about the kitten. She had imagined raising three kittens: the first was tortoiseshell, then an orange one like her surname, and the latest was another tortoiseshell. Each cat lived for twelve years, and she thought about the world and herself thirty-six years later. She didn’t always think about cats. Occasionally, when she didn’t go with her mother, she would talk with her classmates about how they envied the animals in the zoo, like gorillas and hyenas. Although there were no lions or tigers, there were lynxes. They looked so ugly, walking on all fours all their lives, but they were lucky to live by the sea and enjoy the sea breeze for a lifetime. The crude boys in her class would retort, saying, "Yeah, yeah, they can even poop directly into the sea." After graduation, she never saw that boy again. All the boys would go to Tokyo when they were young; that was the rule. Only when they were old and decrepit would they be reluctantly sent back by the younger ones. But she often thought about that classmate. By the time she raised her third cat, he might have come back. When she saw the sea again, the image of a smooth butt hanging over the cliff came to mind. When she got into Waseda University, she told her mother that she might consider marrying that classmate. When Mikan was little, she secretly asked her father how he fell in love with her mother. The primate area always had a strange smell, between animal and human. Her mother didn’t like the smell, standing five meters away near the door for ventilation (they couldn’t go further in because they were not allowed to meet outside the guardian’s sight; that was the rule). She didn’t remember what her father said, but she remembered pressing her hand against the glass, with an orangutan looking at her disdainfully. She felt like she was the one being watched. But her father must have said something, without hesitation, as if talking about a daily matter. It was too mundane, overshadowed by the contemptuous orangutan in her memory. Influenced by her mother, Mikan also didn’t like the smell of the primate area. It wasn’t that it was unpleasant; it was like touching the residual warmth of someone who just left their seat, the mixed smell of decaying wood and butter in old temples, awkward and cautious. The only chance she almost had to be alone with that classmate was during a field trip. Both happened to be lingering at the entrance of the primate area. Mikan was there first, then the boy appeared behind her, peeking around. The introduction at the entrance had been scanned five or six times. Inside, the darkness reminded Mikan of the anteater’s mouth she had just seen. The boy asked, “Are you afraid to go in?” Mikan replied, “Of course not.” The boy retorted, “Coward, the teacher said not to wander off; you definitely won’t dare.” Mikan suddenly felt annoyed and walked in. When she reached the orangutan’s window and looked back, the boy had already disappeared. Mikan thought, childish. One summer, a cat sneaked into the zoo and was brutally tortured by baboons before being killed. Mikan learned about it from the morning paper, crumbs scattered on it. The front page was about US-Japan trade friction, followed by news about Tokyo, Syria, obituaries, nuclear, and the next Olympics’ sailing event being held on the local beach. The news was arranged from far to near, and finally, in the middle column, she saw this news. "Such a pity, so sad, so heartbreaking, so infuriating." She inhaled deeply and exhaled. She didn’t know what this incident meant for the townspeople. Didn’t the middle column mean it was unimportant? She didn’t understand, but the townspeople seemed outraged, eventually passing a resolution to lower the male zoo supervision age to fourteen. The next day, this proposal moved to the front page, although not the headline, it stood alongside news from the US and Europe. But this wasn’t a distant matter for her. Recently, she had joined the baseball team because that boy also loved baseball. At a celebration party, when discussing future high schools, he talked eagerly about a famous school in Tokyo, jokingly preparing for life there. Everyone laughed at this joke. The front-page news explained the lawmakers' logic: due to men’s violence and animalistic nature, our country decided to confine men in zoos years ago, something we have always been proud of. Over the years, many outstanding women have joined the country to restrain their husbands' potential harm to the world. But our solution isn’t perfect. When does a child become a man? The radicals believe it’s at adulthood, at twenty, the legal marriage age. Conservatives argue that maleness is in the chromosomes and should be separated at the hospital. The incident with the baboons harming the cat further proves the harm of violence and animality to civilization. We should be more cautious and responsible. Thus, in our town, the second sex characteristic is used as the basis for identifying males. This event was written into textbooks, leading to significant zoo renovations. Besides old mothers bringing their children to see their fathers, the zoo now provided spaces for the new generation of women to date their boyfriends in the park. For the town’s zoo, this room added at the end of the primate area, with rain hitting the iron roof, animal calls (and conversations from the men’s park) and the sound of waves hitting the cliffs, seemed far from a suitable place for romance. Mikan had never been there. She never saw that boy again, though he didn’t play baseball. He likely lived the life he joked about, pooping off the cliff. When her mother came out of the restroom, Mikan was imagining holding the tortoiseshell cat that had just died. She remembered her father saying that the zoo’s most famous animal was a giraffe, but it was a specimen, transported from Tokyo Zoo, always standing in the most conspicuous place. He saw it every morning as if it were still alive. She asked if he would become a specimen too, but she couldn’t remember his answer (she always remembered her questions but not others’ answers). | 7,743 | 2 |
Loyal 2 Death hovers over a battlefield looking down on a squad that is fighting an enemy that is losing. Death's cold gaze is focused on a man that is the medic of the squad, he is binding a wound one of the soldiers got from a grenade splinter in his leg. “You are gonna be alright my man” the medic yells into the ear of the soldier, PING a bullet penetrates his helmet and he falls on the ruble behind him. “Wait why am I lying on the ruble, why am I looking at my body, he tries to touch his body but nothing happens his hand just goes through his head” Death floats down behind the shocked man laying his cold hand on his shoulder, the man freezes. “You are dead young man, nothing you do will bring you back” The man slowly turns around staring at death’s figure, a tall slender man in a black suit with a warped face the man can’t make out any features on death’s face just a light black fog where death’s face should be. Hank, you have lived a good life even though you had life against you. Death’s tone was monotone, barely a scent of life in the words. Hank looked confused, but Death, you are Death right? Yes Hank i am Death i have come to collect you. But Death my wife is pregnant and she is all alone. How can I just leave her alone with the baby, and my parents what about them? Your parent’s will be fine, they are not as fragile as you would think, your partner on the other hand is going to go through a lot without you, I can take your soul to her if you would like to see her one last time? But you gotta promise me that you will let me take your soul to where it’s going Hank. I promise Death I will only see her one last time. Good Hank now let’s go to where your partner is. Death puts his hands on each of Hank’s shoulders, Hank shudders at Death’s cold hands then before he has time to organize his thoughts he is standing in his living room. Hank, your wife doesn’t know about your death yet, but as you can see there are a lot of people here celebrating the birth of your daughter. Death, how long can I stay and watch them? Hank I told you it would only be for a moment, we agreed on this. Yes I know Death but they look so happy and my daughter is beautiful, but I will never see her grow up or where she will go in life, I can’t leave until I know more can’t I stay Death? No Hank. Listen you gave your genes on isn’t that what humans what? You did your job, put new life into the world, your wife will grieve you, but she will move on and get better and your daughter will never know you but will know of you that should be enough for you no? Death, that is not what I would like to happen, for my daughter to grow up without knowing her father, me! I can’t leave her alone. What if something happens to her and I can’t be there to make sure she is okay? No Death I will have to rescind our deal. I have to stay. Hank, listen you can’t do anything for her but watch her, you should come with me and pass on to the next phase, nothing good will come from you staying here. Hank you don’t want to stay, trust me you will only turn into bad energy as the years go by. But Death that is my little girl. I have to watch over her. I can't just leave here not knowing anything about her! I have to know everything I got to watch over her. Hank calm your emotions, you are losing it. I doubt your daughter would like you to exit the rebirth phase of life just to know how her life will turn out. Hank, your consent is needed to move on, and I really think this would be the best for you. Death you don’t understand, I I can’t just not know. HANK! you gotta get a grip there is nothing more for you to do in this situation, just go with me and be reborn. It will wash away your suffering and it is the best option for you right now before you get devoured by your emotions. Death there is nothing here for you to harvest leave, I will stay and watch over my family. I can’t say I get it Hank but if that is your choice so be it, be swallowed by your loyalty to your past life. | 4,017 | 1 |
Entros, the City of Darkness, was a place where shadows whispered secrets and danger lurked around every corner. The city’s labyrinthine streets and towering structures cast long, eerie shadows, perfect for those who thrived in the dark. It was here that Riven, a newly anointed dark mage, found himself after returning from Umbra. He bore the mark of a panther on his shoulder, symbolizing his bond with his shadowy familiar, Nyx. Riven was an orphan, having lost his family to the Anti-Magic Knights years ago. The streets of Entros had been his home, teaching him the harsh lessons of survival. Now, with his new powers, he had become a target for those who sought to use him. One such group was the Thieves' Guild, a clandestine organization that thrived in Entros, exploiting the city’s perpetual darkness for their gains. Assassin guilds like the Thieves' Guild were only sanctioned by The Order, the infamous assassin guild known for its ruthless efficiency and moral ambiguity. The Order used these guilds to recruit the best assassins, expanding their influence and control across the land. Riven stood at the edge of a rooftop, gazing down at the bustling market below. The sun had set, and the city was cloaked in darkness. Nyx prowled beside him, her eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. He had been with the Thieves' Guild for months, learning to harness his powers under their tutelage. His ability to blend into shadows and move unseen had made him invaluable to the guild. Yet, something gnawed at him. The more he delved into the world of thievery, the more he questioned his place in it. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Malik, the guild’s leader, a man as cunning as he was ruthless. “Riven,” Malik called out, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “We have a job for you. One that requires your... unique talents.” Riven turned, his expression guarded. “What is it?” “There’s a man, a prominent figure in the city’s council, working to bring peace between magi and non-magi. He’s become a threat to our operations. We need you to eliminate him.” Riven’s heart sank. He had heard of this man, Lord Alden, a beacon of hope in a city shrouded in fear and mistrust. “Why me?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. “Because you can get close to him, unseen,” Malik replied, his eyes narrowing. “And because you owe us. We took you in when you had nothing.” Riven clenched his fists, his mind racing. He had to find a way to protect Alden without betraying the guild. That night, Riven slipped through the city like a wraith, Nyx at his side. He moved silently, his thoughts a turbulent mix of loyalty and morality. Memories of his family flashed through his mind—his parents, who had believed in a better world, and his sister, who had always protected him. He couldn’t let their sacrifices be in vain. He found Lord Alden in his study, pouring over documents by candlelight. Riven watched him from the shadows, his heart pounding. Alden’s face was etched with lines of worry, but his eyes shone with determination. Riven stepped forward, the shadows peeling away from him like a cloak. “Lord Alden,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Alden looked up, startled. “Who’s there?” “A friend,” Riven replied, his voice steadying. “You’re in danger. The Thieves' Guild has marked you for death.” Alden’s eyes widened. “Why would you tell me this?” “Because what you’re doing matters,” Riven said, stepping fully into the light. “And because I know what it’s like to lose everything.” Alden studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you. But what can we do?” “We need to make it look like you’re dead,” Riven said, a plan forming in his mind. “Leave Entros, go into hiding. I’ll handle the guild.” The following night, Riven returned to the guild, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. Malik awaited him, a cold smile playing on his lips. “Is it done?” Riven nodded, forcing himself to remain calm. “Alden is dead. The city will soon hear of his demise.” Malik’s smile widened. “Well done, Riven. You’ve proven your loyalty.” But as the days passed, rumors spread of Alden’s survival. The guild grew restless, suspicion falling on Riven. Malik confronted him, his eyes burning with fury. “You lied to me,” he hissed. “You betrayed us.” Riven stood his ground, Nyx materializing beside him, her presence a comforting weight. “I chose to do what was right,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I won’t let you destroy this city.” Malik’s sneer turned to a snarl. “You’ll regret this.” The fight was brutal. Malik was a seasoned fighter, his movements swift and deadly. He wielded a pair of short swords, their blades glinting in the dim light. But Riven had the shadows at his command. He and Nyx moved as one, their attacks a symphony of darkness and precision. Malik lunged with his swords, slashing through the air. Riven melted into the shadows, reappearing behind him. Nyx leaped, her claws aiming for Malik’s throat, but he twisted away just in time. Malik kept pressing the attack and lunged again, but Riven had the power of darkness at his command. He summoned tendrils of condensed shadow wrapping around Malik’s arms, pulling him down, but Malik broke free, his swords cutting through the shadowy restraints. He spun, his blades flashing in the darkness, but Riven anticipated his move, sidestepping and striking with a shadow-wreathed fist. Nyx pounced, her claws raking across Malik’s back. Malik stumbled, his eyes wide with shock. “This isn’t over,” he spat, blood staining his lips. Riven stepped forward, his expression hard. “Yes, it is.” With a final, decisive strike, he ended Malik’s reign. In the aftermath, Riven stood among the ruins of the guild’s hideout, his heart heavy yet resolved. He had chosen his path, one that honored his family’s memory and the values they had instilled in him. The city of Entros still lay shrouded in darkness, but Riven knew that light could be found even in the deepest shadows. As dawn broke, casting a pale light over the city, Riven and Nyx disappeared into the shadows once more, ready to protect those who could not protect themselves. His journey was far from over, but he had found his purpose—a beacon of hope in a world that desperately needed it. | 6,290 | 1 |
“I want to be human. I want to be human.” I repeat to myself, as I stare into the dusty bathroom mirror. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in this bathroom since nineteen-o-dirt. I’m surprised I even found anything way out here. Ran into a couple people on the drive over, but none too friendly. If I were a betting man, there’s gotta be some place nearby I can get some gas. Car ran out about a mile back, I’ve been hoofing it ever since. Now I’m exhausted, real glad I can’t overheat. What the hell is with this place anyway? One mile is barren, the next is overgrown. Pockets of leafy green, stitched into this khaki pant leg of earth. It’s confusing to say the least. “I want to be human.” One last time for good measure, then I throw my bag over my shoulder and step out of the bathroom. Peeking down both ways of the hall, to make sure no one heard me talking to myself. “Who am I kidding, this place hasn’t seen a soul since my dad got here.” I mumble to the seemingly empty building. “And it still ain’t seen one yet.” a voice calls from down the stretch of room doors. I freeze in place, something about that voice seemed familiar. I can’t recall where I had heard it, but l definitely have. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, just looking for some place safe to stay.” I call down to the disembodied voice. “A refugee, huh?” A man dressed in a ranchers hat, and a poncho steps from around a door frame. it’s about twenty feet to my right. “Aren’t we all.” his face is covered by the hats wide brim, but his voice is menacing. “You know, you’re one tough son of a bitch to track down.” I knew it was stupid to stop in a motel, broad daylight and all. I just wanted to wash up a bit, then I’d be on my way. “If you’re going to kill me, you better do it quick. Cause hell’s comin’ right behind me.“ I shout, seeing if he’ll call my bluff. “Sly little devil, but no one is comin’ for ya. Not yet anyhow.” he kicks the base-board of the hall with his spurred boots. “Now, you can either come to me or…” he pauses, letting out a long sigh. “You’re gonna have to do your running on crutches.” He’s serious, hand already on his hip. “Out of all the hunters, it had to be you.” I wasn’t going to run, there was no point. But how did he know? I stepped into the hall. “My scouts watched you leave y’all’s little empire of bones. Gave me where you were headed.” He said smugly, I could hear the grin behind his words. He was swaying on his hips. (Could he read my mind?) “Never thought you’d fly the nest, but whaddya know? Looks like fallen angels, regrow wings.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Spare me the monologue, Jesus! Is this all the time with you?” I put both hands together, and slowly approach so he doesn’t get too antsy. The last thing I want is to catch a bullet from a professional cosplayer. As I approach, I can see the long hair poking out from under his hat. It’s greasy, probably been on the road for awhile. I know I have. His beard is immaculate though, full, and medium length. I almost ask him where he finds a barber out here. My guessing is he cuts it himself, unless it just always looks that way. The thought annoys me. Stripping me of my backpack, and searching for more goods, which he finds… (my knife, and a half eaten raw scrap of meat I’d been snacking on.) He wraps my hands in a rope binding. After he’s satisfied the knot is secured, he pats my head. “There, there, *kid*. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, but your pa? Yeah, ole’ *Baphy* might. Once we tell him where you are that is.” That word, *kid*. It always stung, but this time was especially potent in its venom. His hand grips my shoulder, and pushes me toward the exit. This place is in ruin, dust on the walls. The floors are starting to decay. Everything in here has either been broken, or scavenged. It’s picked clean. I can’t help but wonder what it was like before, what kind of people stayed here? As we enter the light outside, he steps in front of me. Strapping my pack onto his horse. A beautiful creature, all white. Shiny, and well fed. No gas required. Dammit, why didn’t I think of that? “You know he’ll kill us both. My dad doesn’t forgive, like you.” I call out, hoping he’ll show some semblance of mercy. He finishes fixing my gear to his nag, and turns to me. “Oh, I don’t do the forgiving thing no more.” He steps to me, I can feel his breath on my face. “I fucking *hate* my neighbors.” He points to the horse, and steps aside. I guess he wants me to climb on? I step forward and put one foot in a stirrup, while he helps me climb up and over. I laugh to myself. “Look ma, no hands.” “If I find out who she is, she’ll be buried right beside you and pa.” The laughing stopped, he was serious. “So, where are you taking me?” I managed to choke out. “Don’t you worry about that *kid*, you just make sure you don’t fall off. Can’t make a deal with the devil, if all I have to offer is damaged goods. | 4,986 | 1 |
Lights out. Lights on. Lights out. Lights on. Vincent strained to keep his eyes open. Indeed, it wasn’t him blinking, it was the sun. It flickered mid day. He was jobless again, and was trying to take his mind off it. He’d left the apartment, which would soon not be his, to get away from its suffocating evocation. Eventually his mindless sauntering led him to a nearby park, where he found a soft patch of grass to lie in, and perhaps just die there. The allure of fresh cut grass in the sun had attracted others as well, but everyone was quiet, thoughtful. The recent AI revolution had put many in the same boat as him. It had been something spectacular, at an unprecedented rate the productivity of mankind soared, dwarfing the industrial and digital revolutions. In a mood of euphoric optimism, it enveloped the planet as a swarm of fruit flies with viagra. In the beginning, managers and mid-managers were ecstatic, finally they would have the type of workers they dreamed of, ones who didn’t moan and complain about every poorly thought out decision they made. And with them gone, a huge useless drain on profit would be removed. Money would be redistributed, recognition at last, with them taking a major chunk to match their exceptional qualities, their uniqueness among their peers. AIs only needed electric power after all. Of course, that was all a managerial fantasy, and following a brief time of delusional bliss, they themselves got promptly replaced or simply removed. For the people higher up in the hierarchy, who kept their jobs, it felt like removing your socks after a long trek. The optimists claimed that this was the long awaited transition to a post scarcity society, utopia in the making. Reality, being a pessimist, had other plans. Wealth discrepancy deepened, and suddenly most societies found themselves with two castes: the wealthy, people who still had income and money, and the destitute who had nothing. The penniless made poor consumers, so business stopped catering to them. Governments were already designed to represent the rich anyway, so they lacked political power as well. They became outcasts, people left to die in the streets. They couldn’t even rebel effectively, since soldiers were getting paid, which made them partial to the upper class, and civilians going against modern military forces was somewhat iffy. In a spasm of altruism, the elite figured that starvation of more than half of the population would be inhumane. Therefore bread and potatoes became free, which fit nicely well below the 1.3% of global GDP that went for charity. Some of the affected wondered whether that was some sort of a cruel joke. They felt like the roach being kept alive as food for the wasp’s progeny. Since getting laid off, Vincent dreaded his eventual transition to the outcast class. He had not found a job in time, and now he was being evicted. Not much he could do now but join one of the sprawling tent cities, but luckily, he already owned a tent having bought one for just such an occasion. These new cities, built within the old ones, were slowly becoming their own authorities. It started when people formed gangs to raid large grocery stores. These soon went out of business, since the stratum they served had perished. The stores that remained, that sold to the rich, had big enough margins to afford armed guards, so the gangs had to become larger and tougher. As history teaches us, government is an euphemism for the biggest bully in town, and these gangs were growing into big bullies themselves. Eventually, they started to refer to themselves as tribes, separate entities from their origin countries. And you didn’t want to meet tribesmen when you were going home at night. The original administrations made several half hearted attempts to suppress these new states, but what was it supposed to do? Kill what it claimed to be its own citizens? Ultimately, citizens who couldn’t afford to consume or pay taxes were not desirable ones, so they gave up. Vincent was self aware enough to know that he wouldn’t make a good tribesman. He was soft, pudgy, and often out of breath. As the main source of wealth for these people was raiding, he wondered what niche he could fill, but he avoided thinking about it too hard. And now the sun was flickering. How unfortunate it would be, he mused, if it turned off one of these days, but he knew it wasn’t that. He was surprised to find out that it saddened him it wasn’t. The remaining governments had their coffers empty in the end, since the populace paid politicians directly, bypassing them entirely. In a new plan, one of managerial cunning, indeed one that only a government clerk can come up with, they decided to block out the sun. Then they would sell sunlight as a service; it was the new SAS model. Proponents of this plan argued that obviously they deserved sunlight for free, but they were not so sure about the tribal riff raff that beat them senseless when they met on the street. The rich didn’t care, because it was a small fee, and hey, the money would go toward fixing the parks. It could even fix climate change! Since there was no opposition, the decision was made, and the project undertaken. At first, people could hardly believe their reality. Such was the case with Vincent as well, he had indeed forgotten about it until now. A myriad of small robotic satellites were launched with reusable rockets, each with its own AI and at all times connected to a massive computational center via relays. There the monumental computation of where each robot should stand was made, so that any unsubscribed person would get shaded. It was akin to a Dyson swarm, but unfortunately, on the wrong celestial body. And there it was, the last sunray to ever touch him; it blinked out. Vincent looked up, and saw the sun as in an eclipse with only its corona visible. Unhappily, he brought his gaze down, and examined the other lawn loafers. Nearly the whole place was in the dark, but two people had their own personal god rays. The chosen ones glanced around nervously. Death stares shot back at them. They left in a hurry. Vincent walked home depressed, while a robot shrouded him from orbit. It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. Months passed, and Vincent found himself the third wife of a tribe chieftain. It was the Sunset Boulevard tribe, named after the street it had occupied during its inception and not after recent events. The area was now almost permanently shaded, and vegetation had completely died out, but humans found ways to persist. Even in darkness, people managed and found things to put value in. Food, water, and shelter had become precious, while electronic gadgets lost all meaning. Vitamin D supplements were the unofficial currency. Being the third wife had its benefits. It provided uncommon security, and his chores were simple. He had to keep the tent in order and take care of the chieftain’s many children, who were from the man’s other wives. Vincent had come to accept this existence, which his past self would’ve found intolerable. He fell into the routine of his new life, and the days strung along, but change was inevitably brewing again behind the curtain. It turned out that blocking large portions of sunlight made the climate go haywire. Giant planetary superstorms became a thing, and the Atlantic was consumed in a never ending hurricane of continental magnitude. It effectively cut off the Americas from Europe, which miffed the rich a bit. Although travel was restricted, they still found their lives largely unchanged, an infinite stream of AI generated entertainment and whatever else was left for money to buy paved the way to a lifetime of hedonism. For the tribesmen life grew rougher: winters were colder, springs rainier, and summers gloomier. But people persisted. Among them, Vincent had recently become a grandmother. His new routine created distance between him and his old memories of the world that had been, a dream is all it was. As life became harder, and food became scarcer, and the planet itself grew more hostile, his chores expanded to consume more and more of his time. They left him with no time to think or reflect on what was and what could’ve been. Oddly, his present situation fulfilled him, and at the end of the day, when he lay on his roll-up bed under the rotting tent roof, he fell asleep happy. Conditions worsened across the globe, and officials started to argue that maybe they’d been wrong in removing the sun from the poor. Perhaps, it was said, the divine disagreed with SAS. Such voices remained a minority however, because neither clerks nor politicians were prepared to separate themselves from the sweet cash inflows it produced. Tsunamis drowned the coasts, and it rained debris from humankind’s abandoned cities across the world. At last, twilight shone over the rich as well. Their assets were submerged and ruined, but they still had money to spend. And where there’s demand there’s supply. Luxurious underground bunkers, offshore platforms, deep sea hotels, and offworld apartments were hastily constructed with the poorly understood technology of days past. Relentless, time marched on, unperturbed by humanity’s plight, and Vincent lay on his deathbed after a long, long life. A coup had ousted the chieftain, and he no longer had the same status, but was largely left alone to his own devices out of respect for his former husband. The tribe had migrated high up on the Rockies to evade the boiling ocean. He’d even managed to convince a woman to be his wife in his later years, and had a couple of children of his own. Presently, they all sat around his disintegrated roll-up bed, in his rotting tent, and a woman he barely recognized held his hand, and a young man held a palm over his shoulder. The deep sorrow of a final goodbye lingered in their eyes. He tried to remember where’d he’d come from and how it had all begun, but his aged brain faltered. He closed his eyes for a final time, and while his mind dissolved, one thing remained clear to him. As people drowned in their underwater havens, suffocated underground, and their bones grew weak and their flesh rotted in space, he was here, happy, with his family. | 10,264 | 0 |
A loud blast in gulfs the small life less camp, a bigger explosion hits the barn and a huge rock hits it's roof. Rushing to the scene five fire fighters in one truck, as Soon as they arrive three start to grab the hose and the last two prepare the water by turning the small wheel to run the water.The last turn and the rushing water comes flying out pushing the men back, they lift the hose aiming for the barn.Three hours later the fire has rested, the barn covered in black ash lays lifelessly on the ground in the black charred dirt, the men sift looking for victims. An hour later they hit and find something massive at first one thought it was a burnt up ash of a cow, but then they found a massive rock! The fore men cautiously take a look to find it was still very hot and still smoldering in the ground. The men call the police and anyone who could help them identify this unearthly rock.The police arrive with a few towns people who were professors at the nearby college, looking and studying the rock one professor came to conclude that it wasn't a rock, but a huge meteorite that made its way from space to earth. As soon as the professor told the people they decided to remove it, two hours later a crane arrived to pick up this massive meteorite the tow truck backed up and the man hoped out wrapping the old rusted chains around it giving it a tug to check the chains, he gets in the truck and presses the accelerator gently. Not bearing the meteorite suddenly becomes engulfed in flames once more, the people who were standing there are now apart of the black silted dirt that surrounds the rock, two of the firemen call for backup and drives away giving it room.The meteorite then moves forward towards the small pool of water near the barn, touching the water the meteorite suddenly explodes killing the remaining people surrounding, the helplessly bodies charred and smoldering lay as if they were two the barn.The meteorite then shifts into the earth turning into a smaller lengthy slithering object. Twenty minutes have past and the backup arrives, the firemen hop out looking at a field covered in ash and the charred bodies of their friends, the fire truck still on fire burns away into the deep smoke filled darkness of the night. Holding a small memorial a couple days later the town mourns the loss of it's fellow friends and fire fighters and the sons of the men as they are carried in there small wooden caskets with a red white and blue flag with fifty stars.The wife's of the men weeped until their eyes were dry. Lowering into the ground the caskets moved slowly into the layered brown dirt, the fire men speak to the town leaving peaceful words. The next day the firemen are called to a small brushfire near the towns edge were the cemetery and the church are located, speeding down the dirt road they arrive to find that the fire has not yet reach any structures, rushing out they grab shovels and pix axes to dig trenches around the main structures, on doing so the fire grows bigger each second.The wind picked up carrying the flames towards the helpless men and the church, the pine trees surrounding the church suddenly catch fire as if they were fuel, the men trapped run into the church hoping for a miracle. Praying and sitting the men wait, wait for their last breath into the fire. The church now on fire starts to collapse with giant beams falling into the middle, one of the men is struck and killed instantly as the other men watch, crying the other men are inflamed and burning with their suit melting. Running the men fall laying on the ground charred and killed. The town now mourns the loss of more men and the loss of their church, standing near the water on the other side of town they let the caskets peacefully float and flow down the river bobbing down and up traveling towards the wooden bridge.The community now devastated does whatever possible to prevent more fires. Couple quiet and peaceful months later the wells dry up, people now only now have one source of water and it's the old shallow river, the river used for transportation has never been consumed of by humans.The townspeople do not like to drink from the river because they have seen the animals that have done so and died because of the contaminated water.Taking the water the towns people boil and make sure the water is crystal clear, floating down the Rivera small boat arrives with a black small tank to store the water for the people. Only having enough to last them for a couple weeks. Two weeks later three people have died of dehydration and worse the river has dried up.The townspeople call for help but no one responds. Curious the sheriff leaves to go out to the other town, reaching the end of the town crossing into the other county the sheriff is suddenly stopped by a gunshot to his tires, rushing from behind a small tree and foliage three camouflaged soldiers in uniform yell and tell the sheriff to stop.The sheriff walking out of the vehicle tells the soldiers not to shoot and that he is the sheriff, uncaringly the soldiers then shoot him in the knee making flesh and bone fly off and exposing the muscle and bone that is now destroyed by the bullet, crying and laying on the ground the sheriff crawls toward the soldier asking why he shot him, the soldier then answers with his gun firing once more in the sheriffs skull splitting it and exposing the oozing brains that soak into the dry ground. Worried the townspeople wait for the sheriff to return with more water, they wait for three hours before sending a search party with two people, two young men in their early twenties load up into the truck, the men grabbed two guns one .308 lever action rifle and the other a 16 gauge shotgun, following the tire tracks of the sheriffs vehicle they finally come across his vehicle. Getting out of the truck the two men cautiously step out and walk up inspecting the vehicle, stepping into the blood soaked ground the men find two bullet casings marked m.i. USA NATO .223, recognizing the case one man says that this is a military weapon that this case was fired from the other man in disbelief agrees and searches more for more clues. Looking at the car one man sees that one bullet pierced the tires, but looks for the location of were the other one has hit.The blood that they stepped in is now almost soaked into the ground.The men look once more and them crawls back into the truck driving forward toward the car. Inching closely to the vehicle a loud boom and a shriek of a bullet comes piercing through the window into the passengers jaw splitting and tearing the flesh from his mouth.The lower jaw is now gone, teeth now litter the floor and on the dashboard with flesh and blood covering the seat.The passenger shrieking in pain cant speak, he mumbles and makes noises that is unrecognizable, the driver panicking ducks and slams the gas crashing into the vehicle, flying through the windshield the driver slams into the back of the car breaking the glass perching his flesh on his face.The driver then crawls into the vehicle hoping not to get shot, soldiers rush to the truck to find a moaning guy who half of his jaw is gone, they forcefully yank him and throw him to the dirt covered ground, his clothes covered in dust he now knows he is not gonna live very long. The sun is now setting on the small town of the twenty three people that is left, clouds start to build up and it now begins to rain, people rushing out of there homes grab any kind of device to catch the rain in, thirty minutes pass and It is now dark and a light drizzle still falls.The parents of the two sons wait till its eight the expected arrival time of the men. Eight comes very slowly with the parents waiting eagerly to meet there children once more. Eight thirty passes and no signs of any vehicle or their children come.The parents now worried begin to panic and and wait a little more.While waiting the parents fall into a deep sleep not waking until ten the next morning.The chickens pecking at the ground begin to die slowly due to starvation, the ants slowly eat and surround the dead chickens in swarms.The townspeople now all awake begin to make plans to search for all of the people that are missing, the mayor of the town decides split into four, three people stay in town and five groups of four are made each taking a side of the town. Slowly walking away you can hear the voices of the people calling out the names of the loss. Footsteps cover the ground following the tire tracks, each person inspecting every part of the surroundings as much as possible.Thirty minutes later they get a glimpse of a smoke cloud up ahead, smelling burning rubber the black thick smoke surrounds the group, covering up their noses and mouth they search both vehicles. One person yells out to the others that he found one man on the ground burnt to a crisp smoldering. Dragging the body the flesh melts into the persons hand burning and stinging his flesh, unable to drag the body anymore the group panics and runs toward the town, running through the thick dead grass and bushes a small beeping noise alerts the group, the leader suddenly is instantly vaporized into a cloud of flesh and blood, realizing that they have ran into a minefield.The people seeing the aftermath of the mines begin to freak out and spread. Returning to the small town the four groups meet back up to discuss what they have found.They begin to count to make sure all twenty three are there, but they see four are still gone, waiting they here yelling from afar. Hearing the yelling all of the groups run out too see what the noise is.A dust covered man runs out of the dead dry grass towards the group, once reaching the group the man falls to his knees and cries and mumbles. Curious of why he is crying the people start to question him. Two days later three more people have died of starvation, the town not knowing what to do decides to dig and find water.The mayor calls for a meeting at the center of the town, all of the townspeople gather and listen to the mayor.The mayor speaks about digging and where they should dig, after the long pointless speech the townspeople gather digging supplies such as shovels pix axes and more, traveling to the location the people begin to chomp away at the rock hard sandy dirt. Five hours later a man in his early thirties hits a hard piece of metal of some sort, curious they begin to dig around it. Reaching one side they decide to leave it a dig around it, but one man curious still wants to dig it out. It was now dark and no water has been found, without the water no one will be able to work any longer, but one man still out working is still trying to dig up the huge metal round rock. Giving up he shoots his anger towards the rock hitting it as hard as he could with the pic axe, as soon as he hit it the third time the rock began to move, freaking out the man began to run but was struck by a piece of limestone going through his abdomen killing him.The rock is now gone a afar where no one will reach it again. The next morning the townspeople awoke to find the body of the man and also the weapon, the limestone was small and rectangular in shape. Inspecting the body one man believes it was one of the townspeople that killed him, another man also agrees and begins to investigate. Rushing towards a small house outside of town the two men slam open the door and barge in, the man laying in his bed is grabbed and beaten, the man questions the men, the men answer by telling him that he is a murderer, puzzled the man tells them that he is not, but sure they take him out to the center of the town. Coming out of their homes the townspeople are surprised and also believe that he is the murderer. Five men and one woman look for anything they can burn, finding sticks and logs they begin to stack them into a bed, the bed now made is the final resting place for the accused murderer. Walking towards the bed the murderer begins to cry and shout out, but no one cares, once laying on the bed the man is bound by his hands by a small rope. Struggling on the bed another man lights a torch and throws it under the bed, catching on fire the wood slowly burns, the man now covered in flames is heard from far away yelling and crying with screams of pain. Smoke covers the town and the smell of burning flesh smothers the noses of the people around.Two hours later the bed is now completely burned down, all that is left is a small pile of ash and a burnt bones of the man. Digging a hole the townspeople push the ash in and bury him to be lost forever. With now fourteen people left in the town the mayor gives up, he waits in his small dirty house alone for any hope.Two days past and no signs until one man is seen digging in the dried up river, the mayor catching a glimpse of him steps outside to get a better view, stepping out side the mayor stands watching from afar.Twenty minutes pass and the man begins to yell, the mayor hearing and seeing him rushes towards him as fast as possible. Getting closer the mayor can see a small pool of water beneath the mans feet, in joy the mayor calls the townspeople telling them to dig again. Only three people show up by the river telling the mayor that the others are to tired and need water to work, grabbing the shovels the people begin to dig, the mayor runs to his house and grabs buckets to fill. One hour has past and the mayor now has five buckets of water, preparing the fire to boil the water a small woman stands waiting for the fire to spark off, the fire finally catches and is burning furiously, grabbing the water she begins to boil one bucket at a time. People now begin to show up waiting for there chance to finally taste some liquid. | 13,955 | 1 |
The YouTube Teen changed the rules. We are still earning $1,000 a day to stay in the insolvent, decaying galleria mall that has even the gigantic central skylight boarded up so we have no idea what time of day it is—part of the “social experiment,” according to the YouTube Teen. Micah, who lost tenure track at SUNY Binghampton because of “a dalliance with a matriculated temptress from Hong Kong,” says the YouTube Teen is not using the term “social experiment” correctly. Still, the YouTube Teen told us he’s going broke due to our astounding okay-ness with surviving on rank fountain water and rock-hard Mrs. Fields’ oatmeal cookies. Since we signed the four total pounds of legal waivers and were sealed inside the Walden Galleria, just two of the original six have dropped out: Lawrence, because he earned enough money to get his lupus properly treated, and Jessica, whose mind broke. To date, the YouTube Teen told us—giggling, hair freshly permed, eyes substance-glazed, palm trees swaying lazily in the background on the giant monitor set up in the food court just for these check-ins—we have personally cost him $725,000. Which *would* be “valid as fuck,” except the Views have gone down and the various memory foam mattress and ejaculate-volume-enhancing supplement sponsors are grumbling. Viewers are becoming bored with the highlight reels edited together from the three hundred GoPro cameras bracketed throughout the mall above us inside small plexiglass boxes. In the end, The YouTube Teen tells us, he is as beholden to the algorithm as we are to him. And so now, the snakes. Non-venomous, mostly (the copperheads representing the BIG exception), and—the YouTube teen has assured us—all species native to the region. The YouTube Teen is committed to the Environment and will not upset the local ecosystem by losing track of an invasive snake. Should an eastern hognosed or striped racer escape the confines of the mall, it will be happy and healthy and find plenty of its preferred prey in the drainage ditches and fallow farmland surrounding the mall. Micah has called bullshit on this, too. He is positive he saw a desert king snake, native to the Southwest, casually contorting its body up a slicker-wearing toddler mannequin inside GAPKids. But the answer is yes: we have been bitten. A lot. Which is the point, I guess. Any rustling through the Mrs. Fields’ wrappers sends us running—usually into another angry snake’s hiding place, which, of course: more bites. Because of the highly-aggressive northern water snake, we don’t go near the fountain anymore except to risk a quick dip with our filthy TGI Friday’s pint glasses for a gagged-down gulp of gray-green water. On a positive note, the views are up—not to their peak, when Jessica went into the eerily pristine Lids store on the second level and started setting Florida Marlins Official New Era fitted caps on fire before flinging them like frisbees into the Fredericks of Hollywood beneath the mezzanine on the level below, setting ablaze several plus-size Lara May Lace Babydoll Sleep Dresses that put off smoke so black and acrid that air quality and general visibility both went to zero for hours. Susan, a single mother to two spectrum-diagnosed precious angels, was overtaken by the flames while holding her drinking cup—a giant plastic wine glass from Spenser’s Gifts reading I’M THE FUCKING BIRTHDAY BITCH—and it was melted more or less permanently to her hand. She has chosen to stay, though, despite the pain and embarrassment—“at least it will make sense one day a year!” Susan says, brandishing the blackened novelty cup and mangled, terrifying hand at us. Jessica had to go, is the upshot. She also had to forfeit her earnings—attempted involuntary manslaughter of the other participants being one of the disqualifying circumstances outlined in the four total pounds of legal waivers. But it was far and away the best week views-wise, and we each got a large bunch of rubber-banded beet greens as a reward which we immediately devoured raw, sitting hunched on the dead escalator, our deepening anemia making us ravenous for the iron. This is all to say, the snakebite highlight reels have “revitalized the channel” (Re: the YouTube Teen). We all hate the snakes but Sylvie talks the most about how much she hates the snakes. She calls me “Kyle” but that’s not my name—I don’t tell her because I don’t want to embarrass her and I am in love with her. Sylvie is not here for the money—Sylvie has a lot of money because she shares frequent online photos of her large and unique ass, which has had several popular songs written about it—but to pay penance and rehabilitate her image after she used some slurs when she assumed she was free to do so. It’s unfair, Sylvie says. She would not have said those slurs if she knew there were any type of video or sound recording devices around. Plus, South Asian people should be able to take a joke. No sense of humor—that was another thing that was wrong with them. I don’t tell her my granddad was from Lahore. Me and my sister called him Nana. He called me Chotu and would cut up mango slices for me until my hands were slick with juice. But he’s dead now and he didn’t speak English (another thing Sylvie hates) and Sylvie is committed to being a Good Person. Also, I think she believes I am South American or Mexican based on her habit of calling me “Papi” when she occasionally forgets my name is Kyle (it’s not). It’s fine, though, because her heart is in the right place and it’s the least I can do to keep her spirits up while she “really does some listening and reflecting.” One of the things I do with that in mind is assure Sylvie that you can barely see the snakebites on her large ass, which she also fears is getting smaller due to lack of proper nutrition. A little secret is that I would love her if her ass was even just a quarter its current size. And one day I’ll tell her that and she’ll look into my eyes and smile, and then I’ll tell her my name is Kader, not Kyle, and I don’t think she’ll even get that angry, like when I disagreed with her about the Moon Landing (I still basically think it was real). Before Sylvie, I didn’t have a purpose of any kind. I came to be sealed inside the Walden Galleria in the same way everything happens to me: first something isn’t happening, and then it is, and I can’t really untangle the millions of decisions and non-decisions in my life that led me to any particular time or place. But I usually don’t feel any kind of way about why one thing happens and another doesn’t, unless something hurts me or makes me uncomfortable. Like snake bites, for example, which sometimes make me wish I was back at the apartment with my mom and my sister. Not that we really saw each other or talked much, except when we ran into each other in the kitchen while grabbing toaster strudels or a can of peaches before scurrying back to our separate little blanket nests and preferred online videos. So when Micah asked me what sort of “outdated social mores” brought me to the mall, I didn’t have a good answer. The only thing I know for sure is that before the mall I wasn’t anybody and you have to have a lot of people know who you are or your life is bad. This made Micah quiet (rare) and then he asked me what I liked to do in my life before the mall. I told him I liked to watch videos of crayons being made. Over and over again, I would replay the part when the still-warm, rubbery sheets of colored wax are scraped out of their troughs and forced through the metal, crayon-shaped molds. I told Micah I like to watch orange crayons get made best even though green is my favorite color. I don’t know why. Micah said entropy is the natural state of the universe and the making of crayons flies in the face of entropy by creating order out of chaos, and this makes me briefly forget about my own mortality. Probably? Micah’s smart so I believe whatever he says. Even when he talks (all the time) about how it should be totally fine for people in positions of authority to have sexual relationships with younger women who take their Intro To Natural Sciences course, even if these women’s command of English is not one-hundred-percent, and how that sort of thing is very normal because women are attracted to power and have been for millennia and it’s these later-in-life sexual conquests that people with minds like Micah’s are *owed* when everyone finally realizes how great and smart they are, especially after they had dog shit put in their backpacks pretty much every single day in seventh grade. Micah also says it’s winter now. The owls that made their way into the mall in order to eat snakes have started nesting (having snake blood dripped on you from the track lighting above is pretty common). Nesting is a winter-time occurrence, according to Micah, instinct forcing its way through the temperature-controlled bubble of the mall. After one of the owls attempts to make a nest inside a large fuse box and is electrocuted, we *know* it’s winter. The Macy’s end of the mall stinks of burned owl for three days and the heat and electricity are “completely donezo,” according to a text we receive from the YouTube Teen on the Communal Phone. But the YouTube Teen is very excited about the new dynamics below-zero cold will add to the social experiment. He also told us we can breathe a sigh of relief due to the long battery life and night-vision capabilities of the GoPro cameras, assuring us that the Channel will not experience any disruptions despite the pitch dark and intense cold that have settled in. Also, we will still be delivered a freshly-charged Communal Phone every few days when the YouTube Teen’s Street Team comes to collect and replace the GoPros before delivering the spent ones to the overnight editorial crew. So we will still get our one hour of Internet access per day, per person, ideally to be spent in part or in whole on updating our social media and “driving engagement.” Sylvie uses her time to share photos of her ass and also to monitor the activity of her competitors in the large-and-unique-ass influencer space. I usually give Sylvie my hour of Internet time so she has extra, even though lately I’d really like to see a crayon video so I can forget about the cold and dark. Instead, I watch Micah snap wooden Banana Republic clothes hangers over his knee in order to burn them in Sur La Table soup pots to stay warm. He struggles with this due to the dozen or so XXL Nike Dri-FIT athletic shirts he’s wearing, layered one on top the next, the combined girth of the jerseys preventing him from being able to touch one baseball-gloved hand to the other and get a good grip on the hangers for snapping. It’s funny to watch, and I understand why the edits of Micah falling down while attempting simple tasks are gaining in popularity, but I don’t laugh. Micah didn’t laugh when I broke my nose after I tripped over the poncho I made from a Martha Stewart California King Duvet I found in Bed, Bath & Beyond. The toilets have frozen solid and the Yankee Candle has become the new bathroom, the theory being that the Sweet Vanilla Horchata and Fresh Cut Rose candles, among thousands of others, would cover the smell. Nope. Instead, these aromas have combined with the odor of our waste to create a stench so overpowering and unique that none of us has the words to describe it. Susan came closest when she said it smelled like someone dumped a million of gallons of perfume into a sewage treatment plant One day during Sylvie’s (my) Internet time, she lets out a howl. When I rush over to see if one of the snakes managed to somehow survive the owls or freezing temperatures and sink their fangs into Sylvie’s ass, she brandishes the Communal Phone at me and scrolls through photo after photo of gigantic-assed women enjoying a special, head-sized fried chicken sandwich. Sylvie begins to weep with despair. The sandwich—a Limited Edition Drop from Arby’s that comes in a hand-hewn mahogany box emblazoned with the familiar cowboy hat logo—is so desirable that at least twenty people to date have been murdered during disputes in the massive lines snaking for miles outside the restaurants. Obtaining one is currently the greatest indicator of power, with various dictators from around the globe sharing photos of themselves enjoying the coveted sandwich. Sylvie says she needs one of those sandwiches more than anything she has ever needed, and I tell her right then and there that I’m going to get one for her. She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek, and it is the best thing that has happened to me in my life. Susan, waiting for her turn on the Communal Phone so she can video chat with her non-verbal precious angels, points her melted Birthday Bitch cup hand at me and reminds me that if I get caught sneaking out and back in, I forfeit my earnings like Jessica did. Attempted manslaughter and cheating are given equal weight in the four total pounds of legal waivers. The Street Team is coming soon for a camera swap, so the next day I use my Internet time to look up directions to Arby’s—six miles if I cut through frozen fields and drainage culverts. During the swap, a piece of plywood is usually left unscrewed at the doors near the carousel and the unblinking plastic horses watch me slip out as the Street Team removes the spent GoPros, creating a momentary video blackout. It’s nighttime and the snow comes down not in gentle feathers but in tiny knives, given a painful velocity by the wind. The snow is in uneven drifts stretching out beyond the short distance I can see. I discard my Martha Stewart duvet-poncho after I trip for about the tenth time while crossing a corn-stubbled field. After hours of leaning into the wind and snow, my steps slow to a frozen crawl. But finally, between a Valvoline and a Dollar Tree, the familiar glowing red cowboy hat shines through the slanted snowfall. I fall through the doors and there is no one inside but a single, furious, pockmarked 20-something behind the counter. He glares hate at me and recoils from the smell of my unwashed body as I crawl up to the counter and order the special chicken sandwich. Smiling for the first time, thin lips pulling up shittily around ratty teeth, he tells me they sold out days ago, and that I smell like shit. Which is true, but rude. As I uncoil the Forever 21 Active Seamless Flare Leggings from around my face, though, Rat Teeth recognizes me—he is a fan of the YouTube Teen’s channel. He excitedly tells me he stole a sandwich that he has already promised to sell to the current Burmese dictator, but instead he’ll let me have it for free. I think maybe I cry a little from gratitude as he goes out to his car to retrieve the mahogany box. But as he shakes off the snow back in the restaurant and I take the sandwich from him, Rat Teeth suddenly puts his arm around me and takes a photo of the both of us with his phone. I ask him what he plans on doing with the photo. He says he will post it on every platform known to man so he can get “two truckloads of pussy” which he says will back up to his house now that he has proof he met me. I beg him not to—I tell him I’ll lose my earnings and be banished from the Walden Galleria and lose Sylvie if he posts the photo. Rat teeth tells me tough shit, and I lunge for his phone. We struggle until I bash him in the head with the mahogany box and he has a really bad seizure, a halo of blood spreading across the bleach-smelling tile floor. I grab the bloody sandwich box and run out into a corn field and back toward the mall. But I’m not sure which way it is, and the storm is way worse. I go slower and slower and I finally sit down and can’t go any more. After a bit, I see Nana. He’s super pissed and he doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “I think you would have benefited from some structure in your life,” Nana finally says without moving his mouth—he somehow puts the hot words right into my brain. Yeah, probably. But I tell him that’s not really important right now because I’m gonna die. “Eat the sandwich, Chotu.” Nana urges. I tell him the sandwich is for Sylvie. When they find me, they will find the sandwich pristine and untouched and perfect. Then Sylvie will know what I did and she will love me. I tell Nana I need her to love me or everything will be pointless and so fucking stupid. Nana shakes his head and clucks his tongue like he used to when he read his squiggly Urdu newspapers. And then I don’t see him anymore. | 16,579 | 3 |
I found myself alone in the hospital this morning. It was a waste of a day already, as I’d spent my time lying around and talking to no one, and then I got into work, and that’s where the real lying started. You see, I have a bit of a problem. For the past three years of my life, I’ve worked in this department. It’s big, and sometimes spacious if we’ve run out of wheelchairs and beds, which take up most of the corridors nowadays. I sit near the ambulance bay, and so the wind comes in every time the doors open. I like to tuck myself into the corner and not be seen by anybody, and especially not the outside world: if it caught any idea of my being here, I’d be properly blasted with ice-cold, unflattering air. It's the same as any job. When it’s boring, it’s boring, and when it’s not… let’s just say that I’ve seen my fair share of fist-fights over these past, winding months. But whatever, so the poets say. My real problem is that I want to leave the Programme. You might question what I mean by ‘leave’, might laugh at my apprehension—at your assumption—but whatever you think it is, that’s not really what I’m talking about. You’d know what I meant if you lived here too. Everyone else does. We have to be careful. I don’t want this to get into someone else’s hands, or they’ll start talking about people like me and then I’ll be really into the thick of things. So don’t make this worse for me. I’ll get to the point. Our world is slightly different from yours. Yes, we have hospitals. Yes, we have emergency departments – and yes, for better or worse, we still have administrators who print everything off for you. That’s me. I’m paid to do that, and then I get on the bus and go home, and it’s all very pleasant. Then I do it the next day, and I have my two days off, whenever they come. I’ve tried talking to the people in my department, but they’re strange. Not all of them, of course, but the ones who do talk back are usually doing so with the air of someone who is likely to get caught if they go on for too long. The others just look at you, and smile or frown, then they ask you to do something, and you do it and they walk away. It’s not their fault. I suppose we don’t see each other for long enough to establish any real sort of contact. But this morning, I was alone (it doesn’t matter how—only that there were no patients or staff, no wheelchairs, no beds—it was empty), and I finally said it aloud. *I want to exit the Programme.* You really need silence to say that sort of thing. No one can cope with it, and I know that because I’ve tried to joke about it, and they all went quiet. That’s the difficulty: you can’t spring that on someone when you’re in the queue for the canteen, or passing by chance on your way to the staff room. I’ve seen others who want to leave, as well. They have that look in their eye. I’ve tried to speak to them, but they end up changing the subject and won’t tell me what’s going on. They’re right, in a way. It’s none of my business, and if anyone finds out that I’ve been hearing them out, they’ll get me into trouble in some way. It’s anyone, not just people who work at this hospital. My favourite patients are the ones where I can tell they want the same as me, except that they’ve been discovered and brought in to talk about it. I’ve seen the police pick them up, and while I’m working away, I try to make eye contact with the patients as if I could help—as if I could ever let them know the truth! We have paid professionals to talk to people about exiting the Programme, how it’s advised against in all measures, that it takes time and precious money away from the people who really want to be here, that we only have so many resources to go around. It’s your own fault if you really don’t like the way things are done, because everybody else is able to enjoy the Programme in some way. Besides, the people in charge are always so busy. I work with some of them, and they always make a point to let me know just how busy they are. But I know it's not just me: I’ve seen it everywhere, those posters teaching you how to spot the signs of someone who wants to leave the Programme, how to watch them carefully if you’re unsure. Who to call, what to do, if they won’t listen to reason. They’ve got steps on how to get yourself back into it, loving the Programme again. One of the ideas was to keep a journal, that you could write down a few things each day to remind yourself of why you’re grateful to be in the Programme at all. I’ve never told anyone about what I really think. Some people get taken away forever because of it, if they’re really bad. I’ve known a few who change their minds about leaving, and now they go around telling everyone that people who want to leave don’t actually want to, that it’s all in the way they’re looking at things. No one really wants to have a conversation about it. I think most of them are afraid of wanting to leave, because we haven’t been told what happens next. There’s no form or anything to fill in, people just disappear all the time. Sometimes it’s those you weren’t expecting—and that’s terrifying. I’ve heard that you can say it out loud like a birthday wish. *I want to exit the Programme. I want to leave.* But in all honesty, I can’t remember ever signing a contract. | 5,392 | 2 |
Emma Twenty-Three stood staring in childlike curiosity as her acquaintance Bob Twenty-Seven lay in a deep slumber. His polished cinnamon leather saints, size number 9, pointed up towards the wispy clouds. Half of his body sprawled out across the warm honey-and-mustard-colored pavers, the same paver path Emma walked on her short travels to work every day. His brown suede jacket lay uncharacteristically open, revealing the white underside of his coat pockets. How strange, she thought, in all the years she had known Bob, she was sure he would never leave his dwelling pod without his morning coat buttoned and fashioned properly. In fact, she knew he was quite particular when it came to that. A light tap clicked at the toe of her black Mary Janes. Looking down, a realization dawned on her. The thread had been severed; his button must have worn away at its binding strings and simply fallen off. It all began to make much more sense. The stylish and sharp-dressed credit delivery man's recent attire mishap could all be explained so easily now. That's it: Bob Twenty-seven's coat was so disheveled for one simple reason. He had simply lost its button. Picking up the standard brown four-hole button, Emma moved in closer, relieved. She let out a light airy hum only she could hear; it pleased her quite a bit knowing she could realign things to normal by returning Bob's missing fastener. The clothing boutique she worked at was only a short five-minute walk from here; all her needle, thread, and seamstress tools would be there. She could fix Bob up in no time at all, Emma thought, a small smile forming on her soft, rose-colored cheeked face. When things got out of place in her life, which they rarely, if ever, did, she was always quick to correct them; it's just the way her mind was woven. But the oddest thing happened when she moved nearer to Bob's position. Now with a better sightline, a patch of tiny hairs on the back of her neck tingled undesirably, which was then followed by a sudden wide dilation in her pupils. She could feel them just as intensely as she could feel her rounding back and shoulders wound tight with tension, eerily unable to move. It was then that she had come to realize Bob Twenty-seven wasn't alone. Hunched and back turned, a man in an even more unsettling coat filled with filth and holes had a hand inside Bob Twenty-Seven's opposite coat pocket. Emma's eyes couldn't register what she was seeing. Something between the connection pairing her eyes, head, and comprehension was failing. With a slight tilt to her chin, she watched as the man rustled in Bob's pocket. Metal clanking and rattling sounded as he replaced what was in that pocket with his own. A slithering creature moved from underneath the man's rotting coat, appearing as a somewhat withered leafy brown point protruding out slowly. Revealing itself further, the strange scaled creature wavered like a large worm, continuing to slide further and further from underneath the man's coat. With an extended twitch, it flicked Bob's still slumbering face with a spitting whack. She found her eyes would not look away; actually, they could not, immense curiosity and confusion hijacked her attention. The crouched figure buried his head closer to Bob's abdomen right as a snapping crunch sound passed into her ears. Red dye or paint began to form a small puddle at their side. "Please no," she wanted to say. If the unknown man and Bob weren't careful, the red dye would stain their clothes more than they already were. Now even what she had thought was a separate creature moved again, its pointed tip and hard scales twitching and slithering in the increasingly growing pool of red dye. Emma then knew this was officially the most unsettlingly abnormal day she could ever remember. Leon Seven took a place next to her. Emma was so distracted she hadn't even heard his loud shoes clicking on the pavers as they normally did. "Well day, isn't it? Good Emma Twenty-Three." Shaking her mind from the tangle of confusion and questions, Emma found herself responding in her normal predetermined greeting pattern. "Evermore well it is, good Leon Seven." "Is that Bob Twenty-Seven? Surely he is not sleeping at this hour and place? If so, he is going to miss..." His voice cut off and wavered on the last few words as he most assuredly noticed the ragged man with some appendage-like creature atop Bob. A brief pause as the two citizens took in the unordinary scene. Then, after a moment, responding as if she knew the rest of his sentence, which she did due to the common greeting patterns, Emma replied, trying to be cordial. "That's a most excellent point, Leon Seven. I think it has something to do with this other man. Do you by chance know who he is?" Studying both Leon and the slightly larger than average scaled man, Emma noticed Leon's eyes were first drawn to the appendage sticking out from beneath his torn and mangled coat. The appendage, possibly a tail, she was starting to seriously consider, had shimmering light brown scales like those fictional reptiles but only a few shades darker than her own skin. As she followed the dark and muddy coat to the man's neck, she realized the scales also contorted around the back and side of his head but in a finer pattern. "I regret to say, good Emma Twenty-Three, I have never seen such a man. Rather strange-looking one, wouldn't you say?" It was then Bob Twenty-Seven's foot jumped and contorted with a convulsion, then fell still again as the slightly larger man pushed into his neck. More strange red dye or liquid spilled on the path and freshly mowed green grass nearby. That uneasy wet chewing sound continued. "Thawp, Thwap, Thwap. | 5,716 | 1 |
What motivated people to visit a location? Was it breathtaking and vivid natural scenery? Was it a thriving nightlife and cultural scene? Was it an innovative and unforgettable culinary experience? Or was it all of the above along with the history and character that made a place unique? The answer was none of the above. Tourists were motivated by ad campaigns. A small town could be on top of a mountain with a wonderful view of forests with trees that can only survive within a small patch of the planet, but unless the town spammed the world with obnoxious adverts, the population would prefer to go to a generic slightly tall hill to ski down. Some cities ignored the race for attention and went about their business. Others were already established and their names attracted attention. The most sorry category were the ones that needed to attract attention, but they didn’t know how. “Picture this. Frida wears a shirt that says Pacifico City and runs across the country,” Jim said. “I like that idea,” Frida smiled. “She can’t run that fast. Besides, what if she gets attacked,” Polly replied. “Don’t worry. I’m bulletproof,” Frida said. Polly stared at her for a few moments and decided not to pursue that avenue of delusions. “Either way, we need people here now. The way we do that is to get people’s attention. Otherwise, Rick will lose his hotel,” Polly said. “I don’t remember hearing him say that,” Jim replied. “He implied it,” Polly said. “Did he?” “Yes, he’s probably telling Olivia and Reid right now about how hard the economy is for small businesses,” Polly said. “So this is your beach?” Reid asked. It was covered with glass and sharp rocks. The sun seemed to shine brighter on that particular patch of sand, and the heat reflected off of it reached Reid’s face and made him sweat. The only other living creature there was a mutant alligator with eight legs. He looked at the humans wanting to take a bite, but he remained in place. He was used to the rat-fish hybrids that left the ocean and in their confusion ran into his mouth. “Go for a swim. High tide is whenever. I think there’s a ghost in the ocean. People keeping returning with stab wounds,” Rick said. “Are you sure they aren’t teeth marks from the giant alligator?” Olivia pointed at the creature. “Stab wounds, teeth marks, it makes no difference to the dead man,” Reid said. Olivia tilted her head in mild amusement at the apathetic man’s wisdom. “This would provide a terrible experience to guests. We must make it better,” Reid said. “Okay, sounds good.” Rick walked away. “Tell me when you do that. “You are staying here.” Olivia grabbed his arm. “If I have to put up with Reid, so do you.” “Whatever.” Rick turned around and watched. “First, we have to clean it up,” Reid said. Olivia scanned the ground and found a plastic bag. She picked it up and handed it to Reid. He looked down at it. “Uh, I meant that you two would do that.” “I’m not doing grunt work, and good luck getting him to do that.” Olivia gestured over her shoulder to Rick. “New plan. We create an immersive experience out of the beach.” Rick snapped his fingers. “What if we create a scavenger hunt. Anything of value that they find they keep.” “And I can steal anything that I like right?” Olivia asked. “Yeah, sure.” Reid turned back to the alligator. “And we make a giant golf course here with him being the final hole.” “That seems cruel,” Rick said. Olivia and Reid looked at Rick. Both were shocked that this was the moment he chose to express his opinion. He shrugged. “That gator has been there for fifty years. He’s an institution.” “Did you ever name him?” Reid asked. “No, but I am assuming someone did,” Rick said. “Would having the final be shot up his tail be more respectful?” Reid asked. “Yeah, that’s fine,” Rick said. Reid moved his attention to beyond the beach. He looked at an abandoned shack next door. “That’ll be the bar where we’ll have our signature cocktail.” Reid rubbed his chin. “We’ll call it Ocean Bliss.” “It’s been so long since I had a cocktail. It better be good,” Olivia said. “Don’t bother. It’ll just be saltwater from the ocean mixed with any alcohol we can find,” Reid said. Olivia looked down in shame. Reid ignored her and looked at another spot. The building had collapsed years ago. All that remained was the remains of the foundation and a large tree that was destroying the concrete. “We can hang bits of glass on the branches, shine a light, and make a night club.” Reid turned around. “And that can be the concession stand. We’ll serve the rat-mouse hybrids and call it meatloaf. And there’s where we’ll offer boat rides and make customers bring their own boats. Yes, this’ll be magnificent.” “That’s fine dear. You realize that you’ll have to do most of the work. I’m not made for busy work,” Olivia said. Reid’s smile broke when he realized who he brought with him. “Yeah, I know.” He dramatically scaled back his plans. “How are you going to let people know we’re here?” Rick asked. “I don’t know. That’s Polly’s job,” Reid said. “She’ll fail,” Olivia said. “She’s whiny and annoying like an advertisement. Why wouldn't she succeed?” Reid asked. “I have an idea,” Jim smiled. “What is it?” Polly shook her head preemptively. “What if we break into a military base and use their radio to advertise it,” Jim said. “That’s not so bad.” Polly looked over at Frida. “And we have a bulletproof human shield if we need it.” Frida smiled at the thought of being useful. | 5,756 | 1 |
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