In a world less known for its heroes and more known for its actors, there is something terribly amiss. Idolization of those born out of fiction is all well and good, but the fact remains that there are heroes that exist in the world who are ignored on a constant basis. They don't have the powers of Superman, the resources of Batman, the ragtag team of compatriots like the X-Men, but they walk by us in stores, restaurants, and the streets every day, yet not a single glance is thrown their way. Ian thought all these things as he walked down the halls of the memorial for fallen soldiers. He wished he had the gifts, the courage, to become like those who will be eternally remembered in their stone tombs. His eyes and fingers traced across every name and achievement, oblivious to the shaking heads of old women who thought he was being disrespectful and the silent approval of old veterans who thought he was acting appropriately. His mind was full of great ideas, fantasies where he lived to return to accolades, parades, Presidents giving him medals of valor, but he also thought of dying gloriously in battle, a firefight or saving a group of stranded orphans from a fire maybe. Ian looked around for a moment, noticing his friends had wandered away and were watching a video that was playing the storming of the beach at Normandy over and over. As he made his way over, a small hand latched onto his and, surprised at the feel of the small, warm hand, he looked down into a pair of shimmering blue eyes.
The child had to be no more than five and stared at Ian with tears brimming but not falling. Courageous, Ian thought, as he knelt down to be at eye level with the young boy. He asked the child what was wrong and learned that he lost his parents. The child was eerily calm about it, but Ian knew that the fear inside the young man would eventually lead him into a mistake, in fact, it already had, he was talking to a stranger. Ian comforted the boy as much as he could and glanced at his friends, noting that they haven't seen what was transpiring yet. Ian gave the child a comforting pat on the shoulder and said he would help him find his parents. As they moved through the memorial hall, the child kept glancing around, eyes searching the crowd for his missing parents, while Ian searched as well. This would be his moment of courage, he kept thinking. He walked the young man through the crowd, searching, but never finding the parents. The child, Ian could tell, was beginning to lose some of that bravery he had before. Ian told the little blue eyed boy that they should get out of the crowd for a minute so the child could calm down. He agreed and they stepped into a small room off the hall. As Ian closed the door, he felt his hand tremble as he latched the lock tightly. He turned and faced the young boy, who glanced at him with growing alarm, knowing, as he approached him, that today, along with all his yesterdays and tomorrows, he would never be on that wall. He was one of the monsters those who died had fought against.
Showing posts with label Moment in Time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Moment in Time. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Writing: Moment in Time - Down the Rabbit Hole
He glanced over his shoulder, scratching absently at his arm, feeling the skin peel off with every movement of his fingers. He needed to fix what was wrong with him, though he couldn't pinpoint what was wrong. The world looked fine, what with its undulating sky, flame-like grasses, and monstrosities dressed in suits and ties. He felt the blood in his body flow out through his arm, watching it seek out a new home, perhaps one without a window that unexpectedly gets installed. He wondered, as he walked, what would replace the blood, but that thought soon left his mind as he saw a man staring at him. He couldn't tell who the man was, but the horns, tail, and pitchfork gave him some hints. He climbed up the sidewalk that tried to form into a roller-coaster loop and saw his destination. The only problem was that he had to walk through a large, milling swarm of those insurance agent-looking monsters. He shuddered at the thought of their insect-like arms and hands reaching out and touching, grabbing him, maybe thrusting pens and papers at him, begging in voices that sound like pigs stuck inside of a gristmill for him to sign off on a one-hundred percent profit venture. He wanted nothing to do with that, he only wanted to fill the emptiness inside himself since his blood voided its lease to his body.
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Monday, May 9, 2011
Writing: Moment in Time - Temporary Respite
He sat and watched the world through the double-pained glass, feeling the heat of the vent mix with the chill outside, his thoughts as chilly as the weather. The conversations around him buzzing and echoing in his head, blotting out thought and tease his attention in irritating seductiveness. The voices grating on his nerves as he turned and glanced at the world inside, hidden from the elements. Cold coffee. Hot vent. Tan hat. Checkered jacket. Nothing but impressions skitter across his mind. His brain reaching out, grasping, trying to hold to something, but, like trying to hold grains of sand, they do nothing but slide through his fingers.
He stands, feeling the years press down on his shoulders, giving him a dread sense of mortality which sends his mind deep into a chasm to which he wishes would close and remain gone forever. He wonders what is on the other side, what awaits him as he draws his final breath and leaps into the darkness. He wants to think that there would be a light and a deeper understanding of the universe, but the feeling that there is nothing but the darkness and eternal loneliness beyond the human understanding intrudes into his fantasy. His steps are slow, calculated, as he walks to the door, as if his feet were trying to savor each step he takes. He can feel each step echoing through his body as if it would be the last one he takes. The cold handle of the door in his hand chills his entire body, mixing with the heat in his blood which is drained away as it gives in to the cold.
The sudden rush of cold, cleansing him deep into his soul, washing away the dreams and nightmares indiscriminately. The sun washing over him as he steps through the door, feeling the ground fade from beneath him as he imagines himself crossing the chasm. The sun strikes him and his eyes close with a languid pace, trapping the light inside his body, allowing it to reignite his soul from the cold flame that had grown there. He reaches into his jacket, slides a smoke between his lips and hears the click of a lighter and the momentary heat of a flame until he breathes in slowly. His eyes open and he takes another step, then another, continuing until he passes his destination. He simply walks, beyond where he had gone before and continues, his thoughts finally solidifying with each step he takes from the world he knew. He knows he can't stay away forever, but for this moment, this single moment, he is free from himself.
He stands, feeling the years press down on his shoulders, giving him a dread sense of mortality which sends his mind deep into a chasm to which he wishes would close and remain gone forever. He wonders what is on the other side, what awaits him as he draws his final breath and leaps into the darkness. He wants to think that there would be a light and a deeper understanding of the universe, but the feeling that there is nothing but the darkness and eternal loneliness beyond the human understanding intrudes into his fantasy. His steps are slow, calculated, as he walks to the door, as if his feet were trying to savor each step he takes. He can feel each step echoing through his body as if it would be the last one he takes. The cold handle of the door in his hand chills his entire body, mixing with the heat in his blood which is drained away as it gives in to the cold.
The sudden rush of cold, cleansing him deep into his soul, washing away the dreams and nightmares indiscriminately. The sun washing over him as he steps through the door, feeling the ground fade from beneath him as he imagines himself crossing the chasm. The sun strikes him and his eyes close with a languid pace, trapping the light inside his body, allowing it to reignite his soul from the cold flame that had grown there. He reaches into his jacket, slides a smoke between his lips and hears the click of a lighter and the momentary heat of a flame until he breathes in slowly. His eyes open and he takes another step, then another, continuing until he passes his destination. He simply walks, beyond where he had gone before and continues, his thoughts finally solidifying with each step he takes from the world he knew. He knows he can't stay away forever, but for this moment, this single moment, he is free from himself.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - The Right Moment
As the last drops fall from the cup, trailing the course through his cracked lips to slide in fiery trails down his throat, he felt a light touch on his arm and a voice next to his ear telling him that it was time to leave. He pushed his chair back from the table and tossed his faded leather jacket over his shoulder. With a quick wave to his friends, he took her hand and they stepped out the door, feeling the wave of cold strike their hot skin. He pauses, pulls the pack of menthol's from his inner pocket and strikes his lighter, sending a small heat to battle the chill. He takes a deep breath and her hand in the same instant as they walk down the sidewalk which was dimly lit behind the hazy snow obscuring the globes above them.
They talked of little things, the words almost meaningless, the only thing mattering is that their were together. They laughed at an off-color joke she made and he felt her body tense, as if the act of enjoying herself was something to be frightened of. They passed restaurants and bars, gas stations and office buildings, totally engrossed in each other and lost in the moment. The trail of smoke from his cigarette could have been the chill losing the battle from the warmth in each of their hearts, but they never noticed.
They walked to her door and he flicked his cigarette into a snowbank, watching the cherry red tip flare in its death throws and die. She slide her hands into both of his, her heart in both those warm pools of brown. He smiled at her and told her that they would have to do this again, adding, as he looked into the swirling snow above them, during better weather. She agreed and told him so, watching the emotions flick across his face, but she could have been seeing the heat of the moment and the cold fiercely fighting on his face. She turned to walk in her door, but heard her name called just as her small hand touched the bronze door handle. She turned to see him on one knee, reaching deeply into one pocket all the while never taking his eyes from the reason he was happiest in life. Her breath caught as he pulled out a small box. Her eyes watered as he opened it. She never forgot that cold, snowy night, where the lights in the snow reflected in a rainbow starburst on the small diamond he placed on her finger.
They talked of little things, the words almost meaningless, the only thing mattering is that their were together. They laughed at an off-color joke she made and he felt her body tense, as if the act of enjoying herself was something to be frightened of. They passed restaurants and bars, gas stations and office buildings, totally engrossed in each other and lost in the moment. The trail of smoke from his cigarette could have been the chill losing the battle from the warmth in each of their hearts, but they never noticed.
They walked to her door and he flicked his cigarette into a snowbank, watching the cherry red tip flare in its death throws and die. She slide her hands into both of his, her heart in both those warm pools of brown. He smiled at her and told her that they would have to do this again, adding, as he looked into the swirling snow above them, during better weather. She agreed and told him so, watching the emotions flick across his face, but she could have been seeing the heat of the moment and the cold fiercely fighting on his face. She turned to walk in her door, but heard her name called just as her small hand touched the bronze door handle. She turned to see him on one knee, reaching deeply into one pocket all the while never taking his eyes from the reason he was happiest in life. Her breath caught as he pulled out a small box. Her eyes watered as he opened it. She never forgot that cold, snowy night, where the lights in the snow reflected in a rainbow starburst on the small diamond he placed on her finger.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Wring: Moment in Time - The Rush
He brought the car down hard. The entire chassy shook with the impact, but he no longer cared. He was too busy singing along to his radio as it blared into the cool October air. His hands firmly held the wheel, much like it used to hold her. As he regained a straight path, he took a sip from the liter of vodka he bought and sped through a red light. The red lights flashing behind him never registered in his mind. Faster and faster he went until he struck the break so hard that the car seemed to cry as he flew into the turn. The car behind him drew closer then swerved to dodge a possible collision. His pulse was racing as he hit 100 miles per hour; pounding by the time he hit 130. He drove for hours, but it must have been only minutes - until he hit the road block. The shots fired and he pressed harder on the gas. The pistons pumped faster and faster as each bullet tore through his body. Each flip the car made no longer mattered. When they finally ended and the police surrounded his car, he was still awake, taking a sip from his half-broken bottle. He smiled, said something which was filed away in a police case labeled Drunk Driver, and forgotten.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Picnic
The wind whipped while we drove down the road, you looking beautiful and me looking rumpled and tired. Our first trip together coming after a grueling five day stretch of work has left me drained, but you just smile that smile at me and push those hairs from your eyes that my fingers ache to do for you and say it's all fine. The sun shines bright off the rain slicked road, shining in your long hair, which waves to the blue sky as if it was a brown flag. It's hard for me to keep my eyes on the road and you at the same time, but I somehow get us to the park in one piece. You smile that smile that makes my heart skip a beat, adjust your tinted glasses, and kiss me softly as you reach for your bag. Every time you do that, you leave me speechless, and this time is no exception. I watch you walk away, barely hearing the door as you close it, watching the light bend around you like a halo, the tree's sway and bend as if bowing before you. As you glance back, a smile shyly coming across your lips, I feel my mouth form the words you're beautiful.
I can feel your hand in mine as we watch the birds dive and resurface in the lake, but the only thing that I can see is you. Your head resting on my shoulder, my arm around yours, hand in hand we sit on our patched blanket with our food still packed in the cooler. A cup of tea rests in your small hand, a coffee in mine, as I feel your chest rise and fall with each slow breath. I wish there were two of me, one to hold you and one to take a picture of the only person who has made me feel as complete as ever. You look up and smile, catching me looking at you again, and again you drown me in your smile, your lips touch mine as we lay back and watch the clouds, puffy and pure white, lazily make their way across the crisp blue sky. Your head on my chest, my arm across your waist, we watch the world move around us. Around us in this moment. This perfect moment.
I can feel your hand in mine as we watch the birds dive and resurface in the lake, but the only thing that I can see is you. Your head resting on my shoulder, my arm around yours, hand in hand we sit on our patched blanket with our food still packed in the cooler. A cup of tea rests in your small hand, a coffee in mine, as I feel your chest rise and fall with each slow breath. I wish there were two of me, one to hold you and one to take a picture of the only person who has made me feel as complete as ever. You look up and smile, catching me looking at you again, and again you drown me in your smile, your lips touch mine as we lay back and watch the clouds, puffy and pure white, lazily make their way across the crisp blue sky. Your head on my chest, my arm across your waist, we watch the world move around us. Around us in this moment. This perfect moment.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Checkmate
His drink tasted like liquid candy, gliding down his throat to mix with the several he already had tonight. His vision was tunneled, movements slow, thought process only reaching as far as his next order. This was becoming typical of late for him. His friends, conversing around him, let him be as he sipped his rum and coke, save one. She pestered him, bought him drinks when he should have stopped drinking, but he let her anyway. The attention was good, he thought. He was still able to put together enough brain power to realize she was hitting on him, and again, he didn't care. The attention was gratifying. The casual touches she gave him on his hand, arm, shoulder, and face, all stirred a side of him that hadn't been reached in a while. He let her flirt and he flirted right back, listening to their voices combine and come through crystal clear in the crowded, noisy bar.
She wanted to step outside and he agreed, following her as she led him by the hand. He couldn't help but notice the softness of her skin, the thin sheen of sweat glazing her exposed arm, neck, and chest. Stepping into the cool summer night, she asked for a light, one he was happy to oblige for her. Striking the flame, he watched it light the thin cigarette resting between her red lips. He had to shake himself out of it, he was staring too long, but she noticed. Her smile said a thousand words and each word he wasn't sure if he understood their meanings, but he was well aware of their intentions. She was moving closer to him, or at least he thought she was. He may have been moving closer to her, it may have been mutual moving, or he could just be stumbling forward, intoxicated by liquor and the moment. He listened to her talk and she listened to him. Her hand resting on his arm to emphasize points, staying just a moment longer than it should have if it did not have other motives behind it.
She moved a step forward, her eyes searching his, looking for some clue that this is what he wanted. He found himself letting her move forward, not saying the words he should, but enjoying the contact, the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only for this moment. He liked the fact that a woman took the reigns and showed her affection. He was the one who usually took the initiative, and it was beginning to get the best of him. He needed to be loved too, shown that he was loved, and she was willing to do that. She moved a step closer, smiling as he realized his hands were resting on her hips. She looked up at him, a warmth hiding in her blue eyes, a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, and an invitation to enjoy both of those all he wanted. He slowly pulled her towards him, her head turning slightly to the side, anxiously awaiting what was about to come.
Her eyes opened a moment later, wonder and shock replacing the lust in her eyes. He stopped, a sudden soberness enveloping his entire being. He apologized profusely and left, briskly walking to his car and driving off. His mind was in shambles, his heart beating faster than it ever had. He enjoyed the feeling of being loved out loud, but he knew that he almost did something he swore he would never do. He knew he was dangerously close to being swept away by the feeling, but was able to save himself and his girlfriend. He arrived back home and quietly crept into the bedroom, careful not to wake her from her dreams. He looked down at her, wondering why he felt the way he did tonight. It was her first time home in weeks, returning just this day from her trip to see her family. As he looked at her, he saw the woman he loved, and while she may not express it as he does, he knew she loved him, or at least hoped so. With a sarcastic smile on his face, he walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He knew he would be the more affectionate one, that's just who he is, he couldn't fight it anymore. Looking in the mirror for a long moment, he stared into his own being and said, "Checkmate".
She wanted to step outside and he agreed, following her as she led him by the hand. He couldn't help but notice the softness of her skin, the thin sheen of sweat glazing her exposed arm, neck, and chest. Stepping into the cool summer night, she asked for a light, one he was happy to oblige for her. Striking the flame, he watched it light the thin cigarette resting between her red lips. He had to shake himself out of it, he was staring too long, but she noticed. Her smile said a thousand words and each word he wasn't sure if he understood their meanings, but he was well aware of their intentions. She was moving closer to him, or at least he thought she was. He may have been moving closer to her, it may have been mutual moving, or he could just be stumbling forward, intoxicated by liquor and the moment. He listened to her talk and she listened to him. Her hand resting on his arm to emphasize points, staying just a moment longer than it should have if it did not have other motives behind it.
She moved a step forward, her eyes searching his, looking for some clue that this is what he wanted. He found himself letting her move forward, not saying the words he should, but enjoying the contact, the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only for this moment. He liked the fact that a woman took the reigns and showed her affection. He was the one who usually took the initiative, and it was beginning to get the best of him. He needed to be loved too, shown that he was loved, and she was willing to do that. She moved a step closer, smiling as he realized his hands were resting on her hips. She looked up at him, a warmth hiding in her blue eyes, a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, and an invitation to enjoy both of those all he wanted. He slowly pulled her towards him, her head turning slightly to the side, anxiously awaiting what was about to come.
Her eyes opened a moment later, wonder and shock replacing the lust in her eyes. He stopped, a sudden soberness enveloping his entire being. He apologized profusely and left, briskly walking to his car and driving off. His mind was in shambles, his heart beating faster than it ever had. He enjoyed the feeling of being loved out loud, but he knew that he almost did something he swore he would never do. He knew he was dangerously close to being swept away by the feeling, but was able to save himself and his girlfriend. He arrived back home and quietly crept into the bedroom, careful not to wake her from her dreams. He looked down at her, wondering why he felt the way he did tonight. It was her first time home in weeks, returning just this day from her trip to see her family. As he looked at her, he saw the woman he loved, and while she may not express it as he does, he knew she loved him, or at least hoped so. With a sarcastic smile on his face, he walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He knew he would be the more affectionate one, that's just who he is, he couldn't fight it anymore. Looking in the mirror for a long moment, he stared into his own being and said, "Checkmate".
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - True Love
The call came at 12:01am, waking him from a dead sleep. He fumbled for the phone, knocking it off the end table and on the carpet below. He groaned and looked down at the number that was calling. Community Hospital. His blood froze as a million possibilities ran through his head. He scrambled for the phone, sleep the farthest thing from his mind, almost as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him. He answered and listened to the voice. His heart stopped. Of all those million possibilities that ran through his head, one near the top of the list was true. He said he would be right there and threw the phone at his bag. Scrambling into his clothes and fighting with his shoes, he tossed some extra clothes in the bag with his cell and was out the door in less than a minute.
He could barely remember the drive, not even to this day can he recall exactly how long he was on the road. It seemed like he got in his car and got out, already at the hospital. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him and pushed his way past the few people at the main desk that were there at this time of night. He asked, wanted, demanded, an update. The woman at the desk had seen this before and was ready for him. Her calm, soothing voice helped take some of the panicked edge away from his. He calmed down as she said that it was fine and he could go in now. He walked down the corridor, past an endless hallway of doors that all looked the same. Each doorway brought him closer to his destination. Each step made him tremble more than the last. Finally he was there, staring at the numbers on the door, hearing the light crying on the other side. He wanted to open the door and rush in, but his mind had frozen his body. He struggled to control the raging emotions of anger, fear, and happiness, each fighting to burst forth.
He opened the door and looked at her, his heart in his eyes, pushing the tears down his beard-covered cheeks. She looked up, fear in her eyes. Fearful that he was going to leave her. Fearful of what he was going to do, going to say, not going to say, not going to do. He took the scene in with a single glance and walked towards her bed. Each footfall taking an eternity to complete. She raised her bandaged wrists, covering her face with her hands as a torrent of fresh tears erupted from her. He gently lowered her hands, taking them in his own. He glanced at the bandages and looked back into her glistening eyes. Every word he was going to say was unneeded as she understood the deeper words that he was saying. I'm glad you didn't succeed. I don't want you to leave. I'm not leaving. I will always be here for you. All the words that his eyes spoke to her and all the words his lips could have said to her meant little, only the words his heart softly whispered into hers mattered. I'll always love you.
He could barely remember the drive, not even to this day can he recall exactly how long he was on the road. It seemed like he got in his car and got out, already at the hospital. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him and pushed his way past the few people at the main desk that were there at this time of night. He asked, wanted, demanded, an update. The woman at the desk had seen this before and was ready for him. Her calm, soothing voice helped take some of the panicked edge away from his. He calmed down as she said that it was fine and he could go in now. He walked down the corridor, past an endless hallway of doors that all looked the same. Each doorway brought him closer to his destination. Each step made him tremble more than the last. Finally he was there, staring at the numbers on the door, hearing the light crying on the other side. He wanted to open the door and rush in, but his mind had frozen his body. He struggled to control the raging emotions of anger, fear, and happiness, each fighting to burst forth.
He opened the door and looked at her, his heart in his eyes, pushing the tears down his beard-covered cheeks. She looked up, fear in her eyes. Fearful that he was going to leave her. Fearful of what he was going to do, going to say, not going to say, not going to do. He took the scene in with a single glance and walked towards her bed. Each footfall taking an eternity to complete. She raised her bandaged wrists, covering her face with her hands as a torrent of fresh tears erupted from her. He gently lowered her hands, taking them in his own. He glanced at the bandages and looked back into her glistening eyes. Every word he was going to say was unneeded as she understood the deeper words that he was saying. I'm glad you didn't succeed. I don't want you to leave. I'm not leaving. I will always be here for you. All the words that his eyes spoke to her and all the words his lips could have said to her meant little, only the words his heart softly whispered into hers mattered. I'll always love you.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Late Night
There was a flaw in the design, he was sure of it. He had gone over the notes and plans for weeks, trying to find out where the flaw was, but like a fly buzzing around his head, it kept avoiding him. He rubbed his sore temples and glanced at the clock.
1:45. . .great.
He shut down his computer and gathered up his notes, wondering if he will find some place open on the way home that sold aspirin. A voice command wearily spoken activates the rest of the office shut down as he leaves. He walks to the door, waving goodnight to an equally weary security guard. At least he was doing something productive, he thought. The night air was warm, sticky. A fine film of sweat had formed on his skin in the five seconds it took for him to leave the building to noticing. He sighed deeply, taking in the wilted flower stench that always seemed to be outside the door and headed to his car.
He was never sure where the man was hiding, and if he had to admit to himself something, he would have had to admit the man did a heck of a job hiding where there was no cover. The fight didn't last long, lasting about as long as a fifty-something scientist versus a twenty-something thug could last. He wasn't even sure if a single blow landed on his attacker, but he was damn sure that most landed on him. As he hit the pavement, his glasses flew off, skidding across the parking lot. He felt his body become almost weightless, though he was unable to move. He could feel his pockets being turned inside out and thought, with a smile, that the assailant better like the dollar menu at McDonald's. As he felt a warmth coat his face, he noticed the security guard watching from the door. He felt the warm, sticky air get even stickier and thicker. He watched the guard's face look at him, seeing the tears streaming down that poor old man's face. After that, he saw nothing.
1:45. . .great.
He shut down his computer and gathered up his notes, wondering if he will find some place open on the way home that sold aspirin. A voice command wearily spoken activates the rest of the office shut down as he leaves. He walks to the door, waving goodnight to an equally weary security guard. At least he was doing something productive, he thought. The night air was warm, sticky. A fine film of sweat had formed on his skin in the five seconds it took for him to leave the building to noticing. He sighed deeply, taking in the wilted flower stench that always seemed to be outside the door and headed to his car.
He was never sure where the man was hiding, and if he had to admit to himself something, he would have had to admit the man did a heck of a job hiding where there was no cover. The fight didn't last long, lasting about as long as a fifty-something scientist versus a twenty-something thug could last. He wasn't even sure if a single blow landed on his attacker, but he was damn sure that most landed on him. As he hit the pavement, his glasses flew off, skidding across the parking lot. He felt his body become almost weightless, though he was unable to move. He could feel his pockets being turned inside out and thought, with a smile, that the assailant better like the dollar menu at McDonald's. As he felt a warmth coat his face, he noticed the security guard watching from the door. He felt the warm, sticky air get even stickier and thicker. He watched the guard's face look at him, seeing the tears streaming down that poor old man's face. After that, he saw nothing.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 3)
December 12th,
I saw him again today, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. He never see's me, but I always see him. I see him when the sun stains the sky red in the morning and when it stains the sky red at night. He is always guarded by me, unlike how he never guarded me. I took some me time last night and paid a young lady back for her years of being a whore. It felt good. It felt like mom. The red took me home again. It always takes me home. It's comforting. I left a note for her, written in red ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. It had his name on it. He will pay attention to me now. He will see that I am being a good boy and doing what he should be doing. What we all should be doing. I see another one right now. She looks like she wants to paint. She is looking at me as I write. Does she know that I am writing about her? Does she know that I will be writing about her in red tonight?
There were five more murders after the Detective and his family were slain, each one done in the same fashion as the one's before him. The Sargent was made Lead Detective on the case and was trying to find a clue hidden somewhere in the book that was left for him. The ravings of a madman, he thought. Each page went deeper into a psychosis that was terrifying to say the least. This man killed for reasons that he couldn't even start to comprehend. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to turn the tide on the pounding inside his head. He had been reading entry after entry for days now, and each day, the body count was growing. The killer was slick. Despite all the fingerprints around the area's, all were from the victims. He felt his body relaxing as sleep was pushing forward into his consciousness, but felt the shock of sudden alertness as the phone rang next to him. He picked it up and listened. Another murder. Another body. Another note. He froze, the blood solid and unmoving in his veins. This time it had his name on it.
I saw him again today, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. He never see's me, but I always see him. I see him when the sun stains the sky red in the morning and when it stains the sky red at night. He is always guarded by me, unlike how he never guarded me. I took some me time last night and paid a young lady back for her years of being a whore. It felt good. It felt like mom. The red took me home again. It always takes me home. It's comforting. I left a note for her, written in red ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. It had his name on it. He will pay attention to me now. He will see that I am being a good boy and doing what he should be doing. What we all should be doing. I see another one right now. She looks like she wants to paint. She is looking at me as I write. Does she know that I am writing about her? Does she know that I will be writing about her in red tonight?
There were five more murders after the Detective and his family were slain, each one done in the same fashion as the one's before him. The Sargent was made Lead Detective on the case and was trying to find a clue hidden somewhere in the book that was left for him. The ravings of a madman, he thought. Each page went deeper into a psychosis that was terrifying to say the least. This man killed for reasons that he couldn't even start to comprehend. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to turn the tide on the pounding inside his head. He had been reading entry after entry for days now, and each day, the body count was growing. The killer was slick. Despite all the fingerprints around the area's, all were from the victims. He felt his body relaxing as sleep was pushing forward into his consciousness, but felt the shock of sudden alertness as the phone rang next to him. He picked it up and listened. Another murder. Another body. Another note. He froze, the blood solid and unmoving in his veins. This time it had his name on it.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 2)
July 5th,
I can't live in this house any more. She is making things unbearable. I want to run, go where the red sun falls beneath the horizon and fades away for hours and hours. I want to face for hours and hours. She did it to me again. The dress. The fucking red dress. Again and again she puts it on me. Again and again she hits me. The bitch. I want to hurt her. Every time it happens, I imagine something else happening to her, worse than the time before.
The Sargent lowered the journal and took out his pen and pad, jotting down an few notes. He had found the small book tucked under the jacket of the Lead Detective of the Red Murders case. Each entry was getting progressively darker.
July 29th,
I surprised her today. She didn't know I saw my father after school. He always comes by and she never knows. He gave me $400 for clothes and food, but this time I didn't buy those. I was never going to. I hate lying to him, but he can't understand how much I hate him for leaving me here. With her. Always with her. His red car always driving away and never with me in it. Saving me. I came home with a bag and she demanded to know what was in it. I wouldn't tell her. I told her to fuck off. She hit me. Red stains on the carpet. New and old. The house was always coated in red these days. She told me to strip. I did. I was ready for her. The scars and cuts were still there from last time. She put the red dress on me, but I said nothing. I didn't scream or cry when she started hitting and cutting. I surprised her. I smiled. I kept on smiling. That bitch couldn't understand. She stopped. I stood there, reached in my bag. I showed her what I bought for her. Now the room is really red, but justifiably red. She deserved it. He deserves it too. All of them deserve it.
The Sargent put the book down and looked at the year it was written. Why hadn't he heard about a murder case like the ones happening now? He flipped the page and saw that the writer had taped pictures inside. The crimes were identical, then and today. He glanced at the clock and decided to call it a night. He was only forty pages into a two hundred page journal, but he would wait until tomorrow to try to get into the sick mind of this poor child.
I can't live in this house any more. She is making things unbearable. I want to run, go where the red sun falls beneath the horizon and fades away for hours and hours. I want to face for hours and hours. She did it to me again. The dress. The fucking red dress. Again and again she puts it on me. Again and again she hits me. The bitch. I want to hurt her. Every time it happens, I imagine something else happening to her, worse than the time before.
The Sargent lowered the journal and took out his pen and pad, jotting down an few notes. He had found the small book tucked under the jacket of the Lead Detective of the Red Murders case. Each entry was getting progressively darker.
July 29th,
I surprised her today. She didn't know I saw my father after school. He always comes by and she never knows. He gave me $400 for clothes and food, but this time I didn't buy those. I was never going to. I hate lying to him, but he can't understand how much I hate him for leaving me here. With her. Always with her. His red car always driving away and never with me in it. Saving me. I came home with a bag and she demanded to know what was in it. I wouldn't tell her. I told her to fuck off. She hit me. Red stains on the carpet. New and old. The house was always coated in red these days. She told me to strip. I did. I was ready for her. The scars and cuts were still there from last time. She put the red dress on me, but I said nothing. I didn't scream or cry when she started hitting and cutting. I surprised her. I smiled. I kept on smiling. That bitch couldn't understand. She stopped. I stood there, reached in my bag. I showed her what I bought for her. Now the room is really red, but justifiably red. She deserved it. He deserves it too. All of them deserve it.
The Sargent put the book down and looked at the year it was written. Why hadn't he heard about a murder case like the ones happening now? He flipped the page and saw that the writer had taped pictures inside. The crimes were identical, then and today. He glanced at the clock and decided to call it a night. He was only forty pages into a two hundred page journal, but he would wait until tomorrow to try to get into the sick mind of this poor child.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Writing: Moment In Time - Red
Red. Red, red red. The walls were red. Why were the walls red? Why was the ground red? What is on my hands? Red. Red, red, red, red. I can't see anything but red. Honey? Why are you dressed in red? Come on, get up. Get up. Get the fuck up! I gotta wash the red away. Red. Red is bad. Bad. She was bad. She earned her red dress. Just like her and all the ones before her. I will make them all wear red. You think me crazy, Detective? You think me insane? You think I do what I do for no reason other than insanity? You couldn't be further wrong. I will decorate this world in red. Red hands spreading the red. I will cover your life in red, Detective. I will cover you in red until red is the only thing you will ever see again.
The detective lowered the letter and glanced back to the form of a man, slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. It took too long to catch this man before he made his mark in history, he thought. He had received ten letters just like the one that was delivered to him this morning, but now he knew that this was going to be the final letter. He was dead, those poor souls of the women and officers he killed in his insane quest to "coat the world in red" were finally able to rest. He walked closer to the body and knelt down, his trench coat scrapping along the trash strewn alley, and looked into the still open eyes of the man he chased for the past two years. The lights from the squad cars flashed across that blood covered face, illuminating the sadistic smirk he still had, even after death. The man was nondescript, An every day sort of man, he thought to himself. He wondered if he ever walked past this man on the streets, completely unaware that a madman like this was looking right into his eyes. He lightly chuckled, knowing that would be something that this sadistic bastard would do just because he knew he could.
He filed the paperwork and waved goodnight to his partner. As he drove home, he was full of mixed feelings. Happy that a serial killer was finally off the streets, but sad that he had to go through an astonishingly long list of people to tell them that they can finally find peace. As he pulled up to the house, he noticed the door open and every light in the house turned on. He stopped, stepped from the car, and called the station to get uniformed officers there fast. He drew his service pistol and stepped through the open door, a chill running through his soul at the thought of something happening to his family. As he stepped through the door, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head that drove him to his knees, his weapon skittering across the floor until it slowed and stopped in a pool of blood. He focused his eyes and saw his wife and children, covered in blood. . .red, just like the walls were. He felt cold steel touch the back of his neck and felt something slide across his shoulder. With shaking hands he took the letter and opened it.
Now you see the red. It will be the last color you ever see, Detective. The red. Red, red, red, all will be covered in red. I'm not finished painting. I'll never be finished.
He closed his eyes and felt breath against his ear. The voice told him that he was clever, but not clever enough. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at his family lying there. The voice told him words he never expected to hear. The voice stopped and hesitantly said, . . .I love you, father. Father? He was in the act of turning around and looking into the face he had known since it was born, but as he turned, he heard the familiar sound of a bolt striking just before a bullet is fired.
The detective lowered the letter and glanced back to the form of a man, slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. It took too long to catch this man before he made his mark in history, he thought. He had received ten letters just like the one that was delivered to him this morning, but now he knew that this was going to be the final letter. He was dead, those poor souls of the women and officers he killed in his insane quest to "coat the world in red" were finally able to rest. He walked closer to the body and knelt down, his trench coat scrapping along the trash strewn alley, and looked into the still open eyes of the man he chased for the past two years. The lights from the squad cars flashed across that blood covered face, illuminating the sadistic smirk he still had, even after death. The man was nondescript, An every day sort of man, he thought to himself. He wondered if he ever walked past this man on the streets, completely unaware that a madman like this was looking right into his eyes. He lightly chuckled, knowing that would be something that this sadistic bastard would do just because he knew he could.
He filed the paperwork and waved goodnight to his partner. As he drove home, he was full of mixed feelings. Happy that a serial killer was finally off the streets, but sad that he had to go through an astonishingly long list of people to tell them that they can finally find peace. As he pulled up to the house, he noticed the door open and every light in the house turned on. He stopped, stepped from the car, and called the station to get uniformed officers there fast. He drew his service pistol and stepped through the open door, a chill running through his soul at the thought of something happening to his family. As he stepped through the door, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head that drove him to his knees, his weapon skittering across the floor until it slowed and stopped in a pool of blood. He focused his eyes and saw his wife and children, covered in blood. . .red, just like the walls were. He felt cold steel touch the back of his neck and felt something slide across his shoulder. With shaking hands he took the letter and opened it.
Now you see the red. It will be the last color you ever see, Detective. The red. Red, red, red, all will be covered in red. I'm not finished painting. I'll never be finished.
He closed his eyes and felt breath against his ear. The voice told him that he was clever, but not clever enough. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at his family lying there. The voice told him words he never expected to hear. The voice stopped and hesitantly said, . . .I love you, father. Father? He was in the act of turning around and looking into the face he had known since it was born, but as he turned, he heard the familiar sound of a bolt striking just before a bullet is fired.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Writing: Moment In Time - Cool Spring Night
He waves goodbye to his co-workers and heads to his car, feeling the heat from the day wash off his body, thanks to the cool air outside. He glances to the cloudless sky, his eyes seeking the moon as they usually do when he is outside at night. Watching the pale ghost move ponderously across the cosmos, his thoughts fold inward. He made a mistake today. Not at work, though. His managers said he did a great job and thanked him for his hard work on a busy night. It was his personal life where he made the mistake. He unlocks his car, steps inside and turns the ignition, though not moving from the parking space. He opens the window and lets the cool spring air flow through the drivers window. He never meant to scare her, he silently tells himself. His head tilts back as the overhead light dims. He was thinking birthday gift, nothing more, when he was taking about getting her some jewelry. He winces as he see's how that could be misconstrued.
He finally, after a long five minutes, leaves the parking lot. He drives home, letting the cool air wash away his mistake. He won't make it a second time, he thinks. He turns on the radio and switches to his CD player. He sings along with the music until it reaches a song he can finally make him smile tonight. It's 3AM and I wanna go to bed, I got a lady runnin' through my hair. . . He loves her, he says out loud to the musician coming through the speakers. He won't scare her away. He won't let himself hurt her, because she means so much to him. He thought those words all the way home, even as he sat down to write a short story about this cool spring night.
He finally, after a long five minutes, leaves the parking lot. He drives home, letting the cool air wash away his mistake. He won't make it a second time, he thinks. He turns on the radio and switches to his CD player. He sings along with the music until it reaches a song he can finally make him smile tonight. It's 3AM and I wanna go to bed, I got a lady runnin' through my hair. . . He loves her, he says out loud to the musician coming through the speakers. He won't scare her away. He won't let himself hurt her, because she means so much to him. He thought those words all the way home, even as he sat down to write a short story about this cool spring night.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Conclusion)
She had done it, finally, after weeks of tests. Smiling at the party going on around her, she had to amend her thoughts. They had done it, all of them. The infection has ceased spreading and had gone into remission. There had been cases of early stage treatments actually curing the patient. The only unfortunate part was that those with a full blown infection couldn't be saved and that thought still pained her deeply. The thousands of people who were infected would be hunted down and killed, bodies burned, buried in a mass grave, and forgotten; nameless and unremembered. She watched her team pop champagne corks and laugh, envying them and the relief that poured from each and every near hysterical laugh. All of them were afraid, still. They were afraid that the vaccine wouldn't hold. Sooner or later the infection would come back, but right now, they had to hold onto whatever hope they could find. No country in the world was untouched by the infection. Everyone in the room had lost some loved one to the worst outbreak in human history. Each one of them worked for the whole time with unshed tears that were finally flowing.
Europe had been decimated, but the vaccine was holding, reports had told them. Asia was still burning from military air strikes. Africa was dark, no news coming out and no one brave enough to go in to find out why. Too many people still held to the Outbreak movie mentality and thought that the virus originated from there. She had found out early that the virus came from the west coast of the United States, but no exact point could be found. Central and South America were relatively unharmed as borders were closed early with a shoot-to-kill order issued. Canada sadly, had become a land of the dead. So many souls had been placed on her shoulders each day the virus raged across the world unchecked. Each day more died, but now that would stop. In fact, it had already begun to stop. Generals mingled with the scientists and their families at the party, but with all these thoughts moving through her head, she could only mumble her thanks for their comments and shake hands that were thrust at her. The world had lost too much and so had she. Husband, father to her only daughter. Daughter. She was the one who gave the soldiers the kill order for her only daughter and the man that she loved. She rationalized that they were dead already, or at the very least, wouldn't want to live in that state. She watched them fall and land in pools of their own blood, almost like he was cradling her. Her heart broke as she felt the desire to climb into that embrace and fall into sweet death with those she loved, but her duty is what she clung to.
She worked tirelessly for weeks, enduring failure after failure while watching the infection spread like wildfire. She watched the military do what they do best, kill. She watched videos found by soldiers made by a group of survivors in a school in horror, feeling the fear that each person showed. She heard the reports of those that were resistant to the infection, but hadn't seen any of them. Every failure cost thousands of lives. Every day, hundreds of thousands. It's over, she thought. No more need to die. She could almost convince herself that this was true, but every time she thought that, she saw the faces of her husband and daughter, eyes staring blankly to the sky as they died in each others arms. She walked away from the party and back to her office, glancing at the paperwork with her thoughts tossing around in her mind. She never heard the radio saying that the vaccine was failing. She never heard the president call for nuclear strikes. She never heard the base alarm go off, nor the doors breaking in from the outside. She only saw the faces of the happiest time of her life, with her family out camping. As hands closed around her neck, her eyes closed and a smile came to her lips. Mommy's coming, my loves.
Europe had been decimated, but the vaccine was holding, reports had told them. Asia was still burning from military air strikes. Africa was dark, no news coming out and no one brave enough to go in to find out why. Too many people still held to the Outbreak movie mentality and thought that the virus originated from there. She had found out early that the virus came from the west coast of the United States, but no exact point could be found. Central and South America were relatively unharmed as borders were closed early with a shoot-to-kill order issued. Canada sadly, had become a land of the dead. So many souls had been placed on her shoulders each day the virus raged across the world unchecked. Each day more died, but now that would stop. In fact, it had already begun to stop. Generals mingled with the scientists and their families at the party, but with all these thoughts moving through her head, she could only mumble her thanks for their comments and shake hands that were thrust at her. The world had lost too much and so had she. Husband, father to her only daughter. Daughter. She was the one who gave the soldiers the kill order for her only daughter and the man that she loved. She rationalized that they were dead already, or at the very least, wouldn't want to live in that state. She watched them fall and land in pools of their own blood, almost like he was cradling her. Her heart broke as she felt the desire to climb into that embrace and fall into sweet death with those she loved, but her duty is what she clung to.
She worked tirelessly for weeks, enduring failure after failure while watching the infection spread like wildfire. She watched the military do what they do best, kill. She watched videos found by soldiers made by a group of survivors in a school in horror, feeling the fear that each person showed. She heard the reports of those that were resistant to the infection, but hadn't seen any of them. Every failure cost thousands of lives. Every day, hundreds of thousands. It's over, she thought. No more need to die. She could almost convince herself that this was true, but every time she thought that, she saw the faces of her husband and daughter, eyes staring blankly to the sky as they died in each others arms. She walked away from the party and back to her office, glancing at the paperwork with her thoughts tossing around in her mind. She never heard the radio saying that the vaccine was failing. She never heard the president call for nuclear strikes. She never heard the base alarm go off, nor the doors breaking in from the outside. She only saw the faces of the happiest time of her life, with her family out camping. As hands closed around her neck, her eyes closed and a smile came to her lips. Mommy's coming, my loves.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Desperation)
He cradled his weapon, his friend, close to his body as he watched the others. His clothes torn and tattered, hanging from his body since the day he killed everyone he loved in this world. Now he sat in a college building, barricaded inside to escape the infected, with other refugee's. They hadn't gotten far from where he joined up with them before the infection spread beyond their speed. New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Cleavland, all had fallen as they made their way from Maine. They would have gone north, but the word was from the scattered radio signals they picked up that Canada had reached critical infection and nowhere was safe. He stared at them in turn and each of them stared at him, then to each other. No one was operating at full mental abilities anymore. Suspicion and fear was written clearly on every blood and mud smeared face.
He leaned up and looked out the barred window, watching infected run across the quad, moving in packs, reminding him of things he had seen on the Discovery Channel. Hunters. Gatherers. They regressed to primal, animalistic creatures. He brushed it aside, they wore clothes, had jobs, families. These were people, not animals. He squeezed his gun tighter to his body as he thought about the brutal way he killed his own mother. He can't even remember if she was infected or not. She wouldn't stop screaming, clawing. She had to have been infected, there was no doubt. She didn't say anything to him to stop him. . . or did she? No, she didn't. He was comforted by this knowledge. This knowledge would save him one day. A movement from the room brought his gun up and aimed at a child approaching to look out the window. He relaxed and beckoned her to the window. None of them have spoken in days, but used hand gestures to communicate. The infected had superb hearing, sounds attracted them in droves. He watched the child walk slowly to the window and watch the packs run through the lawn and looked out himself. A smear of blood was fresh in front of a building across the yard, someone who tried to get to safety but couldn't make it. He shook. It could have been him. It might have been him. What if he was dead, he thought. What if someone in here was infected and that would be him. He would be dead already since every exit was blocked in a way that it took more than one person to remove the items blocking it. He looked to the child to move her away from the window, and himself, but he froze, ice filling his veins.
The child was coated in blood, eyes red, and breathing hoarsely. He couldn't distinguish the infection from tears, all he was was her blood red eyes. He recoiled, desperately crawling away, taking aim with tremors running through his body and watched as the child fell to the ground, two rounds piercing her brain and blowing out the back of her head. Cries of alarm echoed through the building as people came rushing towards him. Jibbering in fear he sprayed shots through the room, never feeling the weapon recoil, just watching the infected die before they were able to kill him. He would survive, he thought with fevered thoughts. Women, children, men, teens, each fell. He thought that he should feel bad, because they were once people, but pushed that aside, knowing that he would die if they reached him. Rend his flesh and feast, or worse, turn him into one of them. Standing up, he screamed defiance and made his way through the building, sparing no mercy. His brain seethed with his fear and insanity. He searched for a way out of the building, but realized that he was too late in killing them, they alerted the infected from outside. They tore at every door and window. There was no way out. He sighed and felt a calmness come over him. He walked past the bodies around him and back to the window, glancing at the blue eyed girl laying face up in a pool of her own blood. I saved you, he softly said, now I save myself. With a smile on his face and glassy, insane eyes, he put the hot barrel under his chin and squeezed the trigger.
He leaned up and looked out the barred window, watching infected run across the quad, moving in packs, reminding him of things he had seen on the Discovery Channel. Hunters. Gatherers. They regressed to primal, animalistic creatures. He brushed it aside, they wore clothes, had jobs, families. These were people, not animals. He squeezed his gun tighter to his body as he thought about the brutal way he killed his own mother. He can't even remember if she was infected or not. She wouldn't stop screaming, clawing. She had to have been infected, there was no doubt. She didn't say anything to him to stop him. . . or did she? No, she didn't. He was comforted by this knowledge. This knowledge would save him one day. A movement from the room brought his gun up and aimed at a child approaching to look out the window. He relaxed and beckoned her to the window. None of them have spoken in days, but used hand gestures to communicate. The infected had superb hearing, sounds attracted them in droves. He watched the child walk slowly to the window and watch the packs run through the lawn and looked out himself. A smear of blood was fresh in front of a building across the yard, someone who tried to get to safety but couldn't make it. He shook. It could have been him. It might have been him. What if he was dead, he thought. What if someone in here was infected and that would be him. He would be dead already since every exit was blocked in a way that it took more than one person to remove the items blocking it. He looked to the child to move her away from the window, and himself, but he froze, ice filling his veins.
The child was coated in blood, eyes red, and breathing hoarsely. He couldn't distinguish the infection from tears, all he was was her blood red eyes. He recoiled, desperately crawling away, taking aim with tremors running through his body and watched as the child fell to the ground, two rounds piercing her brain and blowing out the back of her head. Cries of alarm echoed through the building as people came rushing towards him. Jibbering in fear he sprayed shots through the room, never feeling the weapon recoil, just watching the infected die before they were able to kill him. He would survive, he thought with fevered thoughts. Women, children, men, teens, each fell. He thought that he should feel bad, because they were once people, but pushed that aside, knowing that he would die if they reached him. Rend his flesh and feast, or worse, turn him into one of them. Standing up, he screamed defiance and made his way through the building, sparing no mercy. His brain seethed with his fear and insanity. He searched for a way out of the building, but realized that he was too late in killing them, they alerted the infected from outside. They tore at every door and window. There was no way out. He sighed and felt a calmness come over him. He walked past the bodies around him and back to the window, glancing at the blue eyed girl laying face up in a pool of her own blood. I saved you, he softly said, now I save myself. With a smile on his face and glassy, insane eyes, he put the hot barrel under his chin and squeezed the trigger.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Resistance)
The game was on now, he thought. The city was overrun with what he could best guess to be zombies, but not quite. Before the emergency broadcast cut out, they told everyone who was not infected should lock themselves indoors and wait for rescue squads to extract them. He had seen enough movies to know that never works. All the years of people laughing at his plans for a "zombocalype" were now justified. He glanced at the table before him and did a mental checklist of everything he would need to survive on the move. Flashlight, check. Dried rations, check. Water purification tablets, check. Firearms, check. Knives, check. First aid kit, check. He went down the list over and over, adding and subtracting items, until he was satisfied. He wrote a note and recorded a video for whoever comes to his apartment and headed for the door.
Slowly making his way out of the building, he saw that the city was in a total state of anarchy. The military hadn't gotten around to taking action inside, but they blocked off the city so no one could get in or out. He looked around to make sure that no infected were in sight and went to his bike and unchained it. His hands shook while removing the chain, adrenaline giving him the jitters, he thought, but he also knew that it was fear. He could say he was prepared all he wanted over the years, but now that it was finally happening. . . He took the bike path into the woods behind the dorm buildings and kept his ears and eyes open for any sounds. He remembered taking his girlfriend to these woods on their third date, but that felt like ages ago now. As always for the past week, thoughts of her start tears flowing down his cheeks. He can say that he loved her, but it wasn't love that put a bullet through her head, it was fear. He was afraid to turn into one of them and that fear drove him right now.
The farther he delved into the woods, the more memories cropped up. He remembered going to get tested after the incident with his girlfriend and being told that he had an immunity, a natural resistance to the infection. They took so much blood that it left him weak for days, but apparently they weren't able to come up with anything in time to save people. Now the infection was spreading beyond control. Two major cities in the United States have fallen, along with three cities overseas. The military was doing the only thing they knew how to do, they were destroying the cities and everything inside of them, but the infection continued. A sound snapped him back to the present, a crack of limbs from his right. He stopped his bike and ran behind a tree, readying his rifle with sweat soaked hands.
He heard voices, but couldn't make out words and wasn't sure if the infected had the ability to talk or not. When he saw a group of soldiers making their way to the clearing a few feet ahead of him, his heart soared. He would make it out, join in the struggle to contain this. He owed her that much. He ran for the clearing and yelled for the soldiers. They spun around and saw him moving towards them, but at that moment his joy turned to fear as three bullets passed through his body. The shock dropped him to the grass and with bewildered eyes he was the grass sprayed red with gems of crimson. A soldier walked towards him, weapon ready, and he tried to tell him he was immune, he had a resistance to the infection, but all that came out was a gush of frothy blood. Another shot rang out and the grass sparkled even more. The soldiers returned to base, one confirmed infected killed trying to make it to the safe zone.
Slowly making his way out of the building, he saw that the city was in a total state of anarchy. The military hadn't gotten around to taking action inside, but they blocked off the city so no one could get in or out. He looked around to make sure that no infected were in sight and went to his bike and unchained it. His hands shook while removing the chain, adrenaline giving him the jitters, he thought, but he also knew that it was fear. He could say he was prepared all he wanted over the years, but now that it was finally happening. . . He took the bike path into the woods behind the dorm buildings and kept his ears and eyes open for any sounds. He remembered taking his girlfriend to these woods on their third date, but that felt like ages ago now. As always for the past week, thoughts of her start tears flowing down his cheeks. He can say that he loved her, but it wasn't love that put a bullet through her head, it was fear. He was afraid to turn into one of them and that fear drove him right now.
The farther he delved into the woods, the more memories cropped up. He remembered going to get tested after the incident with his girlfriend and being told that he had an immunity, a natural resistance to the infection. They took so much blood that it left him weak for days, but apparently they weren't able to come up with anything in time to save people. Now the infection was spreading beyond control. Two major cities in the United States have fallen, along with three cities overseas. The military was doing the only thing they knew how to do, they were destroying the cities and everything inside of them, but the infection continued. A sound snapped him back to the present, a crack of limbs from his right. He stopped his bike and ran behind a tree, readying his rifle with sweat soaked hands.
He heard voices, but couldn't make out words and wasn't sure if the infected had the ability to talk or not. When he saw a group of soldiers making their way to the clearing a few feet ahead of him, his heart soared. He would make it out, join in the struggle to contain this. He owed her that much. He ran for the clearing and yelled for the soldiers. They spun around and saw him moving towards them, but at that moment his joy turned to fear as three bullets passed through his body. The shock dropped him to the grass and with bewildered eyes he was the grass sprayed red with gems of crimson. A soldier walked towards him, weapon ready, and he tried to tell him he was immune, he had a resistance to the infection, but all that came out was a gush of frothy blood. Another shot rang out and the grass sparkled even more. The soldiers returned to base, one confirmed infected killed trying to make it to the safe zone.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Writing: Moment In Time - Infection (Quarantine)
He knew this was wrong, even as he gave his first Yes, Sir! to the command. As he walked toward the city border, he knew it was wrong even more. Each face beyond the fence shone a glow of horror and it tore at his soul. He checked his rifle, gear, and from beneath veiled eyes, the faces of his fellow soldiers. Each face was an echo of his own. No one wanted to be doing what they were told to do now. He approached his deployment point and waited. . . waited for the time when his morals took a backseat to his duty.
Caged animals, that's what they looked like to him. He couldn't place it as such as he was walking up, but he saw the unbridled form of human emotion taking place before him. If what was on the other side of the fence escaped nothing could stop it. It would go from city to city, country to country, devouring the entire race before a person could bat an eye. He wanted to believe this, but he knew that it might not be true. It could be stopped. It could be contained. A cure could be found. The lives already lost could be the only ones needed to be sacrificed. The images from inside the quarantine zone showed otherwise. He never knew, before going to the briefing two days ago that a person could be reduced to what he was seeing. He wasn't sure what he was seeing was real or some film directors imagination. He cradled his gun closer, safety off, and tried to block the sounds of the poor souls beyond the chain link fence from his mind.
There were shouts coming from all around him, both sides of the fence. There is a breach. There is a command to kill all suspected of infection. Negative, no breach. Someone escaped. Someone outside is infected. He couldn't tell what was the truth any more. He looked around for his commander, silently pleading, asking what he should do. He couldn't shoot his own countrymen. He couldn't shoot a mother cradling her baby. He saw the commander on the radio, yelling emphatically, demanding to know what the orders where. A hand gesture activated his training and before he even realized, his rifle was pointed towards the crowd. The roar of jet engines sounded above him. He glanced around at other soldiers and saw the weapons shaking in their hands. This is wrong. He kept telling himself he had to do it, but this was wrong. Who wasn't affected? We should be saving those that could be saved, he thought. His eyes glanced to the commander, watching in slow motion as his arm fell. His eyes moved slowly to the crowd before him, staring into the soul of a little girl, nose bleeding and eyes burning red. With hot tears streaking down his sweat chilled skin, he pulled the trigger as fire ignited the city before him, begging God to forgive him for what he is doing.
Caged animals, that's what they looked like to him. He couldn't place it as such as he was walking up, but he saw the unbridled form of human emotion taking place before him. If what was on the other side of the fence escaped nothing could stop it. It would go from city to city, country to country, devouring the entire race before a person could bat an eye. He wanted to believe this, but he knew that it might not be true. It could be stopped. It could be contained. A cure could be found. The lives already lost could be the only ones needed to be sacrificed. The images from inside the quarantine zone showed otherwise. He never knew, before going to the briefing two days ago that a person could be reduced to what he was seeing. He wasn't sure what he was seeing was real or some film directors imagination. He cradled his gun closer, safety off, and tried to block the sounds of the poor souls beyond the chain link fence from his mind.
There were shouts coming from all around him, both sides of the fence. There is a breach. There is a command to kill all suspected of infection. Negative, no breach. Someone escaped. Someone outside is infected. He couldn't tell what was the truth any more. He looked around for his commander, silently pleading, asking what he should do. He couldn't shoot his own countrymen. He couldn't shoot a mother cradling her baby. He saw the commander on the radio, yelling emphatically, demanding to know what the orders where. A hand gesture activated his training and before he even realized, his rifle was pointed towards the crowd. The roar of jet engines sounded above him. He glanced around at other soldiers and saw the weapons shaking in their hands. This is wrong. He kept telling himself he had to do it, but this was wrong. Who wasn't affected? We should be saving those that could be saved, he thought. His eyes glanced to the commander, watching in slow motion as his arm fell. His eyes moved slowly to the crowd before him, staring into the soul of a little girl, nose bleeding and eyes burning red. With hot tears streaking down his sweat chilled skin, he pulled the trigger as fire ignited the city before him, begging God to forgive him for what he is doing.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Isolation)
He wasn't sure how long he had been in here, seeing as how there was no clocks and no windows. His cough had gotten worse since he arrived, dragged from his house with his wife and daughter, thrown in a room by people in hazmat suits, and locked away to rot. The white walls were stained red with the blood from his fists from pounding on them for hours demanding his family, but never receiving an answer. He was tired, feverish, and wished that it was all some bad dream. Every so often, so sporaticaly that he thought it was his mind playing tricks, he would hear the sound of screaming nearby. The screams kept him awake when he tried to sleep on the drop down cot that was provided for him. He paced the room more times than he could count, searching for a way out, but every corner was sealed, even the door was set in a way that nothing could pry it open from the inside. He was beyond scared, to the point where he was calm, but the calmness was shattered by the pounding headaches that came closer and closer together.
In his mind, weeks had gone by, but he could never be sure. His cough had turned to hacking, spraying small clots of blood over the white padded floor. The screams became near constant, but he believed them now to be only in his head. No one could scream for that long. Hell, he thought, he hadn't talked for a long time, long ago given up on trying to reach whoever put him in this hole to die. He thought back, straining to remember what happened that would make someone destroy him and his family. The headache was intolerable, dashing thoughts against jagged rocks. He slammed his fists down in anger, wishing he could just pull one thought together. He sat in the corner, holding his nose from the bloody mess that was pouring from it, more than likely from the headaches he thought. He listened to his head pound, the screams, the silence between them. The screams. Closer, he thought. Was he alone in this hole? Did they have more people down here, torturing them? Killing them? Blasted headache, he yelled, and instantly grabbed his throat as if something tore inside from not using it for so long. He coughed again, more serious, gasping for air as he watched blood flow from his mouth and pool on the padding. The screams were closer, he could hear that, but he could no longer feel the blood coming from his mouth despite the growing size of the puddle near him.
He tried to stand, get near the door and use what was left of his voice to call for help, but his legs gave out under him with a sickening sound of bone ripping from muscle. He fell face first and braced for the pain which never came. Looking back he saw his shinbone sticking out from his skin, the blood on it dark and thick. Amazement went through his mind as he felt tears rolling down his cheek. Brushing them away and lowering his blood smeared hands to the floor, he dragged his limp body towards the door, leaving a trail of crimson from the corner. He wanted his wife, his daughter. He wanted to be out of this room and find them. His head ached, as if his brain was trying to be released from his skull. He wanted them as he reached the door, pounding on it with impotent rage. What he wanted them for now, he knew he would never forgive himself.
In his mind, weeks had gone by, but he could never be sure. His cough had turned to hacking, spraying small clots of blood over the white padded floor. The screams became near constant, but he believed them now to be only in his head. No one could scream for that long. Hell, he thought, he hadn't talked for a long time, long ago given up on trying to reach whoever put him in this hole to die. He thought back, straining to remember what happened that would make someone destroy him and his family. The headache was intolerable, dashing thoughts against jagged rocks. He slammed his fists down in anger, wishing he could just pull one thought together. He sat in the corner, holding his nose from the bloody mess that was pouring from it, more than likely from the headaches he thought. He listened to his head pound, the screams, the silence between them. The screams. Closer, he thought. Was he alone in this hole? Did they have more people down here, torturing them? Killing them? Blasted headache, he yelled, and instantly grabbed his throat as if something tore inside from not using it for so long. He coughed again, more serious, gasping for air as he watched blood flow from his mouth and pool on the padding. The screams were closer, he could hear that, but he could no longer feel the blood coming from his mouth despite the growing size of the puddle near him.
He tried to stand, get near the door and use what was left of his voice to call for help, but his legs gave out under him with a sickening sound of bone ripping from muscle. He fell face first and braced for the pain which never came. Looking back he saw his shinbone sticking out from his skin, the blood on it dark and thick. Amazement went through his mind as he felt tears rolling down his cheek. Brushing them away and lowering his blood smeared hands to the floor, he dragged his limp body towards the door, leaving a trail of crimson from the corner. He wanted his wife, his daughter. He wanted to be out of this room and find them. His head ached, as if his brain was trying to be released from his skull. He wanted them as he reached the door, pounding on it with impotent rage. What he wanted them for now, he knew he would never forgive himself.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Spread)
She saw the ambulance screaming towards her just in time to hit her breaks, sending her coffee flying from her hand and coating the windshield with the creamy brown mix of coffee and creamer. Her heart was beating like a drum and her breath was come quickly out of an already hoarse and sore throat. She took a moment to collect herself and wipe her nose, which ran almost constantly for the past two days, then began searching for something to wipe off her glazed windshield. This had been a hellish week for her already and this was just icing on the cake. Not that she minded the extra hours, living in the city was expensive, but for a week straight she has been covering his shifts, not to mention the mountains of paperwork he felt for her before he vanished. For a few days, she was able to reach him to get advice on the more serious decisions, but now she couldn't reach him at all. She thought about going to his apartment to ask him if he was ever going to return, but decided against it. If he was too sick to answer the phone or check his e-mail, he would be too sick to answer the door.
With the car cleaned to the best of her ability, she pulled back to the road and headed to the office, ignoring the migraine that was building behind her eye. Two more lights and she was there, thankful for finding a job so close to home. Pulling into a parking space, she began to get her belongings in order, but as she glanced at the mirror to check her makeup, she noticed her eyes were bloodshot. Must be from all the sneezing and headaches she has had, she thought. Brushing it off, she stepped from her car and stood up with a slight rush to the head, silently sighing and thinking that he better not have gotten her sick. She waited until the feeling passed and walked in the office, blessing the dim recessed lighting of the main atrium. Waving hello to the security officer, she went to the elevator and hit the button, adjusting her dress in the bronzed doors while she waited for it to make the slow trek down from the seventh floor. A small blemish on her face distracted her and she wiped it away, thinking that it must be from when the coffee decided to free itself and make a mad dash from her cup, but as she looked to see what it was, she saw it was a small amount of blood. Wonderful, she thought, a migraine, dizziness, runny nose, and now a bloody nose. She tilted her head back to try and stem the flow, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she stumbled backwards, supporting herself on the far wall.
She wasn't sure how long it took for the bleeding to stop, but by the time the buzzer went off for the elevator, she had wretched into the trash bin next to her twice. Wiping her mouth and checking for more blood, she stepped in the elevator, cursing his name with each unsteady step. She pressed the button for the fifth floor and watched the doors close slowly, smiling a bit wickedly as she watched someone cover their mouths as they walked by where she vomited. Leaning against the elevator wall, she felt another wave of nausea come over her, but choked back the bile coming out of her, now empty, stomach. Her eyes burned and her nose was a constant runny faucet now, but she couldn't call in, not while he was still out. The doors slowly slide open and she took a few steps into the office, only to collapse, her body shaking and covered in a fine sheath of sweat. She couldn't get her arms to lift herself off the ground, instead she vomited once again, but this time there was blood mixed with the bile. She heard footsteps rushing towards her, along with cries of concern and alarm. Her body shaking and a small pool of blood forming under her from what she guessed was her nose again, she couldn't get the energy to tell them she was fine and to get her to her office. She heard someone yell for an ambulance, but all she was thinking was who was going to cover her work if they wouldn't let her do it herself.
With the car cleaned to the best of her ability, she pulled back to the road and headed to the office, ignoring the migraine that was building behind her eye. Two more lights and she was there, thankful for finding a job so close to home. Pulling into a parking space, she began to get her belongings in order, but as she glanced at the mirror to check her makeup, she noticed her eyes were bloodshot. Must be from all the sneezing and headaches she has had, she thought. Brushing it off, she stepped from her car and stood up with a slight rush to the head, silently sighing and thinking that he better not have gotten her sick. She waited until the feeling passed and walked in the office, blessing the dim recessed lighting of the main atrium. Waving hello to the security officer, she went to the elevator and hit the button, adjusting her dress in the bronzed doors while she waited for it to make the slow trek down from the seventh floor. A small blemish on her face distracted her and she wiped it away, thinking that it must be from when the coffee decided to free itself and make a mad dash from her cup, but as she looked to see what it was, she saw it was a small amount of blood. Wonderful, she thought, a migraine, dizziness, runny nose, and now a bloody nose. She tilted her head back to try and stem the flow, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she stumbled backwards, supporting herself on the far wall.
She wasn't sure how long it took for the bleeding to stop, but by the time the buzzer went off for the elevator, she had wretched into the trash bin next to her twice. Wiping her mouth and checking for more blood, she stepped in the elevator, cursing his name with each unsteady step. She pressed the button for the fifth floor and watched the doors close slowly, smiling a bit wickedly as she watched someone cover their mouths as they walked by where she vomited. Leaning against the elevator wall, she felt another wave of nausea come over her, but choked back the bile coming out of her, now empty, stomach. Her eyes burned and her nose was a constant runny faucet now, but she couldn't call in, not while he was still out. The doors slowly slide open and she took a few steps into the office, only to collapse, her body shaking and covered in a fine sheath of sweat. She couldn't get her arms to lift herself off the ground, instead she vomited once again, but this time there was blood mixed with the bile. She heard footsteps rushing towards her, along with cries of concern and alarm. Her body shaking and a small pool of blood forming under her from what she guessed was her nose again, she couldn't get the energy to tell them she was fine and to get her to her office. She heard someone yell for an ambulance, but all she was thinking was who was going to cover her work if they wouldn't let her do it herself.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Writing: Moment In Time - One Night (One Perfect Night)
Her heartbeat woke him. A soft rhythm drumming from the source of her lifeblood, steady and content. He closed his eyes and listened to the beat of that melodious tune. He rested his head on her breast and took in her essence, feeling for the first time a closeness in his life that filled a void that remained gaping in his soul for too many years. With each beat, the chasm closed, filling with a warmth that originated from her and settled with gossamer wings on his old wounds. He could feel each filling, become replenished, and finally vanish. A soft sigh escaped his lips, sending a tremor through her sleeping body as his warm breath danced across her night-cooled skin. He listened for hours, or minutes, or seconds, he would never be sure, but he knew that what he felt he had never felt before.
Opening his eyes, he gazed up her bosom, his sight adjusting to the almost pitch black of his room as it fell upon her sleeping face. Soft and serene, composed with the slightest smile, he noticed it was her light that was saving them from being engulfed in darkness tonight. He watched the dancing of her eyes under her eyelids, that thin veil of flesh that hid another beautiful sight from him. He would have cursed those curtains some other time, but the locked away treasures they held tonight added to her beauty tenfold. His eyes walked across every feature, every encore, every after show event that made up the symphony he saw in her countenance. His eyes drank deep, savoring every drip of beauty that fell into his heart. He resisted the urge to disturb the priceless portrait before him by brushing a stand of hair that lightly caressed her cheek, choosing instead to let it rest where he wished he could lay his hand and then lips. He smiled and glanced at the clock, noting that soon the sun will rise. The sun will rise outside, but his won't rise for many more hours yet. He breathed deeply and took her in his arms, feeling her body slide to a perfect fit beside his, closed his eyes, and dreamed.
Opening his eyes, he gazed up her bosom, his sight adjusting to the almost pitch black of his room as it fell upon her sleeping face. Soft and serene, composed with the slightest smile, he noticed it was her light that was saving them from being engulfed in darkness tonight. He watched the dancing of her eyes under her eyelids, that thin veil of flesh that hid another beautiful sight from him. He would have cursed those curtains some other time, but the locked away treasures they held tonight added to her beauty tenfold. His eyes walked across every feature, every encore, every after show event that made up the symphony he saw in her countenance. His eyes drank deep, savoring every drip of beauty that fell into his heart. He resisted the urge to disturb the priceless portrait before him by brushing a stand of hair that lightly caressed her cheek, choosing instead to let it rest where he wished he could lay his hand and then lips. He smiled and glanced at the clock, noting that soon the sun will rise. The sun will rise outside, but his won't rise for many more hours yet. He breathed deeply and took her in his arms, feeling her body slide to a perfect fit beside his, closed his eyes, and dreamed.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)