Zombie Panic

Dead so long. Day too bright. Wait for night. Night is better. Find human kill human. Was once human too. Died. Something bit me, now I bit somethings. Had a wife once. Ate her husband as well. Heard a noise. Someone checks it out. Loud noise. Someone not come back. More someones check it out. More loud noises. Happy I’m not someone. Nobody returns. Now I’m someone. We go. They have light. I hate light. They have guns. I prefer light. We move slowly. Ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. They kill one of us. We keep moving slowly. Very ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us are killed. We move slowly. The best and oldest zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us die. The one with the gun is reloading. I bite him. I then bit the others. Only one left standing. Ancient zombie strategy always works, even if we die. Living things always die too. May take forty years, they die too. Zombies always win.

More sound. More people. I go first. Get shot. Fall down. See more come. They get shot. We still not dead. We never really dead. More come. We fall. No one dead. More of us are shot. See Frank come. Frank got shot. Not first time. Frank missing an arm. Not armless Frank. Frank ate many. Frank bit me. I like Frank. Frank not lucky tonight. Frank got shot again, missing other arm. He falls. We look at each other because we can’t move. Frank missing two arms. I miss my two legs. We wait. They not fall. They will though. They bring big bag, nice present. A clock. It ticks. They leave. The clock ticks. It is attached to a bomb. We’re gonna stop being. It changes nothing. There is an explosion. Everything white. I hate light.

[Sorry about the size, I'm kinda swamped right now. I figured a short story would be better than none.]

Awake

The road slowly curves to the left, revealing yet another corn field. The moon is low on the horizon, I’m heading west, like so many others before. If I look back, I can see the first glimpse of a sunrise. I have been driving since before the last sunset. Yesterday seems so distant now. I can’t sleep, not that I don’t want to, nor that my body does not want to sleep, my heart just wants to head west more.

My eyes are heavy, the road just a long stretch of darkness. I can’t see stars in the sky anymore. However last night I was the one shooting through the darkness, trying to fulfill a wish. How many miles to go? How much distance have I covered? I’m still driving, it wasn’t far enough. The curve has ended and I am back on a long stretch of straight road. I see the signs of a town in the distance, I don’t know its name, I just know it isn’t the right one. So I will drive past it, just like many others. The people sleeping peacefully will never know of my mission.

My gas tank is halfway empty. It will have to last me a while. I’m almost there; soon I will be able to rest. But for now I drive. Because I must, because I can, because if I wasn’t, I would still not be able to sleep. I don’t know if I’ll make it in time, but I can’t stop. If I stop, all of this will have been in vain. I see another city in the distance, the right one, the wrong one? I don’t know anymore, I’m driving, that is all I can know anymore.

The road curves again, I don’t see it at first, but I eventually notice it. The shock wakes me up completely. I will be okay for another hour or so, then, I’ll be able to stop. The city that was in the distance is now a thing of the past. I must keep driving, I can’t sleep. I have to drive. I can’t…

[This one was basically going through the motions. Sorry, life is getting in the way of my writing.]

Partners

I watched you grow up, you know that right? Even as you were starting to crawl, I was there on the floor with you. We’ve shared a bed, shared drinks, shared our lives. For me to feel this right now is incredible. And all the pride that this moment is giving me is barely being overshadowed by the abject terror my future without you evokes. Because when I look back, you are all I know.

Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.

And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?

I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.

I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.

I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.

I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.

I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.

[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]

Monday Morning

Monday morning. Wake up at 6:30, get up at 7. The sun is still hidden behind the trees next door. The morning is cold, I feel tired. After an unsatisfactory breakfast, I walk to the bathroom. I undress, and after taking a piss, I shower. The water is cold, again. After a yawn that seems to never want to end, I leave the shower, freeze myself while I dry off, and try not to butcher my face as I shave. I start getting dressed soon after. I start the car remotely, finish putting clothes on, grab some food in the fridge, and then I leave. There’s no snow on the car, it’s a blessing. I get in, it’s still cold but I’ll have to endure. I back out of the driveway, and slowly make my way to work. After stops and traffic lights, I make it to the parking lot. I park in a space I have been using for about three months now. It is not reserved, but the routine makes it mine. I go in, punch in, go up, boot up, doze off. The next four hours are filled with nothing, a big empty coma filled with moments of fading happiness as I talk with a co-worker. I eat lunch, and pretend to be alive and care for the next few hours. I leave, go back to my car, and head to the grocery store. I need food to live. I drive back home, make myself something to eat, turn on the TV, wrap up the leftovers, sit down, and lose myself in brain-dead hobbies. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am alive, and then I sleep.

Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.

Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.

Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.

Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.


[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]

The Guests

It all started on the day the school bus broke down in front of the house. They were too far from the school and the city to find a way to make it there, and most of these kids lived miles away and could not reach their parents. So they all needed a place to stay warm in this December morning. Five kids stranded in the middle of nowhere with a bus driver angry at a busted transmission. And that is when they noticed the house. It was quite none-descript, white walls, black rooftop, two floors, and not a trace of kids anywhere. Elaine and Gregory, as much as they had tried, were not blessed with children. So when the bus broke down, and the kids were cold, their house finally filled up with the voices and cheers that Elaine had wished to give to this world.

The kids tried calling their parents, but sadly they were not available, and so Elaine did something she always wished to do, take care of kids. Sure they were not infants, and they were quite okay on their own, but for once, Elaine could let her maternal instincts run wild. Gregory enjoyed this side of his wife. They had been married some 15 years, and he had always felt that it was his fault his wife could not get pregnant. She had seen many doctors, and she assured him she was quite fertile. He did not trust one of them down there in his case. She was fertile, he wasn’t, that seemed logical.

And so the kids decided to go outside to play, apparently they would be here until after diner, since there had been some issues with the tow trucks. Apparently there had been this horrible accident in town, and the kids would have to wait for a while. Elaine decided to go outside and watch them play in the snow. They did not need an adult to watch over them, but she seemed so nice, so friendly, that they even invited her to play. That house must have felt lonely without kids to liven things up. And once everyone was tired and cold, she invited the kids inside and whipped up some hot cocoa with whipped cream. She was wonderful. The older kids started wishing she could have kids; she seemed so great and would love to be friends with her children.

Eventually, the kids went back home, and Elaine would be left alone with her husband. And they would once again make love, and Elaine, once more, would have to go back to the big city to get yet another abortion if she happened to get pregnant. She loved her husband, and she loved kids, but she would never let herself be split in two by giving birth.


[So, quick and dirty, nothing special about it.]

Chronicles from the Battlefield

In the quiet suburbs, a tragedy was happening, yet no one was noticing it. Everything seemed peaceful; the dew was glistening in the July sunrise. Among this row of white and pink brick houses with family sedans in the driveway, two in particular did not stand out to anyone but the owners. These houses were quite similar to the casual observer. A shiny black driveway, a somewhat recent minivan and an older sedan in the driveway, massive oak trees adorning the front lawn, a pool in the backyard (20 feet wide at 72 Maple drive, 21 feet at 74 Maple drive), a small hot tub on the patio (5-place at 74 Maple drive, 7-place at 72 Maple drive), and freshly mowed lawn with newly purchased riding lawnmowers.

Fred Johnson, owner of the 72 Maple drive was fuming. He knew Henry Davies was taunting him. Why the hell would he purchase a cottage at the nearby lake? He did not swim, his kids looked horrible in swimsuits, and his wife was not that much a looker either. It was obvious that the only reason the cottage was bought was to show him up. He had to buy the one next to his, the one Fred had looked at first and was not able to purchase. But that would not be the end of it. Oh no, it would not be.

With the money saved by purchasing the smaller cottage, he would purchase a boat. He knew his neighbour was out today to put a down payment on a small 19 feet boat. He knew that thanks to his son who was dating Henry’s daughter. So Henry was calling a boat store, he had seen this brand new 25 feet boat, a real beauty. So the family vacation to Mexico would have to wait another three or four years, he would not be beaten by his neighbour.

Heartbeat

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Windows everywhere let out beams of light, colouring the white snow with the yellow embrace of technology. It contrasted with the blue colour that filled the sky under the full moon. All was quiet except for the sounds of passing buses. Downtown, they motion was constant, and the noise was the heartbeat of the city. They started from this central point, and distributed people along arteries to the extremities of the isolated community. In this valley, there were fields, and the city. All was quiet, with the exception of the buses, and of the trendy bars that grew along the main streets. With their rhythmic thumping, and tribal sounds, to a casual observer, some primitive ritual might have been going on between the walls. In a sense, the mating habits of mankind were both ritualistic and primitive.

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Above this quiet noise, there was a window revealing a silhouette in the light. Looking down upon all the people celebrating life, the girl was looking down. Tonight, they all were happy in that bar downstairs. But the noise only stirred a sad melancholy from the moment it started. All was quiet in the city, but a storm had risen in her heart. He was somewhere down there, she could feel it. Ever since that moment when she felt his soul enter her, she could always tell where he was. They had met about this time last year. A chance encounter, they were both waiting for the same bus. He had missed the previous one, she felt like being early. And as they waited, they started talking. A few days later, they realized that their lives orbited around one another, but that they had never crossed paths. Like the moon and the earth, they were part of the same system, but until that one morning, they had not collided.

Snow was falling on a city that only deceptively looked like it was sleeping. The buses were carting people around town, running like a clock, never stopping to ponder about each motion. And in the bars along the main streets there was a man. His mind was focussed, he was thinking about his own heart beating along side another person. He did not care who, so this club was the perfect place. Days ago, he would have thought this was a mistake, but now he no longer had any responsibility. What happened wasn’t his fault. He was sure of that. And so tonight, he was looking at the girls around. Some of them were not worth the attention, but some were well worth him buying them drinks. He was free. If she had not decided to visit him out of the blue, things would have been different. She could have missed that bus, but the driver apparently waited for her. An hour, what a difference it would have made. When she walked into his bedroom, an hour would have changed the world. She could believe he was taking a nap up until she saw he was not alone in bed. If she would have missed her bus, he would not be free, and she would not be betrayed. But that didn’t matter. With the purchase of a drink, one or two niceties exchanged over the loud music, and the promise of a good time, he would not sleep alone tonight. Why was he still thinking about her, everything was her fault anyway? She should have called, she should have missed her bus, the driver should not have waited. He was still talking about her when he was making empty promises to that girl with no name that would have to walk out of his life as soon as she had served her purpose.

Snow was no longer falling on the city that was falling asleep. All was quiet. Light filtered out of some windows. Like a starry sky filled with bricks. He was coming out of the club, with this fake blond girl hanging on to his arm, because the world was spinning too fast, because she spun too slowly. He was walking with her along known streets. In the last year he had walked these streets with someone else on his arm. Now everything seemed different. But he forced himself to think everything stayed the same. So he walked these street he had learned on different times. Why did he have to park his car where he used to. If that car had not been broken, a year ago, everything would be much simpler. He would not have this oppressing feeling in his stomach, he would not feel like throwing up just remembering that moment when she walked in his room where her heart was shattered. It was her fault. The nuisance hanging on his arm made a noise, and then a motion. She was pointing to a window that lacked any significance for her, but had one time meant the world for him. Why did he have to park within sight of her window? The fake blond insisted. He raised his eyes to the window he had shut out of his heart, only to see the silhouette of his former angel flying, her feet no longer touching the ground. Suspended in midair not by the wings she deserved, but by a noose around her neck.

[Valentine's Day special... or not. I was lacking ideas tonight, so I went for a "comfort zone." While I am happy with the result, it almost feels like a step back. But then again, who am I to judge the stories I write? Oh, and please don't try to find deeper meaning, this is just a story.]

The Race

He had to run, run away fast. Turn left at the next street. They were coming, he could hear them barking. The moon was high, the streets were dark, and they were empty. Midnight. He surprised himself wishing he could be caught. Running, running for so long, it had tired him. But he also had no time to think about stopping. An opening on the left, he turned, slipping on the wet cement. In the dark, he noticed the problem too late. It was a dead end. But he did not want to end up dead, so he improvised. He spotted a dumpster, climbed on it, and jumped up to a nearby fire escape. He had seen it in so many movies. He kept going higher and higher, up to the roof. He was safe from the dogs; however the slow beating sound of a helicopter reminded him that the dogs were the least of his worries. He was not spotted so for now he could still run. Luckily, this neighbourhood was built with most building being within one floor of each other. He started running towards the edge of the building, hopped over the brick divider and landed on the next building. As he ran, he realized he had turned around and started going back on his steps. No time for panicking. He jumped to the next building, down one floor. Something cracked. It wasn’t time to think about a possibly broken bone. He stood up and ran. Pain assaulted him. And after the pain, a spotlight found him. The helicopter was over him. He had to get in, go somewhere safe. He turned around, started running towards a door that led in the building. He slipped. Blood. His blood. He got up again; he had to reach the door. It was locked. His hand slipped on the doorknob. They were coming. A step back. He tried to break the door. His shoulder cracked, but so did the wood. Another attempt. His shoulder was now dislocated but the door was open. He started running down the stairs. He slipped again, and tumbled down a flight of stair. Breathing was painful. He probably had a broken rib. He got up. His head was spinning. He fell down again. Not enough blood, not enough time. He crawled to the nearest door. His hand was on the doorknob. He could not turn it. It was over.

[Very short story today, but I would like to think I was not being lazy, but rather that the action sequence was over and all I wanted to do was an action sequence. And that was it.]

The Street

The neon lights were humming, and the street was slowly filling with people again. It was not the same crowd that had filled the sidewalks under a sun that had to dart between buildings and plough through smog to reach the ground. The street was shining under the neon signs, remnants of an evening shower. The stars were shining but no one could see them, it was all about the artificial light illuminating real life. This contrasted with the natural light that shone on the fake life that everyone had. Tonight, the neon lights were a beacon to all those looking for something more, something new, something different. Or maybe just something to do. At the same time the neon lights started humming, music poured out of the nightclubs and into the street. Ulysses himself would find it hard to resist the allure of these songs, especially after spending an entire day in an office building.

A man dressed in black and green seemed to agree with that sentiment. He was unconsciously moving towards a place with a red and blue sign, a name promising a good time, and a line up ensuring that he would not be alone to enjoy himself. His day had been spent entering numbers in a spreadsheet. Meaningless numbers for most. He was aware however that the numbers he was crunching were a payroll. He was also dreadfully aware that the numbers were getting smaller. But he could not think about these things, if he did, he could not live with himself. And so he walked, ready to spend a pay check he knew had been gained by removing salaries from recently laid off employees. The promise of an enjoyable evening was much more important to him right now.

A young girl wearing a black skirt, red shirt, and a friend on her arm was also looking for an enjoyable evening. She had cause to celebrate; she finally received her grades for the previous semester. She wasn’t the best, but it did not matter, she passed. Her mother was proud; her little girl was one step closer to being a nurse. But now all of that did not matter tonight. Both her and her friend had lost their boyfriends in the last few months, and because of the pressure they were under, they had not been able to fill the hole they left in their lives. Although her friend seemed eager to meet someone and get in a relationship again, she was happy to be single. She could wear short sleeves and not risk one of her bruises showing. No one had to know, and she knew what to avoid in a guy now, but she would not mind a year or two for the wounds of her heart to heal. They both spotted a group of friends waiting for them close to a bar filled with loud metallic music. She smiled and realised that it was a brand new day.

“And sometimes you need a brand new start,” said a thirty-year-old woman to a nearby friend. They both understood what was meant by these words. They shared an understanding look and went back to their profession. No, they did not dream of doing that, and they did not think they would be standing on the street corner trying to entice people with their bodies. They could not call it an honest living, but they felt they were in control. They were friends out of necessity, and they were professionals for the same reason. She had lost most of her possessions thanks to a fire and a lack on insurance, and her friend had all of her money stolen by greedy parents. They would make some money fast, move in together and get real job. This was a temporary setback, but it wasn’t setting them back much. People had money to spend, and they were profiting from it.

And if money was to be spent, this man in his mid-life crisis would be one to spend it. His wife had left him for a yoga instructor. The poor sucker didn’t know what he got. He was single, loaded, and drunk, a promising combination under the neon lights. He was king of the bars tonight, and he was moving towards a popular strip club. His wife had always prevented him from going to these places, but tonight he would mingle with hockey players, other businessmen, and a seemingly endless supply of woman-skin.

As the rest of the neon lights lit up, the street seemed to be filled with a new energy. No one thought of recession, divorce, despair, and loneliness. This was the real world, a world of hope, light, and fun; everything they were denied during the daytime.

[So I realize a couple of things: 1 most of my stories tend to be downers, 2 most of my stories are not about action, 3 it isn't quit as easy to label all my stories in a specific way. So I'm gonna try to improve the first two points in my ext few stories, as for the third one, I hope it gets even harder to label my stories, because if it gets easier, it might be that I have fallen in a routine.]

The Moment

“There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls,” he thought, “that’s what my father always said. Come to think of it, if I just talked to him right now, he would probably say the same thing.” He was looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach was tied in a knot, his ears were ringing, and he felt sweaty. He seemingly could not find the courage to leave the washroom and change his life forever. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the wedding bells ringing. Destiny is funny like that. He felt he was a few steps away from the altar. He could see it. The priest clearing his throat, getting ready for a ceremony he had done hundreds of time. His family smiling at the fact that he would finally settle down; his mother already mentally naming the grandchildren. And on the other side of the church, the father-in-law who accepted him reluctantly at first, but got over it after he helped with the renovations in the living room. The brother-in-law who looked at him as a big brother, poor kid, he was a lot younger than his sister, and he had been surrounded by girls all his life.

A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.

Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.

Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.

In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”

[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]

Lunarity

Here we go again, the moon is rising. I am trapped twenty-five days out of the lunar month. It’s a rather annoying process, to look at the world and not be able to act on it. Most people cannot comprehend how it works. They see us as savage beasts, but if anyone was imprisoned unfairly for most of the time, with only three nights of freedom for twenty-five nights and twenty-eight days of seeing but not doing, they would go insane. And so, as the moon rises and the other one goes to sleep, I am given my freedom. That feeling, the skin so naked, it disturbs me: I much prefer the body once the change is over. The fur, the claws, the fangs, these are my tools: these are parts of my identity. And so I howl. We always howl to the moon. We celebrate our newly given freedom. We celebrate it by a hunt.

The pack assembles. We have a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t matter. We are on a mission. We need to find preys, and we need to find replacements. Every month on of us disappears, falling victim to belladonna, or some silver object. One word of warning, we are not the romanticised versions of ourselves portrayed in the media. There is nothing romantic about the primal instincts we have so little time to satisfy. As I think these words of warning to anyone who might get a chance to perceive them, I pick up a scent. It smells of strawberry and sweat. Must be a couple. They might even have a kid. Families are good food. Yes, we eat people. Get that through your thick skulls. Stupid goth kids who want to be “children of the night.” We eat them as well. Emaciated little fuckers, they got no good meat on them.

What did you expect? The kind animal trying to control itself? Face it, I love doing this. In fact, at this instant, my claws are turning a child into an orphan. Soon, my fangs will turn him to food. We are intelligent, socialized, and civilized beings. We hunt as a group, we have friendships, and some of us even fall in love. All of this is between us, you are simply food. This is what we do to you. Your warm blood, hot entrails, and slimy guts are what we desire. We are the predators that make you our prey. And sometimes, one of you is left alive. We picked that person; we want them to join us in the feast of blood. But it is never the one who wishes to join us. These idiots always get killed fast. We go for the ones you don’t expect. Who are you, people who only know us through legends and idiotic stories, to decide what is best for us?

And when the moon sets, when the other one wants to come back out, we know what to do. We are smarter than your stories say. And by the time the hunt is over, we are back in the bedrooms, back in the prisons of flesh, and hidden from all accusing eyes. Hidden in the middle of the scared population. It’s the best place to hide. Tomorrow night, I will come out again. I will hunt again. I have been doing this for years now. We have been doing this for ages. And we are not about to stop. And you will be our preys.

Finally, keep in mind this little fact: those of you who try to befriend us while we are hunting, we devour. Those of you who try to run away, we devour. And those of you who think they know what the hell we are about, we devour. So you can only pray that we are not real, that we are nothing like what you fear and that we are the neutered dogs you wish us to be. Because if we are not; then you are simply a meal that has yet to be eaten.

[A bit shorter than what I usually shoot for, and it didn't pan out the way I expected. I seem to always have this weird tone setting in, and I think I'll have to try and move away from that. Still, this was a bit of an experiment as well, and the first person narration and complete avoidance of the actual action happening was somewhat of a change, I think. And well, even if I am not sure about this, there is the chance that readers will like it. I just think I should have gone with something else than a werewolf, it's a bit of a cliché.]

15 minutes

Once his boots are on, and he is all dressed up, the boy wishes his mother a good day, opens the door, and leaves the house. The wind is cold, Halloween is around the corner, and the sun’s light holds no warmth. The kid goes down the stairs, looks left and right and then crosses the street. He crossed without hesitation; there were no cars on the street as usual. He then turned left. It was a longer way to school, but he had a chance to see her, so this was the way he chose. He walked in front of apartment buildings identical to his own; the whole street was filled with them. He was about to walk in front of her house, if he was lucky she might walk with him to school.

Today was like most days though, she would not walk with him. Her building was the only one with gray bricks instead of red. That is how he remembered where she lived. And so he turned right on the next street. The next street was short; it led to a small park. Since there was no snow, he could still cut across the park to save some of the time he lost trying to see her. The trees were bright orange, soon the leaves would fall. The park would eventually fill up with snow, and it would make the shortcut unusable. Reaching the fence, he took off his backpack, pushed it in the hole under the fence, and then crawled under himself. Since it had not rained on the week end, he could crawl without getting too dirty. Otherwise he would have climbed over the fence.

Now came the hard part, he had to run across the old man’s yard. Stories shared across the schoolyard mention a 6th grader who wasn’t fast enough. The old man caught him and when he finally made it to school; he could not sit down due to the spanking he had received. This is why you ran. That and the big dog tied to a flimsy rope. And so the boy ran while being barked at by the biggest dog he had ever seen. After he had gotten through the yard, he turned right unto a larger street. Now there were cars passing by. There was also a sidewalk, so he felt safe even if there were cars. He walked up to the crossing guard. The old man looked impatient, and tired. Why would someone who hates children become a crossing guard anyway? After waiting what seemed like an eternity, the old man finally decided to walk in the street and stop the cars so the kid could cross.

And so he was that much closer to the school. He saw a car turn on the street he was on. With a glance he saw that the girl’s father had decided to drop her off at school today. Maybe if he was lucky, he could play with her by the swings. He could see the school now; it was far off in the distance. Soon he would be there. He looked to his right and he was glad he did, there were bullies coming from a side street. He decided to play it safe and turn left. He would go through a friend’s backyard and avoid being seen by the bullies. He didn’t think they were mean, but he was convinced they were idiots. No one was at his friend’s place, his parents were at work and he probably was chasing people around in the schoolyard with whatever slimy thing he found.

The boy finally reached the street that would take him to the school. School buses passed by and he could hear people play around the schoolyard. He wonders about his first class. It’s going to be a math class, he hated numbers; they did not make sense. Adding and subtracting were easy concepts, but multiplying and dividing made no sense. It didn’t matter though, because after the math class, he would have physical education. An excuse to run around was always welcome. Then he would eat the lunch his mother made this morning. In the afternoon, he would learn about geography and music. Then he would go home. This day seemed promising. He crossed the street, walked in the schoolyard, and was greeted by his friends. It was a day like any other.

[No comments really, we all walked to school once, right?]

Cotton Candy

I see you, at first from the corner of my eye. You are walking, focussed on your thoughts. The people around you don’t seem to exist, you simply walk. You come fully in my field of vision simply because by virtue of public transportation, you end up sitting in front of me. And while moving my leg is the only outward sign of my acknowledging your existence, from the moment you sat down, you captivated me. It is a very silly thing to say about a stranger, but it is not unique to you, strangers fascinate me. It might be that young couple who can’t help but show the world their affection, or that person over there reading a book that has seen better days. Strangers are the most fascinating people there is, because strangers are the only people whom you cannot know anything about.

And so you sat down, and from that point on, you were real. You no longer were a possibility, you became a real person. The world is filled with these possible people. About seven billion of them. They exist but you can’t know anything about them. You know they are there because you are told they exist. The city is filled with people like that. You see them driving, you see them live, but they are not real. That is the line you crossed by sitting in front of me that day. I had no choice but to see you as a real person, and a piece of me hopes that you saw me as real. I have so many questions for you. However, I cannot ask them. It would be rude, it would be impolite, it would seem odd. Even these words are strange, because this is what I was thinking, when I saw you, when you sat down. You started existing and then you stopped. I know you are out there, and I don’t want to seem creepy or strange by writing this, I just want to ask you one question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

It is the food of carnivals, of celebrations. It is the treat that puts a smile on any children’s face. Grown men and women smile at the idea of eating cotton candy. When I was a kid, I remember begging for it, and I remember the sweet taste of victory as my parents decided to buy it. Cotton candy would only come once a year. Its taste would have to survive in my memory for twelve long months until I could eat some again. The first time I had cotton candy was during the day, a sign of how old I was. We had been petting farm animals that seemed so strange and alien to me, when we walked in front of one of these cotton candy booths. It was so strange, blue and red, and so impossibly cloudlike. I had to taste it. Again the following year, the taste, the texture, all of that had gained a hazy dream-like quality, and so I had to taste it again. The years passed, and one day I stopped begging. I had my own money, it was later in the day, and I decided to buy some. It was that day I learned that some rides don’t mix with food. But cotton candy never lost its charm. And one year I was not with my parents, and I still bought cotton candy. Still as sweet as the first time.

One day, I stopped going to the fair. But that year, I simply bought cotton candy. To skip a year would have seemed impossible. But as I explore my memories, I realize that it happened more than once. Cotton candy seems irreversibly locked in my childhood. It is made of sugar and memories. This leads me back to my question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

I was fascinated by your eyes, after you sat down, after you became real. The blue color seemed so odd that I was wondering if I was not seeing them as blue because you were blue. To see your lips part to accept the cotton candy and to not have them turn into a smile seemed unnatural. Just seeing cotton candy almost made me smile. But to smile at something that you seemed to eat in pure sadness would have been wrong. And when I realised that I was paying you this much attention, I was worried. Worried that you would notice, worried that I would seem creepy. Behind your sad eyes, I hoped to see the hint of a smile, as you tasted that soft and sweet treat, but that won’t happen. And now I am left to wonder what happened to make you sad as you eat cotton candy.

[This story almost made me add a "stalker" label. It seemed so odd to write about a stranger, but when I started thinking about it, I knew I had to write it. This happened on the bus on the way home. I will not share the details, but this is the questioning that I had, when I saw this complete stranger eat cotton candy without smiling. I think I am also trying to write about anything, and this experience allowed me to try some new tone that I don't think I have used at this point in my career. What also helps with the writing of this "story" is the fact that I know the person it is about will never read it.]

The Steel

The steel met with a deafening sound. Sparks flew around the two men. This was the moment they had been both expecting. The swords grinded against one another, producing a hissing sound, a primal growl. They both stepped back, and as of one body, they both flexed their arms, sending their weapons on a collision course. Sparks flew once more; the sun was setting and the sudden brightness of the impact was soon becoming the only light. Elsewhere on the darkening field, others were also paired up. The impacts caused eruptions of light all over the plains as the two armies met under a setting sun. When sparks did not fly, blood gushed out of the newly formed openings on the soldiers bodies. All of this did not matter for the pair dancing the deadly dance. Their synchronism was perfect, steel meeting steel, and bodies moving so that only the air was sliced.

They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.

This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.

That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.

The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.


[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]

The River

The ice melts away as the drops fall into the purest of puddles, lodged atop a mountain, hidden behind the ice. It starts small, one drop at a time. Crystalline drops of water meeting with their peers, congregating, regrouping, and slowly changing. When the sun goes down, the water freezes again. And when the sun is out, the water thaws, and moves inches towards the bottom of the mountain. Slowly, every day patiently moving. And every night, being stilled by the coldness of the night. Inch by inch, day by day, the water moves to a bigger puddle, this one cannot be completely frozen at night, the crystalline roof imprisoning the free water until morning. But then, one day, when the roof is broken, the water is unbound, and cannot be stopped again. And so it rushes, no longer moving an inch at a time. Feet, yards, no distance is too long for this day; the water is freed from puddles and can finally reach a pure lake. The lake is a new sort of prison. Free to move and yet trapped within, the water waits, one day it will go over the edge, and flow towards the nearest valley.

Years have passed since the millennial ice thawed and the newborn drop fell for the first time. The water has been in the lake for a while now. From the depths to the surface, it has now been allowed to move out of the lake, and over the waterfalls. For so long, it has been hidden from the view of everyone, but now it would be free. And it rushed towards the first plateau. A city was found there, and the water met the first bridges. But the city was not large and the water went through in a matter of minutes. And it started another descent, towards another plateau. And as all did, the water grabbed pieces of the mountain, moving down with it. Slowly digging, so that its brothers would have an easier time following the same road. The water that became a river now flowed to the next plateau, and then the next waterfall. Something was different now, the river felt warmer. And for the first time, at the next lake, it felt the touch of children swimming. The river was finally inhabited by more than tiny fish; it was visited by humans, and animals.

And now the river discovered the first large city. And the river was turned back into water by the large pump. Flowing through pipes, filters, and them more pipes, the water found itself in a machine, it became boiling. It then was freed, met another human body, and then found a new set of pipes. Flowing through dark and gloomy tunnels filled with a horrible stench of rejection, the water was filtered, treated, and changed again before it became a river anew. It was changed, and felt different. Tainted by the use of these horrible humans the river was permanently changed. Gone was the crystalline purity, now the grey feeling would accompany the river. The next city came, and so again the river was filtered, changed, used, soiled and rejected.

The river needed to get away from all this. It was no longer a playground; it was a tool, a chemical component to human filth. From pure ice to brown ooze, the water flowed through algae infested lakes, and smelly rivers. It met with other rivers, also mistreated, also tortured. And they united, into a bigger river. One that was used by horrible metal boats that destroyed whatever remnants of purity it had. The proud river had been dirtied, sullied, and trampled. Beaten, it slowly flowed outward, expecting another pump, another filter, another kind of dirt. Instead what came was a song. The song of a sad giant that heard the pleas of the water that became a river and that now changed into an ocean. And with the peaceful lullaby of the ocean giants, the water rested. It travelled around the world, saw that water everywhere had the same life, until it was picked up by the sun, raised into the heavens and placed back atop a mountain. At peace again, it would rest for ages, until it melted again. Maybe by then it would be a playground all the way, and not mutilated by the people it tried to please.


[Ok this one was a bit harder to come up with, no big comments or questions about it, I'm also starting to think no one reads this anymore, but I don't mind. Hope you all liked it.]

Daydreaming at Night

The curtains pulled back, revealing the sensual shape hidden behind the emerald coloured dress. The high heels, jet black, matched the gloves the singer wore. Her voice, like an angel’s, rose over the noise of the eager crowd. Her pale skinned legs seemed to leap out of her dress as she walked, pushing out stronger yet still very sensual sounds. The lyrics would have made anyone blush, but she was in control. Her bright green eyes looking at everyone in the crowd, yet no one believed these eyes could be looking at them. Her bright red hair seemed to fade into the red backdrop of the stage. Maybe the backdrop should be black. But then her shoes and glove would look odd. Tonight the backdrop wasn’t an issue since the singer was blond, and she wore a black dress and white gloves.

“Hey, you coming with our beers?” yelled a patron. Jessica snapped back to reality. She wasn’t on stage tonight; she was waitressing in the cabaret. Her life was not one of glamour; instead, she had to bring booze to people who should not be drinking anymore while they gazed at the singer on stage. Take orders, go to the bar, ask for whatever poison was ordered, lean over just enough to get the owner to smile, walk back to the table, lean over while giving the drinks to ensure better tips, repeat ad nauseam until quitting time, and then go home and take a shower because even if no one touched you, you still feel dirty. That was Jessica’s life right now. And there was nothing she wished more to see happen than to walk on stage at the “Cabaret Francaise” in that horrible town she grew up in. She knew enough French to know that even before you walked in the cabaret, there was something wrong with the place.

She always wanted to be a singer, and while her parents paid for singing lessons, no agent ever noticed her. She was patient though, and although the best stages on Broadway had been replaced by ambitions of being a Cabaret singer, she did not feel bad about it in any way. This cabaret job, walking on stage, it would be what would give her enough money to produce more demo tapes, and to send them to agents and producers all around the country. All she had to do was to endure the eyes that were grabbing at every part of her body and then she would be able to make it to Broadway. Her voice would draw thousands of fans that could appreciate music, and would not just sit, hoping that by some divine intervention her dress would fall off. On stage, she could also avoid having her body abused by hands instead of eyes.

One more table, one more drunk. Lean down, get the tip. Turn around and walk away fast enough that her body is untouched. “You can’t complain about that,” said Frank, as he looked at her breasts instead of her eyes the first night it happened, “it’s bad for business if you throw out the customers that feel you up. Just try not to tempt them too much by leaving your ass next to their tables for too long.” Frank was behind the bar, but he could as well have been a patron. And so she moved faster now, avoiding the hands, but pleasing the eyes.

And now the night was over, and after she gave half her tips to Frank, she got changed, no sense looking like that on the bus, and she got home to her small apartment. Life went on. Maybe next day she would be the one to walk on stage, maybe Nancy, the regular singer, would have a small accident or inconvenience. Then she could walk on stage and show her talent. And then life would be better. But for now, all she truly wanted was a hot shower to wash away all the dirt she felt on her skin. To wash away what seemed like the remnants of a dream slowly dying. Maybe tomorrow, she would get her break, she was 21. She had her whole life ahead of her. And someday, all of these perverts would say while watching her in a concert: “I know that chick, she used to bring me beer, she had the nicest rack.” There was only one thing these animals saw; even in Jessica’s dreams.


[Today, the ambition of my 2 story a week schedule hit me full force. That doesn't mean I won't do it though, I love ambitious projects. It also means that like today, I will have to go in new directions with my stories. Which is good, one should not stay in a comfort zone for too long. I'm gonna go in various directions and will try my hand at more than just shock and surprise stories. A twist ending is only good if you don't always expect the stories to include one.]

The Chorus

The night was oppressing, the shadows long, and the light orange. The alley was poorly lit, it smelled of urine, and vomit puddles fed rats that filled the darkest corners of the alley with an inhuman stench. He was waiting, the time would be right soon. He knew she would walk this way, she always walked this way, always came back to her place two corners away, so he was waiting, waiting, waiting. She had to come, the always came this way, he saw her. He saw her the week before, when she was doing her groceries, he knew her at that point. And he knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It was all so obvious.

You see, she was an enemy, she was a danger. He had to take care of her. He had to make sure she would not stop him. He knew everything. She was trying to stop him, she was plotting, behind these glasses, her blue eyes were filled with betrayal. She was a danger, a menace, a threat, she was gonna try to stop him. Like the man in white, the man in white and his mother, they were in league with the blue-eyed girl. They knew he had a weakness for blue-eyed girls, they knew about this because they had spied on him. But they would not get him this time, he was smarter, better, his mind was clear now. The fog was gone. That thick fog that obscured his senses, that slowed his razor sharp mind, it was gone. And that was good. Because he was a danger for all of them, they knew that.

He knew too much. He knew about their plan, and that was why they were trying to stop him. Once the fog was cleared enough, he pretended to be behind the fog. He was compliant. He let them do what they wanted, and when they said he was “under control” he made his move. He avoided all of their traps. He left his bedroom wearing the clothes in the closet, the ones without any tracking chips. He then made sure to neutralize the agent that was watching over him. The one who pretended to be his mother. He then grabbed the money that was not laced with poison, and left through the basement window, because all the doors were trapped. He was smarter than them; he knew what they wanted to do. He had to stop them. Everyone else must have taken the drugs that placed the fog in the head. The ones that did not let him think, see, or hear what he had to.

And so he walked away from the prison disguised as a suburban home. It was all a maze of streets, but without the fog, without the drugs, he knew his way around. He was guided in the right direction. Turn right, turn left, turn left, turn left, turn right, and right again, and left. He left. Left the town, took the subway, and then he started to see other people like him. Other people guided by voices. Other people that heard the chorus. The voices. The ones that guided him to that alley. Where he knew an enemy would walk. Every other day. With cigarettes in a hand, and betraying blue eyes. And so he watched her. Every other day, she walked, unaware that he was aware. He was there, watching her, because the chorus told him she was a danger to his survival. She was part of the project. They were gonna kill him.

And so he grabbed a beer bottle, and he broke it. And he waited. And waited. And she walked in the alley. He was waiting. Until. He stopped waiting, he acted. He shoved her into a brick wall. Her blue eyes were scared. She knew, she knew he knew she knew he knew he knew she knew… She would not betray him. These eyes, charming. But the broken bottle found the skin of her neck to be soft and tender. And the flesh broke. And as the chorus said, she was a robot. Her blood was not right. It was robot fluid. And she stopped functioning. The chorus was right. It always was. He had to wait for the next target, the voices would guide him. He would win. The chorus would make sure of that.


[I wasn't sure if I should make this blog adult only, this story convinced me. As much as I want to write all genres, I'm not worried about an adult finding a children's story, but I am worried about a kid reading this. In fact, I'm worried about the reaction. But a little drama would make for good publicity. I will try to balance it out with something a bit more positive later this week, but then again, I am a slave to my inspiration. Also, I wanted to say that the confused writing was a stylistic choice, and I hoped to convey the insanity of the narrator. Hope that came through clearly.]

With me...

And there you were with that smile upon your face. Your beautiful green eyes, dark hair, and smiling lips. I remember the first time I met you, as if it was yesterday. It was in that school, wasn’t it? We were both kids, and when our eyes met, we could not understand the vast meaning this chance encounter would have for us. At least, it was like that for me. I remember meeting you; it was as if no one else was in the room with us. We did not exchange names; there was no reason for us to do so. I knew you without needing to know your name. I knew you from that day on as the one who would live within my heart. But life is often beyond the control of children, and we were separated. It would be a whole year before we would meet again. Same place, similar circumstances. But your smile was gone, something was amiss. What sort of danger loomed around the corner of the hallowed halls of your mind? What was the menace that caused you such grief? I was but a mere child, but I knew you were worried. I knew you well enough for that. But then games started changing what was happening between us. We would pretend I could protect you from whatever was tormenting you. I pretended to be your hero, you sincerely felt protected with me. But why, please tell me why, was this the last time we would be together as children? These two chance encounters touched me, changed me, but we were no longer together, and instead, I was left with a fleeting memory of your existence. Growing up means that what happened in the past if often swallowed by the rush of new experiences. But you were there, a distant memory, but very much close in my heart and soul. Was it love? Back then I could not tell.

And we grew up. I would be a teenager the next time we would meet. A chance encounter in a park, a chance encounter under the prying eyes of nature. We were together, and yet you felt more distant than ever before. But what really happened beyond the conversation? Do you remember? Something still worried you, but this time, I could not pretend to be your hero. The loss of our childish imagination meant that I could no longer pretend to my shining armour, and I could no longer pretend that your troubles were monsters to be vanquished. And so we talked. And my affection for you grew deeper. Did you feel that way? Did you feel that we were together, united, beyond friendship, beyond words? Can you love a complete stranger? Because beyond these three encounters, it was what you were. I never asked for your name, I never asked who you were. These things seemed superficial and useless at the time. And yet, they gained such a meaning now. You never wondered about me, have you? I was there, trying to help, but I didn’t know if I was doing anything. But we walked, and while I cannot remember what happened, I’m convinced you felt better. We would meet once again that year, chance was on our side. A schoolyard if I remember correctly. We sat and talked. What was it that worried you? Why do I remember having the conversation and yet I cannot remember the nature of what was talked about? But I loved you. Back then I was convinced, what I felt for you was love. Pure affection, pure friendship, pure love. Who were you? Why is it that for me to hold your name would be the same as trying to hold a snowflake in my bare hands?

Years would pass, and while I am sure I saw you, from the corner of my eye, we weren’t together again for a very long time. Was it you that I saw hitchhiking? Or maybe you really were outside my bedroom window that one day. Why didn’t I run out to see you? Was it the price I had to pay for not knowing your name? Or maybe it was my punishment for having known the loving embrace of someone else. Know that if that is the case, I am deeply sorry for what happened. I am a mere human, and beyond our chance encounters that seemed far removed from reality, did I ever really know you? Please forgive me, in a sense it was you I was looking for. The sparkle in your eyes, the brightness of your smile, the smell I can now only imagine you’ve had. Without a name, without anything real, all I could do is try to find you in others.

Where were you when I needed you? You never were real were you? All these chance encounters, they were products of my dreams. I know that, I’ve known that for a while. But then, why do you still haunt me? Why is it that I can brush off the darkest nightmares, however I cannot get you out of my mind? Are you real simply because I know you, I’ve seen you? Then why, if you are real, have all our meetings happened in the realm of dreams? I want to look for you, but where do I start? Maybe I should sleep… Maybe you’ll be there tonight.


[Ok, so here's the deal: when I was a kid, I had this dream, it was about this girl I did not know. And apparently, there are no strangers in dreams, so, well, I find this all confusing. And she would come back in other dreams, she grew up as I grew up. It might just be a dream, but it's odd to think about having a dream grow up with you. And while the inner child in me hopes this means more than just regular dreams, I'm pretty sure she only exists in my head. But the same could be said about memories. So, this is my first real attempt at letting her story out in the world. I'm quite certain nothing will come of this, but sometimes, it's fun to dream.]

Tomorrow I...

I am in a lonely place. Up here, in the farthest region of your mind. Away from the light, in this black foreign place. Away from the reach of your inviting hands. I have been away for a while now. You are starting to forget me. Out here, away. I know I only still exist close to you because of a deformed idea of nostalgia. I know I am replaced. I know I wasn’t perfect; from the first day there were some issues. I had hoped we had gotten over it. Instead I find myself pushed away. No one can pretend to be perfect, and no one can pretend to accept that. We all wish we were better. But not me. Because tomorrow…

I’ve spent a many lonely nights away from you. The mornings were the worse. I knew I had been replaced, I was still around, but I wasn’t there, with you, just as you were not there with me. These sorts of thing happen. At first it wasn’t perfect. But we managed to get along. In fact, after a while my quirks probably seemed endearing, something you would mention to friends with a vague smile on your lips. Your lips, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. How I wish I could still make them shiver with excitement. But I don’t see them anymore. Only a quick vision of you is what I get. It’s what I hang on to. We once were together, now, we may be in the same apartment, but we are not to be together anymore. Because tomorrow I…

And don’t think I cannot see that other one in your eyes. How everything is perfect, just the way you want it. It used to be like that between us. How long before another one is thrown away because of some perceived imperfection? And don’t think I cannot see the joy in your eyes. That joy, these eyes, that light, it used to be mine. But now, it slips away. By what twisted, demented sense of nostalgia do you keep me around, so that I can know your presence, but no longer bring you satisfaction. And I sit here, waiting for the day you take me out of your life permanently. And that day will come, and I won’t be able to fight it. Because tomorrow I will…

By now you can guess the anger in my voice. I am angry because my shouts will remain unheard. By now you can guess the sadness in my voice. I am sad because while I cannot leave you, you have left me. By now you can guess the jealousy in my voice. I am jealous that you are no longer mine, even if I am still entirely yours. By now you can guess the gloom in my voice. Because tomorrow I will still… I will still…

You robbed me of my hopes; all you are now is despair. You robbed my of my ambitions; all I am now is failure. You robbed me of my dreams; this is a nightmare. You robbed me of myself; I am no one. You robbed me. Did I ever rob you? What did I take away from you that you would have to take away my purpose in some sense of revenge? Why do you keep me around? Answer me. Answer me now! Answer me please… I beg of you, give me an answer. So that tonight I can find peace. Because tomorrow, I will still be… I will still be… I still won’t be…

So this day ends, my voice has risen, my spirits fallen, my soul is shattered. I wish for you to realize that now I am lost. But you won’t find me. I wait for you, but you won’t find me. To find me, you have to look for me. But you don’t care anymore. I now fear that you never did. Was I just a thing to be discarded when things weren’t perfect anymore? Do you think you are perfect? If so, can you teach me? And if I was just a toy for you to enjoy, and then for you to throw away once nothing was the way you wanted, why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t you tell me? And if I was just a toy, a commodity, then why don’t you rid yourself of the other ones you have around in your life? Throw away all these thing that have something in common with me. That chipped plate, throw it away. That water damaged book, throw it away. Those torn pants, throw them away. Throw away your friends that are not just friendly enough, your teachers that no longer teach you, your parents that no longer educate you, your computers that cannot compute. Throw them all away if you are to throw me away. Because tomorrow, I will still be broken.

I said it, broken. Not working the way I should. Why can’t you throw my away like all these other broken possessions? You’ve replaced me, I know it. Throw me away. I cannot do that to myself, I cannot throw myself out, it has to be you. You have to realize that you wish to discard me not because I no longer work, but because I cannot even pretend to be perfect anymore. When something can be seen as perfect, even if it is known to not be, people tolerate it a lot more. But I cannot pretend this. You know it, I know it, the whole god damned world is disillusioned about it. I am broken. Tomorrow I will still be broken. And tomorrow you will still replace me, and yet won’t be able to be rid of me. That’s it really: Tomorrow I will still be trapped in here, and tomorrow, I will still be broken.

Broken, damaged, shattered, non-functional. You only see me as a defective thing, but I am more than my defects. And all these endearing quirks? I still have them. But tomorrow you will have breakfast and won’t shed a tear about me. But I should not get angry. Things cannot get angry. I am a thing. An object. An unfeeling metallic mass in your kitchen. I used to make your toasts in the morning, but my handle didn’t work. That other guy brought a replacement. And you stuffed my in that dreary little dark cabinet. You don’t think of me anymore, and I cannot think of you. Because I cannot think. I am a toaster. I have no voice. And you won’t hear me tomorrow, because tomorrow, I will still be broken. Just recycle me please? I would like to see what the reincarnation of things will feel like. Maybe, next time, I’ll be a car, because tomorrow might unbreak me.


[Note from the Author: When I moved in, my roommate told me about her toaster AM/FM radio thing that didn't work anymore. I brought my toaster in, and well, we pretty much put the other toaster in a kitchen cabinet. Tonight, of all the things that could have crossed my mind, the toaster was the one that stood out. We never think of the tragedy of things. These possessions only exist to fill a specific purpose, and while they work fine, we like them. Once they stop working, we are unforgiving. We won't get them fixed, we will throw them out, and replace them. We are truly horrible masters... or is being thrown out part of their purpose? Either way, I felt that this toaster's story had to be told, and I could not be silent about it. Also, I think this little paragraph at the end of a story will become part of the standard here. What is the point of a story, if you don't know where it came from? Don't worry, I won't give you all the answers, because authors do put personal things in their stories, and while in this case it was about a toaster, other stories might betray something deeper in me. Or not... I mean, can you really trust me?]

For Liberty

“We’re all here for a reason. We all know what we have to do. Guys don’t let me down. Don’t let me see you fail. You can do this, we’re the best. Now grab your weapons.” With these words, Thomas L. Smith, Tommy for his friends, tried to inspire his troops. Dinner was just over. The babies back home were probably settling down for a nap. Tommy knew his leadership would make a difference in this war. The position they were in, they had been there last year. Sure, some of the faces were new, and some of the old faces were gone, but they were a team. They would not let their common foe win. It was a battle for honour, fought by brave soldiers, a battle for liberty, fought by people just like Tommy. Unlike their enemies. These creatures had nothing in common with Tommy’s soldiers. And so he watched as the agile hands gathered the necessary ammunition for the assaults of the day. The air was cold, the snow was dense. They could walk on it as surely as they would walk on the ground, and it would play to their advantage. They were the ones leaving their base. They would assault the enemy’s stronghold and try to push them back into their positions, and eventually drive them away. It had all to be done before sunset. Before the light ran out.

Tommy looked around at everyone with him. Yes, they all knew who they were facing, and they almost all looked eager. Tommy, like some of them, had a more personal reason to fight in this war. It was a question of honour. He could not show his face home until… Until this battle was won and everything he stood for was once again stronger than what they faced. It was about might. It was about right. But for Tommy, it was also about the fight. He loved that part. And in memory of his cousins who could no longer fight in the war, for his father who had stood in the exact same spot, behind similar barricades years ago, for his grandfather who had done the same. For his uncles. Yes, this war had been going on for so long that he could not remember the name of all relatives that had been part of the offence. Or the defence. Some years, the enemies lost; others the allies did. Sure some things had changed. Synthetic fabric for example meant they could stay warmer longer in this weather. And unlike the people that shared the war stories with his grandfather, Tommy was not barefoot in a meter of now, although he doubted that people fought barefoot, except maybe in pre-historic times.

Tommy snapped back to the present. He looked at his best friend’s face. James Thompson, Jimmy. A soldier in this endless war just like Tommy. He too had known relatives that stood if not on this battleground, on ones similar somewhere in the same nation. Ever since they were little kids they had heard of the battles, and with a mix of anticipation and fear they decided they would be part of this. They must have been 5 year old back then. They were at the swing sets in a park from their early childhood. They promised they would have each other’s back when they would chose to fight in these battles. They trained informally from that point on. Last year, they were taught by veteran fighters. Tommy did not expect he would lead the assault this year, but things had changed quickly. He had seniority now; he was the only one who could lead them. He also had a much bigger stake in this than any other one else this year. Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around ready to fight.

Nathaniel McCord. Nathan. He was a new face around here; people were still not quite used to his weird accent. He was moved to this region this year. Normally people would have doubted his worth in this battle, but he too had a personal stake in this battle. Tommy could only hope the veteran in whatever city he was trained knew what they were doing. He was the only stranger in this ragtag group of fighters. Tommy looked at his watch. 1315, it was time to move.

“We have to get moving. We’ll split into 3 groups. Jimmy, you take these guys here, you move from behind the buildings over there, and you try to cover us. We will come from another direction. Nathan, you take these guys and move from that side. I know you know your target, and you are allowed to do whatever you have to do to take it out. I’ll with these guys here; we will use this snow as cover. We all know my target, and I know where I can get my best shot. Don’t take any chances I wouldn’t.”

He winked. It was time. Time to lead this group into battle. They had been ready for this day ever since they left the classrooms. This was it, the day they would become more than soldiers, they would become men. And so they marched. At 1400, they were all in position. Their target seemed to be making plans on their own. Tommy had done well to break away from conventional plans. Their foes were planning on making a move at 1500, and would try to meet them in the middle of the battlefield. Instead, they would be stuck in their barricades, pushed back away from their ammunition supply chain. Tommy was nervous, but he could not show that to his men. 1409, 1 minute before the cover fire started. Time seemed to slow down. Once this was over he would walk home proud. Tommy started breathing again; he had not noticed he was holding his breath. As oxygen started flowing in his body again, he realized that it was time. As if on cue, Jimmy started attacking the enemy, taking them by surprise and making it harder for them to reach their weapons. As this started, he guessed Nathan’s position, and slowly moved forward. He was looking for red. That was his target. Nathan’s would be wearing orange. Their enemy’s uniforms were anything but convenient in this snowy battlefield. Their enemy was surprised but not beaten. And so the battle started properly. The initial strike had been brutal, but the response was efficient. Their enemy was in their base, they had a huge tactical advantage. Tommy had counted on the initial shock to drive them back.

It worked, however their enemy responded by hiding in their fort like a turtle would in a shell. Tommy had hoped it would not come to that. He sent two messengers to tell the two groups to stop firing and try to circle around the back. If that did not work, they would have to rejoin with the main force in front of the impregnable fortress. As soon as the messengers left, Tommy motioned his group forward. They would try to trick their enemy into thinking the flanking groups had relocated in front. 1505, time was moving way too fast now. The damage to the enemy’s base was undeniable. But so many of his fellow soldiers’ uniforms were now darker due to the rapidly cooling fluid. And so, as the new plan was put in motion, Tommy was starting to take part in the fight properly. Tirelessly he took out targets. But his shots did not affect their determination, and the battle was brutal. Then their forces thinned. Too late, Tommy realized that their plan had been guessed by their cunning foes. He yelled his orders: “Fall back, FALL BACK!” But it was too late, he knew it. With one look to the tired faces around him, he said: “We make a last stand now. It’s almost sunset. We have to move now.”

It was almost 1600 when he led his soldiers in this last desperate assault. He was told not to do that by his mentors, but his plans were about to fail. He could not allow that to happen. As he rounded a corner however, he fell face to face with an enemy. He did not have time to react. However the enemy was shot from behind by Nathan, who had heard the shouts to fall back. Nathan however was also shot, by the orange uniformed enemy. Tommy reached down for the weapon he had dropped in shock. He aimed and let the shot go. He then ducked instinctively. The orange target missed him, but the shot went behind Tommy, and got Jimmy in the shoulder. Time slowed down again. Tommy looked at the battlefield, as the sun was setting down. The peaceful snowy field was now red. He could see all of his soldiers that had been hit. He would win, he had no choice. It was for honour. It was for liberty.

Swallowing his fears, Tommy made sure he was armed, and moved into their enemy’s base, through a hole that had appeared during the battle. He was not the only person left on the battlefield, but he felt alone in his mission. He turned a corner, saw an enemy, it wasn’t the red he was expecting, but he shot anyway. He kept moving. Kept making sure his weapon was in order. He then heard a voice com from behind: “That wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. I always knew you were dumb.” As the red enemy was getting ready to shoot him, they both heard a yell from outside the fort. They were both on the western wall, Tommy felt alone, but Jimmy was there, and with a loud shout, distracted the enemy, and shot. While his attack was dodged, Tommy’s foe counterattacked instinctively. Jimmy as hit in the forehead. There was no coming back from that. Tommy however used the distraction to do what he came to do. And so the shot left. Straight, powerful, precise. And nailed Tommy’s target on the nose as she was turning back to face him. Tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s not fair, you got me in the face, I’m telling mom!” Stacy Gwendolyn Smith, the enemy, was beaten. And so were the other kids’ sisters, cousins, and female friends. Tommy had done it, his older sister was now crying. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Santa won’t give you any presents this year.”

Tommy went down to meet with Jimmy, who was red in the face. “That’ll show the 6th graders. A bunch of seven year olds can win the battle.” He helped Jimmy up, and they both walked home in time for supper. Tomorrow they would wake up to unwrap their Christmas presents as children, but tonight, they were men.