There was a chink, the sound of ice moving in a glass. The room was lit respectively, it was not too bright nor too dark. There were no windows in the dining room and if there were, the sight was not worth the look. The room was, like the rest of the house, decorated with reds, off-whites, creams and browns. It was finely dressed and not pompously rich. The room showed the owner to be rich, the kind that was not to be flaunted, but also not to be hidden. Every object in the dining room had a purpose and there was not much art.
A. Cain Arlini was not a man for the arts. He did not care for paintings or play, and certainly not musicals. He did dabble in a book or two, but they never struck a fancy or even a chord. Cain was just a man. Cain also had a very peculiar interest in pulps. While his brother, Abele, read books avidly, watched plays with awe and listened to concerts in rapture, Cain found solace in horror comics. He kept that fact hidden.
The inhabitants of the dining table was an older man, who sat at the head and had a pepper-and-salt mixed with chestnut clean-cut and short hair, an older woman, who was black-haired and devoid of wrinkles and also sat across from the older man, and two men, who were in-between their 20s and 30s. The man was the Father of Cain and Abele. He was highly respected, and also highly feared. His name was Adem and he ran mostly illegal businesses (and a very nice theatre for opera, which they had named The Globe). The woman was the Mother of Cain and Abele and her name was Ava. She ran the opera most of the time and was the reason why they owned the theatre. She had a relentless love for opera. The two last men were, to lightly put it, very special. The one on the right hand of Adem was Abele. He had darker brown hair and the same colour eyes. The one on the left side of Adem was Cain. He had the same colour hair as his father and his eyes were the same brown. Abele’s hair looked soft, the cut made him look kinder than his brother, who’s hair formed horn-like flips. This made Cain look imposing and devilish, which made Abele look like a victim when near him. They both were the same height and almost the same weight. Abele was skinnier by default and it gave him a look of incompleteness. Cain was more filled out, but he was not portly. None of them were, in any way, overweight or chubby. Despite what most people thought, they were not twins. Cain was a year older than Abele. Abele’s leg was bandaged and, if one looked closer, he had several small cuts. Cain tended to look at his brother menacingly from time to time. The reason was because Abele would not be silent.
“If you insist, youngest son, then we might indeed see the opera. Zukerman, that would be the Arianna the papers have been gibbering about these days, will be our lead soprano. The Globe is showing Tosca.” Ava said. Abele was about to mention something happily when the cook came out, followed by four waiters, to announce that dinner has begun. They were treated to Cain’s favourite dish: softly roasted lamb, cooked spinach, whipped potatoes and a mushroom sauce. It was always divine. Disobedient or rotten cooks lost hands, if they were lucky, and cooking a dinner for the Mother and the Father of Cain and Abele was the worst time of the year for the cooks. Cain made sure to personally visit the kitchens to announce that his parents were coming and that the food was to be perfectly celestial. The cooks did not dare to try and quit then. They had heard the stories of bits and pieces of arms or legs found in waste bins. Cain did not like pressure and finding a magnificent cook on short notice entered his list of ‘pressure’. After the cook announced, fairly bluntly, on what the dish was, the waiters strode forward and placed their dished in front of each person.
“I shall now allow the masters and mistress to dine,” the cook said and left. If one looked closely, they could have noticed the small shaking in his legs.
Adem looked at his dish, teasingly amused, “I suspect that this is all you eat, oldest son? This is all you ever serve us.” Abele smiled and nodded in agreement. He received a small kick underneath the table; he made no movement, he did not dare to show to their parents any thing such as fighting.
Cain, pretending to be amused, answered, “It is a fine dish, father. It is both respectable, but not pretentious. I have found that a superb lamb is hard to find and this is a perfect dish to show off my cooks’ skills. Do not worry, though, we will certainly not be dining on the same dish every night.”
Abele, muttering under his breath, said, “Every day would be better… There is breakfast and lunch, of course.” Cain arched an eyebrow at his brother.
“Did you say something, brother? Is something not to your liking?” he said, there was an undertone warning.
“O-of course not, brother. The lamb is d-divine. I love it. I was c-complimenting on the dish.”
“I do hope so, brother.” Cain took a sip of his red wine. There was a small silence, except for the chinking of silverware on good china.
“I was saying, Abele, the Globe will be showing Tosca. Perhaps we ought to go this week?” she offered. Abele and Adem nodded. Cain was neutral.
“I have yet to see this Zukerman. I have heard that she is outstanding,” Adem said. “When is the best time to see it, dear wife?” Abele looked from his father to his mother as they discussed the times that were best to view the opera. He avoided his brother’s gaze; he knew that they were not benevolent and kind looks.
“I would like to do it this week, if that does not displease you, my oldest son. It would be a nice family outing,” said Adem. Cain politely bowed his head slightly.
“No, it would not displease me at all, father. When would be the best showing, mother?” he said. Ava gave a pause, thinking. Abele ate his potatoes and ate around the lamb. He always felt bad eating lamb. He did not really care about the animal itself, but he just had an inner, distinct feeling that when his brother served lamb, something was not right.
“The weekend is never the best, of course. That is when all the commoners come. Today is Wednesday, so they do not play tonight. There is no time, anyways. They do play tomorrow. Do you have anything for use planned, dear older son?” Ava replied and asked. Cain remained control of his face, but his hand was white-knuckled. He had planned on them to see a play. His family did not take well to plays, but adored operas and musicals. He never minded operas, only when they were obstructing something far more interesting. In this case, the play was on outside and natural rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was to be done without costume and only natural sets. There were the necessary masks, of course, and the natural lighting. He was quite looking forward to it. It was like his brother to ruin his brilliant plans.
“No, mother. I did not have anything special planned for tomorrow. If you wish, we shall go.” He responded. Silently and mentally he was hitting his brother over and over again.
“Good. Tomorrow, then.” Ava concluded. She gave a nod, and asked for a pardon. She was tired and full. Cain gave her pardon. Adem, Abele and Cain silently ate for a while. Adem then asked for a pardon and left to join his wife. Cain glared across the table at his brother. Abele looked down.
“S-sorry… b-b-brother.” He said.
Cain continued to glare at him. Awkwardly and ashamed, he began to eat his lamb. Cain picked up his knife and Abele automatically gave a small flinch. Cain slammed his fist down onto the table. Abele stared at his brother. Cain sat like that for a while, trying to control himself. He was forced to not harm his brother for the whole of the week. Abele looked down at his lap and stared at it intently. One of the lesser cooks came out to take the plates. He gingerly took Adem’s and Ava’s. He did not come back. The moment broke and Cain dropped the knife onto the table. He sighed with exhaustion. “Go, dear brother.” He leaned back in his chair while Abele scurried off. Cain stood up with effort and lumbered towards his quarters.
He changed into his favourite pyjamas (black and warm) and lay in bed for a long time. He finally closed his eyes and slept.
It was day. He was sitting, nay, kneeling on grassy land. His hands were wet with blood and his eyes were closed. He felt a presence. It was not the person beside him and it was no ordinary presence. It was, he supposed, The Presence. Then the person beside him spoke and he groaned internally. He opened his eyes slowly as the person beside him waved and said, “Wot’s… er… your name?”. It was Abele. Cain elbowed him, hard. The angel stared at Abele.
“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” Cain said. Abele looked at his brother, confused.
“Who’s that?” Abele asked. Cain glared at him. Even though they never read the Bible, on principle (for it gave them the shivers), they did learn Christian mythology.
“Shut up,” he retorted. The angel looked from one to the other. He looked fairly bored and extremely annoyed. Cain felt he understood.
The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.
The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Cain asked. He was not just going to allow his present, whatever it was, to be ignored.
The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. This made Cain a little uncomfortable. That, then made him a little scared. He hardly felt uncomfortable or scared. Finally, He (despite that the he in question was, in fact, genderless) spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
Cain stared as the angel flew off. His gift was not accepted? What was better about Abele’s gift? He looked over at the stone slab which held their gifts. Cain was a slab of cut meat, from what it looked like. Abele’s was plainly a lamb that was slaughtered. Did God prefer whole lamb? Cain felt his anger rise like never before. The more he thought upon it, the more it rose. He could not temper and cool it. In the background, off miles away, he heard a stammering apology. Cain spied the knife he used in front of him. Without thought, he grabbed it. He rose and faced his brother, who was beginning to back away. Cain took a step closer. His brother fell. Cain screamed and lunged forward with the knife. He was blind and deaf in anger.
Cain was confused. In front of him stood his brother. His brother stared at him, surprised. Cain noticed that he was sitting up. He also noticed that his fist was a centimetre away from Abele’s head. Cain regained his composure. “What is it that you want, dear brother?” His brother wrung his hands.
“W-well, the servants were busy with our mother and father. I th-thought you might want to get up.” Abele looked down.
“Yes... well, thank you then. Leave, I need to change” Cain said slowly. Abele left quickly and thankful that his brother did not strike him. He was trying to remember a dream he had. He was fairly certain that he had heard it before. He shook his head. He found that the dream was slipping away into his subconscious and sneaking out the door into forgetfulness. By the time he was standing in front of his bureau and putting on his trousers, he could only faintly recall that he had a disturbing dream and nothing more.
Cain looked over at the clock on his bedside table and rolled his eyes. It was 6 a.m. Cain always awoke at 8 a.m. Sometimes he woke up later, but he would lay there, thinking, or read or listen to the servants talking. Cain loved laying there in the morning, basking in the pause of time before he would be forced to work and play politic games. Abele had taken that away from him today. Abele had taken away a lot of things today. First the outside and ‘natural’ theatre and now his lounging time. Cain knew this was not going to be a good day. He stood, staring, at his rack of ties, picking up one, placing it back and nodding his head. He wanted to, if anything, wear one of his favourite ties today. He finally found what he wanted and walked over to the mirror, tied it and left, smiling.
The tie was black with a red tear-shaped drop bordered with white.
A/N: This took a long time to do. I ran into homework (well, I was on vacation before; I miss it) and school and I kept watching movies instead of working (this week was Pirates of the Caribbean, both movies, and Nosferatu). So it got put on hold. I was in the middle of the dinner conversation and it probably seemed a little boring compared to the movies I was watching, so I kept saying 'after this movie'. Anyways, I finally sat down yesterday and today and finished it off.
I did the big 'author no-no' and copy-pasted, haha. I wanted to keep the dreams the same, just from different perspectives. I hope it wasn't too boring. I think it's because I love that dream way too much. I love the Metatron; he is based off of Alan Rickman's performance in Dogma. My dad (who is, basically, my editor) looked at me while he was reading and asked 'Have I seen this before?'. I told him it was from The Sacrificial Brother and he responded with 'Oh'. The fact that is seemed very familiar, but not so familiar as to directly correlate with my previous story is very amusing. I wanted that to happen. I wanted to make them seem as though they could have come from anywhere (or anytime).
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The Sacrificial Brother (Abele Arlini)
A bird fluttered down by the window on Abele Arlini’s New York-styled apartment. The apartment was on one of the upper floors, the eighth, to be precise. There were nine levels. There were only two other rooms that were in use on the eighth floor and no one questioned about the ninth. There was not a lot in Abele’s apartment. The living room was currently a mess, the reason was obvious. A table was overturned and the couch was sliced. Old bullet marks splattered the walls. A chair was broken and forgotten about, the leg was somewhere unknown. The sole lamp was in a corner, smashed, and looked as though it was thrown. There were no lights except for the sun from the window. There were two windows looking into the room, but one had been long-smashed (most likely by a bullet or five) and the occupant of the apartment had boarded it up. The room had a general look of unlived in, not because the occupant was busy and away, but because the occupant had long since learned that anything nice and decorative would be a waste of money.
The bird on the windowsill cawed, denoting it as to be a carrion bird of some sort. “Not dead yet,” said a sniffled voice behind the mangled couch. There was another sob when a hand reached up to the couch and the man stood up, with difficulty. The wall behind the man was covered in blood, with good reason. Abele stumbled from the couch to the wall and entered his room, where he kept the bandages. A wide streak of blood was painted at thigh-length on the wall. When Abele sat down on his bed, a pool formed. His left leg received the most attention from the knife. An arm, a bit of his chest and his face had also received some small gashes or two. His face had begun puffing up from being hit by the handle of a knife.
The gash had finally ruined the faded-to-nondescript-coloured pants. Abele dug underneath the bed and produced a first aid kit. He proceeded to take of the pants, with painful difficulty. His eyes watered a lot in the effort. Abele was not fond of pain, to his never-ending despair. He took out a pad and wiped as much excess blood as he could. He took out a leathered stick, a needle and a cat-gut thread. He put the leathered stick in his mouth and threaded the needle. He began to sew up his wound. The bird outside the window was given a chorus of whimpers and sobs, a period of silence (from Abele regaining his composure) and then another chorus. It finally ended and the bird cawed out and left for something tasty.
With his leg finally sewn and bandaged, Abele tended to some of the lesser wounds. He decided against putting on a different pair of pants, but put on boxers. He walked back into the living room and then to the kitchen. Abele dug into the refrigerator and at the back in some corner, he found a piece of meat. He held it to the right side of his face. He also found a glass in some cupboard and poured sink water into it. He sipped it with care as he sat at the mangled couch in the living room. For a while he sat there silently, but a knock finally sounded from the door. Abele looked fearfully at the door but the knocker called out that it was just Ana. Abele limped to the door and let her in.
Ana was, to put it bluntly, an old crone. She had assumed the role of babushka on the floor, but she wasn’t really Russian. Abele never questioned where she came from and the only time he had entered her apartment made him guilty when he asked where Mr Ana was. When he had peaked into her room, out of small curiosity, he found a shrine to a middle-aged man and a strapping young man. Abele did not question on her family, ever. He did not even know her last name. Everyone called her Ana or some form of Mother from different languages or homelands. She was shrunken and bent, like all old crones, and held a firm and caring face. She was not the grandmother who spoiled or the elderly who scorned the young. She would scold the foolish but bandage their wounds. She did have a head-scarf and shawl, which amplified the elderly lady feel. Abele was ever-grateful to her for all she has done for him.
Ana tsk-ed at his bandaging job. “I bet you didn’t even wash off your leg properly.” She went into his kitchen and grabbed the rag and a bowl of water. She placed the bowl on the floor and unwrapped his shoddy bandage. She washed off the wound which had slowed down to a small ooze here and there. She sighed sadly, “You always get the brunt of his anger, poor Abele. The Irish-folk will be having a dinner tonight. They asked me to extend the offer to you. Cabbage, potatoes and a nice hearty and heavy drink. Father Abbán’s son, Aidan, you never met him, but he had a bonus at his workplace. They’re celebrating while they can.”
Abele nodded, “I don’t have any more food. I would like to come, if they have enough.”
Ana stood up, “There, done. I see that your sewing has improved. It is much better than the last one. You better change and I will find my old crutch. I must get back to my cleaning.” She spied the smear on the wall. “You better clean that up. Ah, and do you have any more wash for me? You must have. You always do.”
“They ruined my pants, but the sheets need to be cleaned. I've got blood on them again.” He added a sorry after he saw the look on Ana’s face.
“Don’t give me this apology, Abele. You have no apology to give. You do not have another pair of sheets, I expect? The Irish-folk may be able to spare one.”
“Oh, no. I can sleep without sheets. I don’t want to bother the Irish-folk.” Abele looked down at his feet. He didn’t like getting help like sheets and clothes and food from others. The sheets and clothing tend to get ruined before he could give them back.
“I will get you the crutch. The Irish-folk can give you the sheets after dinner. Bring your dirty ones to me and you might as well bring the pants. No waste in cloth. We will make more rags or bandages from.” She left his flat.
Abele sighed and went into his bedroom, where he stripped the bed. He dug into the chipped dresser and found another pair of muddled pants. He gathered up the pants and limped out of the apartment. He entered the apartment two doors down to the right of his. He placed the sheets in the hamper by the door and placed the pants on a chair. He looked around, waiting for the crutch so he could leave the flat. Ana appeared carrying his crutch and accepted it nervously. He had an inkling that this belonged to the young man in the shrine. He bowed slightly and said ‘thanks’. He left quickly, hoping to not rub off more of his bad luck onto her.
Abele returned to his apartment. He dumped out the dirty, red water that was left in the bowl and filled it up with new water. He began to clean off the wall. He was forced to abandon the crutch for a while, in order to clean up the blood sprinkles on the floor that trailed off to the bedroom. He picked up the needle that he had used and plopped it into the bowl and carried it all to the sink. He washed the needle and bowl. After he was finished, he limped over to the couch and slept awkwardly.
Abele awoke to a knock. He began to sit up when the door burst open. A relatively tall and very thick man walked in. The door had flown off its hinges for not the first time. The man stood aside as a taller, thinner and much smarter looking man entered the room. There were a lot of similarities between this man and Abele. For one, they were about the same age. They both had the same eyes, were the same height (except that Abele hunched and this man stood straight) and had the same facial features. Abele had a softer look about him while this man looked harsh. The main reason was the clothing style. This man had a suit. Abele had what was once a suit, but was now merely indescribably clothing. This man had finely combed hair, which was brushed back and naturally formed a sort of horned look to him. Abele just had hair.
“Hullo, brother,” said Abele. He sat silently after that. The man stared at him harshly.
“I suppose it is too much to tell you not to call me that. No matter, you will dine with me, tonight.” The man said. Abele gulped.
“I-is it too much to a-ask why?” Abele said. The man smiled, almost darkly.
“Why should I not dine with my one and only brother on occasion? Do I need a reason to embrace my fellow kin and offer him a seat at my table?” The man looked as though he excepted an answer. He got none, except for a look down. Abele was sure that whatever he answered with would only irk his brother. “Perhaps my dear and only brother does not wish to dine with me?” the man said.
“O-oh, I would l-love to dine with you, brother,” Abele said. The man’s smile grew even darker.
“Lovely. You will come with me. My servants will dress and wash you properly.” Abele stood up, leaning on the crutch, and walked forward. “You will leave that here.” Abele obeyed and place it on the couch and hobbled forward. A different man from the one who forced through the door stepped forward and Abele leaned on him. They walked out into the hall and towards the stairs to the exclusive ninth floor. A young man across from Ana’s flat had looked out and watched Abele go up the stairs. He went back inside his apartment and told his father that Abele will not be able to join them tonight and to forget about the sheets for a while.
Abele was dumped into a bath and properly washed off. His cuts and bruises were given salves. His leg was given a finer dressing. His puffed cheek had gone down considerably. His hair was combed and he was given a new and shiny suit. He was also given a fine wooden crutch with comfortable padding. He almost looked presentable if it wasn’t for the rabbit-in-the-fox-den look. The servants shoved Abele out of the washroom and closed the door. He looked around to see if his brother wanted to give him anymore orders and found none. He limped off to his room. He stood in the doorway and looked behind him. He relaxed a little and entered the room.
Abele had not been back to his room for almost a month. He inspected his bookshelf, desk, dresser and bed, making sure nothing was touched. Nobody but the dust-maid had entered the room. No one wanted to. Abele sat on his bed and laid there. After a few minutes, his brother knocked on the door. Abele responded quickly with a ‘come in’. His brother entered the room and closed the door. Abele stiffened and stared at the closed door.
“Why such the look, brother? I will not harm you here,” Abele’s brother said. Abele sniffed, almost wanting to sob.
“B-but you always hurt me, brother.” Abele did not look at his brother as he said this.
“Oh, but I will never hurt you here, dear brother. This is your room.” Abele looked as though he was going to say something, but his brother stopped him. “I did not come here to bicker with you. Mother and father are coming here tonight. It would do you best if, as always, you did not mention our little… ah, squabbles.” Abele nodded sadly. “Good... You will stay here for a week and then you may return to your filthy flat.” Abele’s brother nodded and turned to leave the room but Abele stopped him.
“What will be tonight’s dinner?” he asked. His brother looked back at him but did not turn to face him.
“Lamb,” he said and left.
Abele continued to lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Normally he would read or write in his diary, but he did not have the energy. He dozed off and fell into the dream-world. The dream disturbed Abele. He and his brother were wearing tunics and they were shepherds. They were both happily friendly. One day, on the first of spring, they went to a hill each with offerings to a god (or, as Abele though, maybe the God). They stood at the stone and both killed their offerings of a lamb a piece. To Abele’s surprise, his brother took some of the better pieces of meat and placed them into a cloth. He then wrapped the grisly meat in the fat. Abele merely killed his lamb. They said their prayer to their god. There was a flurry of feathers and wings and Abele, no longer able to bear it, looked in front of him. There stood a man with white wings.
“Er... hullo?” Abele said. The angel looked down at him. Abele waved. The angel arched an eyebrow. “Wot’s... er... your name?” Abele asked. The angel stared at him dubiously. His brother elbowed Abele in the ribs.
“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” said Abele’s brother.
“Who’s that?” Abele asked his brother.
“Shut up,” said his brother.
The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.
The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Abele’s brother asked.
The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. He spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
The angel bowed and left quickly, so as not to answer another question. He had a lot of things to do, mainly sort out that nasty list of who had Fallen and who had stayed in Heaven. Abele and his brother watched the angel fly off. When he was out of sight, Abele’s brother stood up. Abele realised what had just happened.
“Er... I am s-sorry, brother. I-I just do not like gutting lambs. It m-makes me sick. I can give you s-something if you w-want...” Abele saw the look on his brother’s face and began to back up. His brother had the darkest and scariest look he could ever remember seeing. His brother reached down and picked up the knife he used to skin and gut the lamb. Abele was about to turn and run when he tripped over a rock. He fell and hit the ground.
Someone pounded on Abele’s door. He sat up and realised he was on the floor. He returned to his senses and said ‘come in’. He was still dazed and very disturbed. He could have sworn he had heard that story somewhere. He felt he would have recognised it, but the more he though on it, the more it faded to a wisp and then to nothing at all. His brother entered.
“Why, brother, are you on the floor? Have your days in the apartment turned you to an animal? Should we just put a dish on the floor for you to eat at dinner?” His brother said. Abele looked down.
“W-well, I was having a n-nightmare. I f-fell,” he explained. His brother looked unconcerned.
“Straighten yourself up and get out here. Mother and father have arrived.” His brother turned to leave.
“Cain?” Abele said and his brother turned around.
“What?” Cain, the brother of Abele, said.
“Oh... er... I suppose it’s nothing.” Abele said silently. Cain stared at his brother, then left to tend to his guests.
...
A/N: I have always been fond of the Cain and Abel story. Something about two brothers fighting and fatricide that interests me. Abele is just the Italian version of Abel. I made the older version of Cain to be Cayn (somewhere I saw it spelled like that in a medieval painting/picture). There isn't another version of Cain, apparently (unless I want to do somehing like Kain, but I think that looks a little tacky and not very Italian). The two of them were based around Gaiman's Cain and Abel from The Sandman, which in turn is based off of the Cain and Abel from House of Secrets and House of Mystery (more comics). My Abel is skinnier than Gaiman's. He is about as good looking as Cain, he just gets beaten. They are younger, too. They are in their 20s-30s. You can tell I also got Abele's suttering from Gaiman.
This is a story for the 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction (a writing club). The first challenge was to write about your pen names (mine would be Abele Arlini and A. Cain Arlini). I don't like how I have to post on the forum, so I just make a link to here. ((I am hoping for the challenge at the end of next year will be something revolving around our pen names again and I can have this as a four-parter; I still need to write Cain's story)).
Oddly, I found that everyone's name started with A. It sets Cain's name out from the others, so I like it. Actually, Cain's first name is Andreau (Italian version for Andrew), so it's really A. Cain Arlini. Just plain 'Cain Arlini' did not settle well with me. It sounded awkward.
The bird on the windowsill cawed, denoting it as to be a carrion bird of some sort. “Not dead yet,” said a sniffled voice behind the mangled couch. There was another sob when a hand reached up to the couch and the man stood up, with difficulty. The wall behind the man was covered in blood, with good reason. Abele stumbled from the couch to the wall and entered his room, where he kept the bandages. A wide streak of blood was painted at thigh-length on the wall. When Abele sat down on his bed, a pool formed. His left leg received the most attention from the knife. An arm, a bit of his chest and his face had also received some small gashes or two. His face had begun puffing up from being hit by the handle of a knife.
The gash had finally ruined the faded-to-nondescript-coloured pants. Abele dug underneath the bed and produced a first aid kit. He proceeded to take of the pants, with painful difficulty. His eyes watered a lot in the effort. Abele was not fond of pain, to his never-ending despair. He took out a pad and wiped as much excess blood as he could. He took out a leathered stick, a needle and a cat-gut thread. He put the leathered stick in his mouth and threaded the needle. He began to sew up his wound. The bird outside the window was given a chorus of whimpers and sobs, a period of silence (from Abele regaining his composure) and then another chorus. It finally ended and the bird cawed out and left for something tasty.
With his leg finally sewn and bandaged, Abele tended to some of the lesser wounds. He decided against putting on a different pair of pants, but put on boxers. He walked back into the living room and then to the kitchen. Abele dug into the refrigerator and at the back in some corner, he found a piece of meat. He held it to the right side of his face. He also found a glass in some cupboard and poured sink water into it. He sipped it with care as he sat at the mangled couch in the living room. For a while he sat there silently, but a knock finally sounded from the door. Abele looked fearfully at the door but the knocker called out that it was just Ana. Abele limped to the door and let her in.
Ana was, to put it bluntly, an old crone. She had assumed the role of babushka on the floor, but she wasn’t really Russian. Abele never questioned where she came from and the only time he had entered her apartment made him guilty when he asked where Mr Ana was. When he had peaked into her room, out of small curiosity, he found a shrine to a middle-aged man and a strapping young man. Abele did not question on her family, ever. He did not even know her last name. Everyone called her Ana or some form of Mother from different languages or homelands. She was shrunken and bent, like all old crones, and held a firm and caring face. She was not the grandmother who spoiled or the elderly who scorned the young. She would scold the foolish but bandage their wounds. She did have a head-scarf and shawl, which amplified the elderly lady feel. Abele was ever-grateful to her for all she has done for him.
Ana tsk-ed at his bandaging job. “I bet you didn’t even wash off your leg properly.” She went into his kitchen and grabbed the rag and a bowl of water. She placed the bowl on the floor and unwrapped his shoddy bandage. She washed off the wound which had slowed down to a small ooze here and there. She sighed sadly, “You always get the brunt of his anger, poor Abele. The Irish-folk will be having a dinner tonight. They asked me to extend the offer to you. Cabbage, potatoes and a nice hearty and heavy drink. Father Abbán’s son, Aidan, you never met him, but he had a bonus at his workplace. They’re celebrating while they can.”
Abele nodded, “I don’t have any more food. I would like to come, if they have enough.”
Ana stood up, “There, done. I see that your sewing has improved. It is much better than the last one. You better change and I will find my old crutch. I must get back to my cleaning.” She spied the smear on the wall. “You better clean that up. Ah, and do you have any more wash for me? You must have. You always do.”
“They ruined my pants, but the sheets need to be cleaned. I've got blood on them again.” He added a sorry after he saw the look on Ana’s face.
“Don’t give me this apology, Abele. You have no apology to give. You do not have another pair of sheets, I expect? The Irish-folk may be able to spare one.”
“Oh, no. I can sleep without sheets. I don’t want to bother the Irish-folk.” Abele looked down at his feet. He didn’t like getting help like sheets and clothes and food from others. The sheets and clothing tend to get ruined before he could give them back.
“I will get you the crutch. The Irish-folk can give you the sheets after dinner. Bring your dirty ones to me and you might as well bring the pants. No waste in cloth. We will make more rags or bandages from.” She left his flat.
Abele sighed and went into his bedroom, where he stripped the bed. He dug into the chipped dresser and found another pair of muddled pants. He gathered up the pants and limped out of the apartment. He entered the apartment two doors down to the right of his. He placed the sheets in the hamper by the door and placed the pants on a chair. He looked around, waiting for the crutch so he could leave the flat. Ana appeared carrying his crutch and accepted it nervously. He had an inkling that this belonged to the young man in the shrine. He bowed slightly and said ‘thanks’. He left quickly, hoping to not rub off more of his bad luck onto her.
Abele returned to his apartment. He dumped out the dirty, red water that was left in the bowl and filled it up with new water. He began to clean off the wall. He was forced to abandon the crutch for a while, in order to clean up the blood sprinkles on the floor that trailed off to the bedroom. He picked up the needle that he had used and plopped it into the bowl and carried it all to the sink. He washed the needle and bowl. After he was finished, he limped over to the couch and slept awkwardly.
Abele awoke to a knock. He began to sit up when the door burst open. A relatively tall and very thick man walked in. The door had flown off its hinges for not the first time. The man stood aside as a taller, thinner and much smarter looking man entered the room. There were a lot of similarities between this man and Abele. For one, they were about the same age. They both had the same eyes, were the same height (except that Abele hunched and this man stood straight) and had the same facial features. Abele had a softer look about him while this man looked harsh. The main reason was the clothing style. This man had a suit. Abele had what was once a suit, but was now merely indescribably clothing. This man had finely combed hair, which was brushed back and naturally formed a sort of horned look to him. Abele just had hair.
“Hullo, brother,” said Abele. He sat silently after that. The man stared at him harshly.
“I suppose it is too much to tell you not to call me that. No matter, you will dine with me, tonight.” The man said. Abele gulped.
“I-is it too much to a-ask why?” Abele said. The man smiled, almost darkly.
“Why should I not dine with my one and only brother on occasion? Do I need a reason to embrace my fellow kin and offer him a seat at my table?” The man looked as though he excepted an answer. He got none, except for a look down. Abele was sure that whatever he answered with would only irk his brother. “Perhaps my dear and only brother does not wish to dine with me?” the man said.
“O-oh, I would l-love to dine with you, brother,” Abele said. The man’s smile grew even darker.
“Lovely. You will come with me. My servants will dress and wash you properly.” Abele stood up, leaning on the crutch, and walked forward. “You will leave that here.” Abele obeyed and place it on the couch and hobbled forward. A different man from the one who forced through the door stepped forward and Abele leaned on him. They walked out into the hall and towards the stairs to the exclusive ninth floor. A young man across from Ana’s flat had looked out and watched Abele go up the stairs. He went back inside his apartment and told his father that Abele will not be able to join them tonight and to forget about the sheets for a while.
Abele was dumped into a bath and properly washed off. His cuts and bruises were given salves. His leg was given a finer dressing. His puffed cheek had gone down considerably. His hair was combed and he was given a new and shiny suit. He was also given a fine wooden crutch with comfortable padding. He almost looked presentable if it wasn’t for the rabbit-in-the-fox-den look. The servants shoved Abele out of the washroom and closed the door. He looked around to see if his brother wanted to give him anymore orders and found none. He limped off to his room. He stood in the doorway and looked behind him. He relaxed a little and entered the room.
Abele had not been back to his room for almost a month. He inspected his bookshelf, desk, dresser and bed, making sure nothing was touched. Nobody but the dust-maid had entered the room. No one wanted to. Abele sat on his bed and laid there. After a few minutes, his brother knocked on the door. Abele responded quickly with a ‘come in’. His brother entered the room and closed the door. Abele stiffened and stared at the closed door.
“Why such the look, brother? I will not harm you here,” Abele’s brother said. Abele sniffed, almost wanting to sob.
“B-but you always hurt me, brother.” Abele did not look at his brother as he said this.
“Oh, but I will never hurt you here, dear brother. This is your room.” Abele looked as though he was going to say something, but his brother stopped him. “I did not come here to bicker with you. Mother and father are coming here tonight. It would do you best if, as always, you did not mention our little… ah, squabbles.” Abele nodded sadly. “Good... You will stay here for a week and then you may return to your filthy flat.” Abele’s brother nodded and turned to leave the room but Abele stopped him.
“What will be tonight’s dinner?” he asked. His brother looked back at him but did not turn to face him.
“Lamb,” he said and left.
Abele continued to lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Normally he would read or write in his diary, but he did not have the energy. He dozed off and fell into the dream-world. The dream disturbed Abele. He and his brother were wearing tunics and they were shepherds. They were both happily friendly. One day, on the first of spring, they went to a hill each with offerings to a god (or, as Abele though, maybe the God). They stood at the stone and both killed their offerings of a lamb a piece. To Abele’s surprise, his brother took some of the better pieces of meat and placed them into a cloth. He then wrapped the grisly meat in the fat. Abele merely killed his lamb. They said their prayer to their god. There was a flurry of feathers and wings and Abele, no longer able to bear it, looked in front of him. There stood a man with white wings.
“Er... hullo?” Abele said. The angel looked down at him. Abele waved. The angel arched an eyebrow. “Wot’s... er... your name?” Abele asked. The angel stared at him dubiously. His brother elbowed Abele in the ribs.
“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” said Abele’s brother.
“Who’s that?” Abele asked his brother.
“Shut up,” said his brother.
The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.
The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Abele’s brother asked.
The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. He spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
The angel bowed and left quickly, so as not to answer another question. He had a lot of things to do, mainly sort out that nasty list of who had Fallen and who had stayed in Heaven. Abele and his brother watched the angel fly off. When he was out of sight, Abele’s brother stood up. Abele realised what had just happened.
“Er... I am s-sorry, brother. I-I just do not like gutting lambs. It m-makes me sick. I can give you s-something if you w-want...” Abele saw the look on his brother’s face and began to back up. His brother had the darkest and scariest look he could ever remember seeing. His brother reached down and picked up the knife he used to skin and gut the lamb. Abele was about to turn and run when he tripped over a rock. He fell and hit the ground.
Someone pounded on Abele’s door. He sat up and realised he was on the floor. He returned to his senses and said ‘come in’. He was still dazed and very disturbed. He could have sworn he had heard that story somewhere. He felt he would have recognised it, but the more he though on it, the more it faded to a wisp and then to nothing at all. His brother entered.
“Why, brother, are you on the floor? Have your days in the apartment turned you to an animal? Should we just put a dish on the floor for you to eat at dinner?” His brother said. Abele looked down.
“W-well, I was having a n-nightmare. I f-fell,” he explained. His brother looked unconcerned.
“Straighten yourself up and get out here. Mother and father have arrived.” His brother turned to leave.
“Cain?” Abele said and his brother turned around.
“What?” Cain, the brother of Abele, said.
“Oh... er... I suppose it’s nothing.” Abele said silently. Cain stared at his brother, then left to tend to his guests.
...
A/N: I have always been fond of the Cain and Abel story. Something about two brothers fighting and fatricide that interests me. Abele is just the Italian version of Abel. I made the older version of Cain to be Cayn (somewhere I saw it spelled like that in a medieval painting/picture). There isn't another version of Cain, apparently (unless I want to do somehing like Kain, but I think that looks a little tacky and not very Italian). The two of them were based around Gaiman's Cain and Abel from The Sandman, which in turn is based off of the Cain and Abel from House of Secrets and House of Mystery (more comics). My Abel is skinnier than Gaiman's. He is about as good looking as Cain, he just gets beaten. They are younger, too. They are in their 20s-30s. You can tell I also got Abele's suttering from Gaiman.
This is a story for the 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction (a writing club). The first challenge was to write about your pen names (mine would be Abele Arlini and A. Cain Arlini). I don't like how I have to post on the forum, so I just make a link to here. ((I am hoping for the challenge at the end of next year will be something revolving around our pen names again and I can have this as a four-parter; I still need to write Cain's story)).
Oddly, I found that everyone's name started with A. It sets Cain's name out from the others, so I like it. Actually, Cain's first name is Andreau (Italian version for Andrew), so it's really A. Cain Arlini. Just plain 'Cain Arlini' did not settle well with me. It sounded awkward.
Monday, December 25, 2006
They Met With Wednesday
A raven cawed on the branch outside the cabin. It cawed again and a second raven landed next to it. They looked at the cabin curiously. A well-lit fire flickered inside the cabin. A man stood near the fire. He had a staff which looked as though it had seen many years and many times. He had a beard and one eye. He stared down into the fire, waiting.
A young man entered the house after doing his daily chores. He nodded at the old man with the aged staff and his long beard as he entered the chicken. He placed his machete on the table and turned on the facet. He washed his bloody hand. The old man looked over at the young man. The young man only had one hand. In the background a wolf howled. It was the howl of a wolf tethered and bound.
“Father, when will they come?” said the young man.
“They will come when it is time, Son,” the old man said. “The others come only when it is time and never before. That is how it is done.”
They waited in silence. The old man stood in front of the fire, watching it and the young man cleaned his machete. The ravens cawed out and the wolf howled.
A young man entered the house after doing his daily chores. He nodded at the old man with the aged staff and his long beard as he entered the chicken. He placed his machete on the table and turned on the facet. He washed his bloody hand. The old man looked over at the young man. The young man only had one hand. In the background a wolf howled. It was the howl of a wolf tethered and bound.
“Father, when will they come?” said the young man.
“They will come when it is time, Son,” the old man said. “The others come only when it is time and never before. That is how it is done.”
They waited in silence. The old man stood in front of the fire, watching it and the young man cleaned his machete. The ravens cawed out and the wolf howled.
∞
Laughter rang out, disturbing the ravens. A muscular man knocked onto the cabin door. The man slung his heavy hammer onto his soldier. He was a rugged sort. He had a beard and was built like a wood-cutter or a carpenter. He was taller than the young and old men. The young man opened the door for him and the ravens settled back down on their branch, peeved.
The muscular man dropped his hammer in the corner of the room and helped himself to a mug of beer.
“I see that you’ve been doing well, Father,” the man said. The old man looked over at his muscular son.
“I have done as well as I can, Son. Even with Him gone, it is still a hard life. Time goes on and so must I.” The muscular man nodded and drank his beer. He sat down in a chair next to the young man.
The muscular man dropped his hammer in the corner of the room and helped himself to a mug of beer.
“I see that you’ve been doing well, Father,” the man said. The old man looked over at his muscular son.
“I have done as well as I can, Son. Even with Him gone, it is still a hard life. Time goes on and so must I.” The muscular man nodded and drank his beer. He sat down in a chair next to the young man.
They waited again.
∞
A woman knocked on the door of the cabin. The ravens cawed out to her. She smiled at them. As the young man opened the door and she entered, she pulled off her hood to her brown cloak. She took it off and put it on the coat rack. She had a necklace on. The men stared at her. She was amused and her smile showed it. She sat down on the couch. The men looked at each other.
“You seem well, Sirs,” she said.
“The same with you, Miss,” the old man said. The muscular man offered her his mug of beer which she declined.
They waited until the time.
“You seem well, Sirs,” she said.
“The same with you, Miss,” the old man said. The muscular man offered her his mug of beer which she declined.
They waited until the time.
∞
The old man thumped his staff on the floor and looked outside. He said, “It is time Sons and Miss. We must go to Him now.” The men and woman did not look particularly pleased. The muscular man drained his mug and put it on the table near the machete. The young man picked up his machete and walked over to the door. He helped the woman put on her cloak and the muscular man found his hammer. The young man was the first to walk through the door, which he held open for the other three. The old man was next, followed the muscular man and the woman.
They walked down a path that led into the deep forest, a different path than the muscular man and the woman came from. They passed a wolf that was tied up and secured. He glowered at them. The ravens followed the group. In the background, two extra wolves howled out. They also followed the group through the forest. They walked and walked until they reached a clearing. A great and tall stake stood and a man was chained to it. He was slumped on the ground. He was bitten and cut and raw and naked. He looked wild. The old man was the first into the clearing and the wild man looked up at him in anger.
“It will come, Brother. It will come,” the wild man said. The old man smiled grimly.
“This was not why we came, Brother. It is your day. We will not speak of your release now,” the old man said.
Besides the great stake and the wild man, there was a heptagram carved into the ground forever. It was a star with seven points and the stake was positioned at one of the points on the star. The young man walked up the point that was two points away from the wild man. The old man stood next to the young man and three points from the wild man. The muscular man stood next to the old man and the woman next to him and the wild man. Two points were missing people.
They waited.
They walked down a path that led into the deep forest, a different path than the muscular man and the woman came from. They passed a wolf that was tied up and secured. He glowered at them. The ravens followed the group. In the background, two extra wolves howled out. They also followed the group through the forest. They walked and walked until they reached a clearing. A great and tall stake stood and a man was chained to it. He was slumped on the ground. He was bitten and cut and raw and naked. He looked wild. The old man was the first into the clearing and the wild man looked up at him in anger.
“It will come, Brother. It will come,” the wild man said. The old man smiled grimly.
“This was not why we came, Brother. It is your day. We will not speak of your release now,” the old man said.
Besides the great stake and the wild man, there was a heptagram carved into the ground forever. It was a star with seven points and the stake was positioned at one of the points on the star. The young man walked up the point that was two points away from the wild man. The old man stood next to the young man and three points from the wild man. The muscular man stood next to the old man and the woman next to him and the wild man. Two points were missing people.
They waited.
∞
The sun shown brightly. It was midday and the brightest it has ever been. It was not day, but light. It was the sun. The symbol of the sun re-carved itself on the point next to the wild man. It was a circle with a dot in the middle of it. The light began to fade. There was no sunset. They all waited.
∞
It was darkness, a bright dot of silver shown through the blackness. It was the moon at its best. All one could see was the moon. A shaft of moonlight re-carved the symbol of the moon onto the last point on the star. It was in-between the sun symbol and the young man. The light began to fade. There was nothing. They waited.
∞
The symbol of sun glowed. It was a light that was not quite light.
The symbol of the moon glowed. It was a light that was not quite light.
The young man took his machete and stabbed it through the ground at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The old man took his staff and speared it down at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The muscular man took his hammer and slammed it down at his place on the star. There was a sound of thunder and a light that was not quite light.
The woman took off her necklace and dropped at her place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The wild man glowered but spit at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The symbol of the moon glowed. It was a light that was not quite light.
The young man took his machete and stabbed it through the ground at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The old man took his staff and speared it down at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The muscular man took his hammer and slammed it down at his place on the star. There was a sound of thunder and a light that was not quite light.
The woman took off her necklace and dropped at her place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The wild man glowered but spit at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
∞
The three men and the woman took back their possessions and the symbols began to fade. The wild man sat at his stake. The Week was made.
...
A/N: This was, to those unfamiliar, based around the fact that the weekdays were named because of the Norse gods. Tuesday: Tyr's Day, Wednesday: Odin's Day, Thursday: Thor's Day, Friday: Frejya's Day. Saturday is named after Saturn but it is sometimes refered to Loki's Day (but it isn't set in stone). Sunday is obviously Sun's Day and Monday is Moon's Day. I wasn't sure if I wanted to personify the Sun and Moon, but decided against it. I forget exactly where the heptagram came from. Oh well.
Ever since I read Gaiman's October in the Chair, I wanted to write a story about the weekdays. I wasn't actually going to write it like this, but having it as a creation story was formed instead. Of course this wasn't actually how the Norse created the week. I have no clue how they did so (otherwise I would tell you). The reason why it is called They Met With Wednesday is because Odin is the All-Father (in other words the patriarch of the Norse mythology or the Zeus, you could say).
I was listening my new CD that I got from my father today (for Christmas). It is Neil Gaiman ~ Where's Neil When You Need Him? Nice CD. I like it a lot and one of my favourite tracks is Even Gods Do, We Won't Go and Coraline by Rasputina. They sort of influenced me to write it like this. (And sorry, no real Christmas fiction... only this).
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Author's Preface: On Fairytales
Folktales and fairytales dictate that if a young child is to wander into the deep wood; they are going to run into trouble. Most typically with a wolf or an old witch or trolls under bridges or fairy things or tricky mean-spirited shape-shifters to run into on unfortunate times. Only in fairy tales do the children run upon trouble, for in real life these wolves and witches and trolls and faeries and tricksters do not distinguish between child and adult, but enjoy their fortune (and the wanderer’s misfortune) of a tasty little snack. So while our tales give sound advice to children, many adults forget to take heed of it themselves. Therefore here is a tale, not for children, but for adults, who often do not take heed of their own sound advice.
A/N: I am going to talk about the preface and the first chapter here because the chapter is was too long to add on a note.
Basically the book (which has no name at the moment) is about a man who messes up rather badly, breaking all codes of morality, and pays for his mistake. He is selfish, cold and uncharitable: that type of cliche. He finds himself in the middle of the forest (that gets explained, so don't worry) and ends up at Baba Yaga's house. Unlike typical tales for children, everything is 'complicated', much like adult life (in reality, it isn't as complicated as it all seems, everyone just thinks it is). Baba Yaga, instead of cooking him as she normall does, helps him (sort of). The really confusing bit is that he is dead. It's not really his body that enters the house, but his mind in the body of a demon (or imp or something of minor importance that is fairly unpleasant). That's about the gist of it, anyways.
There isn't much for my o say on the preface, but I kept want to write 'tricksy' instead of 'tricky'. But on to the first chapter: I did not mean to create Alice. She just appeared and I was very confused. She sort of took control in the beginning. I was just not going to have a secretary but perhaps police or the inspector. I like her though.
There was a bit of problem with throwing in the fairtale. I didn't know which to do, for one. I needed to introduce the concept of the Baba Yaga but also I didn't want to make it too childish. I suppose that's an oxymoron (or word I can never quite remember). After all, talking things appear right after it. The original fairytale had a dog talking and some other bits that I took the liberty to take out. I also did not want to make it too long. I wanted a simple and page or two long tale. The original version did not have it at all, but Ross (and I) felt I should have one.
The house was a lot different in the beginning, too. Gate and Cat never really changed. The house originally did everything that the fairytales told of: spinning around, chicken legs, screeching, no doors or windows. I felt that the house no longer had a personality any more once I did all that. I decided to scratch out the spinning and to keep a door. Now it is a very bored hut with the mind-set of a chicken.
A/N: I am going to talk about the preface and the first chapter here because the chapter is was too long to add on a note.
Basically the book (which has no name at the moment) is about a man who messes up rather badly, breaking all codes of morality, and pays for his mistake. He is selfish, cold and uncharitable: that type of cliche. He finds himself in the middle of the forest (that gets explained, so don't worry) and ends up at Baba Yaga's house. Unlike typical tales for children, everything is 'complicated', much like adult life (in reality, it isn't as complicated as it all seems, everyone just thinks it is). Baba Yaga, instead of cooking him as she normall does, helps him (sort of). The really confusing bit is that he is dead. It's not really his body that enters the house, but his mind in the body of a demon (or imp or something of minor importance that is fairly unpleasant). That's about the gist of it, anyways.
There isn't much for my o say on the preface, but I kept want to write 'tricksy' instead of 'tricky'. But on to the first chapter: I did not mean to create Alice. She just appeared and I was very confused. She sort of took control in the beginning. I was just not going to have a secretary but perhaps police or the inspector. I like her though.
There was a bit of problem with throwing in the fairtale. I didn't know which to do, for one. I needed to introduce the concept of the Baba Yaga but also I didn't want to make it too childish. I suppose that's an oxymoron (or word I can never quite remember). After all, talking things appear right after it. The original fairytale had a dog talking and some other bits that I took the liberty to take out. I also did not want to make it too long. I wanted a simple and page or two long tale. The original version did not have it at all, but Ross (and I) felt I should have one.
The house was a lot different in the beginning, too. Gate and Cat never really changed. The house originally did everything that the fairytales told of: spinning around, chicken legs, screeching, no doors or windows. I felt that the house no longer had a personality any more once I did all that. I decided to scratch out the spinning and to keep a door. Now it is a very bored hut with the mind-set of a chicken.
Chapter ONE: In Which the Main Character Finds Himself Perplexed and the Female Lead is Enraged
The body was found two days after his death, amongst the forests of New York State. It was a cold, snow-free wintry day. A mid-December feel, except the month was actually October. Even the slight joy of up-coming holidays was present, for a rather morbid and obscure reason. Not many are overjoyed by a man’s death. In this case, the poor were the rare overjoyed. For the coldest bastard of a man, Theodore Wrensky, was dead.
The body was recovered three days after he had died and five days after he was found missing. The search party was given a clue as to where he quite possibly went by an irate taxi-cab driver, who had the man run out on him without paying. After driving a quite some distance, the driver had realised quite precisely who the man was, and then confirmed it by the wallet that was left behind (which was devoid of money, much to the dismay of the driver).
By the time they had found him, he was stiff, and not the usual cold stiffness of a high-end, stressed and depended upon large corporate businessman, but of a long since used, chilled and completely dead ordinary human body. What was different from the ordinary human body part was the lack of touch on his person.
Unlike most living (or in this case, dead) things, he remained untouched. The sort of dead body that all detritivores and carnivores came together to discuss and eventually formed a census on not to touch it. The only scratch on his body that they found was a small cut on his knee, which ruined his muddy suit pants even further. It was from running a mile and a half straight into a forest that would eventually, if he had kept running, reach deep into the Catskill Mts.
The body was brought back two hours after the news had reached the Miss Alice McKensey, who was even more enraged when told to identify the body. Alice McKensey was Mr. Wrensky’s private secretary, who did more than what she was paid for. She had no love and positively no like for the man, but did so just out of duty (and she was full of that). She had long reflections on why she stayed with him, and she decided that not only did it not matter, but she did not even begin to wish why. All she knew was that her boss had the severe tendency to skip out on the many meetings and visits she planned for him, and for that, she was always furious with the man. He even had the nerve to run out (quite literally, this time) of the most current of many meetings.
She stood outside the meat-packing factory, leaning against the Rolls Royce of a raven colour, deep black with a shiny purple undertone. She shivered and hugged herself further into her fur-lined coat, which was a “present” from Mister Wrensky, and only because he was annoyed by her middle class everyday coat which she wore everywhere. Annoyed with the image she brought upon herself, he gave it to her to make himself look better. She didn’t mind wearing it because it was warm and very comfortable, much more than her previous one.
She looked around, and noticed a man had exited the building. He was walking over, and most definitely was able to note her fine clothing. She sighed, puffing out steam. She moved off of the car and walked over to meet the man.
He had an apologetic and saddened look on his face. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here, Miss McKensey. We’re not allowed to take him out of the county, I’m afraid.” She gave the head cop a slight quizzical look. “Suspected foul play. We’re going to need a few statements and an alibi from you, too.” He paused for a moment, and went on, “I’m the inspector here, Inspector Charlie Kent.”
“Yes, well, state-level I presume?” He was about to say so when she cut in, “I don’t care. Not while we’re standing outside, too cold to do that.” He smiled acknowledging and nodded for her to follow, and they walked towards the door he came out of. He looked over at the woman as he held the door open for her who looked very much in control, emotionally and professionally.
Two men were standing inside, waiting. One was a tall man of deep ebony matte and there was a smaller man with a French body-type. Neither of them looking entirely too happy, which was rather reasonable. They were both cold, in the middle of Nowhere, New York in a meat-packaging factory and it was just plain, good manners to be solemn when there were dead people and their grieving friends and family around.
Alice looked around and gave a polite nod to the two men. She followed the inspector through the corridors and finally to a room. Alice noted to herself that it looked like where they cut the meat, which gave her a chill completely unrelated to the freezing cold of the room.
Sitting there on the table in the middle of the room was a white sheet which formed a fairly human-esque figure. The inspector walked forward, giving her a moment to regain her wits. She nodded for the go-ahead and he pulled the sheet away from the man’s head. Alice stared.
“I know it’s tough, Miss McKensey, but bare with me. Does this look like Mister Theodore Wrensky?” His voice was kind but rough. Alice nodded.
“Yes, it certainly looks like him, just never thought the man could die.”
¥
There was once a man who had a daughter. His wife died quite some time ago and he remarried. The new wife had a daughter also. The new wife did not like the husband’s daughter and so the daughter had a very hard time.
One day the father brought his daughter out into the woods and found a little hut standing on a chicken leg. He called out “Little hut, little hut, stand with your back to the woods and your front to me!” The hut turned around and out cam Baba Yaga (a little irate, she was in the middle of making tea and it spilled over when the hut moved).
“I smell a Russian!” she said, and that was by no means a complement. She wasn’t fond of Russians. They kept coming over and interrupting things.
The father bowed to Baba Yaga and said, “Baba Yaga, I have brought my daughter to be your servant.”
Baba Yaga was rightly pleased with that, she did have some things that needed to be done. She looked the daughter over, a little scrawny but manageable. “Very well, she shall serve me. I will reward her for it.” The father left.
Baba Yaga gave the girl a basket of yarn to spin, told her to make fire for the stove and dinner, then she left. The daughter attempted to spin the thread but failed and broke down crying. A handful of mice came running out and asked for some gruel. The daughter said, “If I give you gruel, then spin my yarn.” The mice did not have anything better to do and so did. They were rewarded and the daughter managed everything by the time Baba Yaga came home.
When Baba Yaga came home, she ordered the daughter to give her a bath. After that was done, the daughter received several fine dresses. The next day, Baba Yaga gave the girl even harder tasks. Again the mice ran out and asked for gruel and they made the same deal. The maiden received even more fine dresses.
One day the father sent out to find his daughter (and see if she is still alive). He found his daughter well and happy. The step-daughter was jealous of the many fine dresses and the step-mother ordered her to head off to the Baba Yaga’s house (much to the annoyance of the poor old woman).
The Baba Yaga gave her the same orders she gave the daughter and left again. The girl started weeping (the family never was good at spinning yarn). The mice ran out, hoping for a little gruel, but when the step-daughter saw them, she killed them with a rolling pin. She never got the spinning done.
When the Baba Yaga returned, she was irate. Not only were these Russians bothering her but they were getting more and more useless. She was already missing some gruel. She killed the step-daughter and put her bones into a basket (the meat was hung). The husband went to pick the daughter up but was handed only a basket.
¥
A raven’s caw sounded. It was evening or late afternoon. All he knew was that it was dark, but that could have been from the trees and heavy clouds and not the sun creeping away towards the other parts of the Earth. He was sitting up and contemplating on his next move. He was very fond of that idea, but the raven called again and he knew that it would not be possible. His option was to stand up, and that was it.
He brushed himself self off, being a bit muddy, and looked over to where the raven was standing in a tree. The raven ruffled its feathers and cawed again. The man looked up at the bird and threw a nearby rock at it. He missed. The bird paused to look at him and flew off, making what sounded remarkably like a laugh. Annoyed, the man turned and walked in the different direction, walked in what he hoped was a way out of the forest.
It was not that he did not like the forest. Sure it was muddy and full of pesky flea-ridden beasts, but it was dark and creepy. A place you would find imps and demons and monsters. A place to scare little children with and he liked that. It made him feel powerful. More powerful than he already was, that is. It just made him happy, and yet he had to leave it. It was not an option. It was like some profound and god-like being ordered him to move and never to rest and that he had no option to disobey it. So he moved.
He left the glen and pushed around bushes until he came upon a path. It was no real path of clean-make and of dirt (or rocks, as some prefer) or widened for people to walk upon with ease. It was a path that had over-brush and rocks and tree roots and was completely unnoticeable to those who were not meant to move along the path. It was a rare and unfindable path that was meant for only one way, person and use. This specific path was for this man to find his way to a house and after that, it would disappear into trees, rocks and any manner of such things.
It took a small manner of difficulty to move along the path, only because he wished to keep his suit as clean as possible. This was already a hard task, for it was soiled from him being on the ground so long. It felt as though the brambles and branches were reaching out and grabbing a hold of him the further he went and that the rocks and roots were tripping him up more and more as he walked. Annoyed and stubborn, he walked on.
¥
Alice was wondering why she was here. The man was the inspector of her boss’s death, after all. She did not even like him. He was too fatherly and she was not fond of her father. She picked up her coffee and sipped it.
“I know it is hard at a time like this, but I do need an alibi. You were the closest person to Mister Wrensky and it will be hard. It would just be better if you found an alibi quick.”
“Inspector, I already have an alibi. It is rather simple and very hard to be. I had just finished setting up the next month’s agenda and printed it out when I got a call that he never showed up to his meeting. I called his phone several times and at all possibly locations. After I could not reach him, I drove over to the meeting room. Look on my phone bill or ask the people I reached instead of Mister Wrensky or look at the security tape that watched me call all these numbers. I was most certainly not anywhere near him. I was in my office all day.” The inspector nodded.
“Yes, we will need to check those tapes.” He said, “I did not bring you out to this diner just to talk about your alibi or legal things. I came to make sure you are OK.” The waitress came around and put a plate of scrambled eggs, some pancakes and bacon in front of the inspector and a plate of toast in front of Alice’s.
“I am fine, inspector. He was my boss and was not a very kind one. If it wasn’t for being out of job, I would not care. He never showed me much kindness, only worried about his self image.” The inspector nodded.
“Is there anyone to contact? I know his parents are dead and his brother is gone. No uncles or cousins you know of?”
“No,” Alice said. “He really wasn’t a family person. He mainly just worked. There were no calls on his birthday or the holidays from family or friends. He didn’t have much of anybody, sad really.”
¥
Finally, the man reached his unknown destination. He looked back and the path melded into the trees and bushes and rocks and things. He looked forward.
What the man saw was a house, a hut, rather. A hut with no doors and no windows (in truth, there was a door, just not visible until it wished to be so), which was rather sensible if it was left to that. For it was also a hut with chicken legs (one in each corner) that was shifting from foot to foot, scratching here and there and shifting around in its paddock. It looked bored. The man stared.
“Staring at it in that stupefied expression doesn’t do you or it any good, you know.” said a quick and haughty voice next to the man, who was trying to collect his thoughts. He looked over to his right and was not so much surprised, but confused (and his lack of surprise perplexed him). Standing there, looking up at him was a surly black cat. “And staring at me doesn’t do much good either, mister.”
Coming back from his daze, the hero retorted in a more pompous manner than he had intended, “Perhaps, then, you ought to stop talking! Act like a real cat and meow, beg for a bit of meat. Act as you should. It’s unnatural and should cause staring. Look at that house, even. It has chicken legs! ”
The cat rolled its eyes and walked towards the hut, calling back, “Then should you not act as you should? You are as every bit as ‘unnatural’ as I am, good sir.” Perplexed, the man followed the cat until they were both standing in front of the gate and fence that surrounded the hut.
Quite like the hut, the gate and fence was just as abnormal (or unnatural, as our hero would say). It was ivory-white, a bleach bone colour. On closer inspection, it was actually made of bone (and when our hero leaned in, he realised that they were very human). Upon every post was a human skull except on one to the exact right of the gate, which was bare, almost waiting for the next unlucky visitor to come by.
The man reached his hand forward to touch the bone fencing to a spot not far from the left of the gate. “They’re quite tired of that, little one,” The keyhole of in the middle of the gate moved and mouthed the words, “Tired of it, indeed.” The gate huffed. The man stopped and looked at the gate surprised. A cat and a moving house he could deal with. After all, houses could move in this day and age, praise technology and profoundly rich people with realism issues, and cats were just cats. He had never understood cats. They could talk for all he knew. However a gate made out of human bones was talking to him. And not only had this gate spoken to him, but it had called him “little one”. For all he knew, he was not the type to be called little one like a small child being talked down to by an aged and pompous adult.
“Might as well go ahead and listen to him. Not much good in risking it. S’not like those bones are standing of their own free will. Take any chance to bring in another to share their pain. Misery loves company and all that,” the cat said.
The gate sniffed in a bored manner, “Oh yes, misery and all that. You know what’s miserable? Not those wankers up on the fence, I’ll tell you that. It’s good ol’ sturdy Gate. Oh sure, people come and see me, but it’s only to use me, only to get to that bloody house. You should see it when it gets riled up. Means we have to keep the bugger in. It runs hard and fast, too. It screeches, too. You haven’t had the chance to hear it yet, little master, but stick around long enough and you will. Oh, you will. Hurts my ears.” Gate continued to rant on about his poor old self and the always moving, unhappy bone-fence as his face, or rather him, creaked and groaned, bones moving how bones never would do so normally and all doing so to form an overly dramatic and loud gate.
The cat looked up at the man and said, “Oh, don’t mind him just old, creaky Gate. His bones won’t take you. Just push on through. I feel up for a fine mouse or two. Talking to him always gets me hungry,” the cat stalked away and disappeared, not without looking back and adding, “Watch for that keyhole though. Get your hand too close and he’ll snap it off. He doesn’t get to eat much, you know.”
The man watched the cat disappear before turning back to Gate, who was still ranting angrily, only this time about a little girl named Vasilissa and her sticky, filthy fingers. Not sure of what else to do, he furtively pushes the gate, making sure not to get anywhere near the keyhole (or mouth, both and whichever) and walked into the lawn.
The grass was craggily and dry: dead and crispy under the man’s feet. He stopped in front of the shifting hut, unsure of what to do. All he knew was that he wished to enter it. He did not even know if he wished this freely or if it belonged to someone else and they passed the desire on to him. He knew that he did not care whose desire it is, but just that he did what it desired. And now, besides wanting to enter the hut, he longs to make it stop screeching.
“Stop it!” he tries. This did not work, mainly because, as everyone knows, houses and homes and huts do not have ears. He attempted again, adding a “now”.
“Open sesame?” No luck.
“Allow me to enter?” No change.
“Cease!” he shouts. In the background, he can hear Gate continuously talking. He sighs and looks around for help, looking for, just maybe, a magic biscuit or mushroom. At least Miss Wonderland had help, he thought. He made a face and spoke the nonsense that suddenly ran through his mind:
Turn your back to the forest, your front to me.
The hut stopped scuttling and stumbled only slightly to keep its balance and sat down. Our hero was only pleased for a second, for while he had stopped the hut, there was still a problem of entering. He tried the door, but it was locked. It had no windows.
Like a dog kicked out of the house, he sat down against the wall. He sat like this for a while, when suddenly there was a noise, a muffled noise of someone shuffling around. He moved away from the door, which busted open with a bang.
The first thing he noticed was a nose looking out of the doorway. Upon a second look it was a tall, gangly, infinitely aged woman with a long nose. She had wild, wiry hair that is a grey colour and a scraggily long dress that looked of leaves and coloured in many Earthy dead tones. Not morbidly dead, but a leafy, dirt death. She glares at the man.
“Ah, you’re not him. You look like him. Oh you do indeed, laddie. But no, you’re not him. You’re not proud an’ tall. He always holds himself like that. But don’t get me wrong, you’re a git alright. You wouldn’t be here is you weren’t. You’re just not that git,” she gives a pause to look closer at the man and made a clucking noise. “Now, state your purpose. I don’t have all day, you know. This old lady has too many plans to be bothered by some new troubled youngster.”
The man was unsure of what to say, for he had no real purpose, of course. He just came upon a path (just for him), talked to a cat and passed through a talking and potentially dangerous gate and, on a strange whim, ordered a house to stop moving. He realised, when taking this into perspective that it was all very wrong and unnatural. He did not know what, but there was something he could not remember.
“Advice! I’ve come for advice,” he figured this to be the safest choice. Everyone gets advice asked from them at one point in their life. What advice, he could not decide. How to get out of the forest, he thought. It wasn’t a complete lie, a little white lie. He wanted to exit the forest and he found someone to ask, perfect.
The old woman made a disgruntled face, obviously not pleased by this answer, “All you humans ever want is advice and advice and advice. Maybe a little bread and a bed here and there, but after that, it’s all the same. What is it this time, it couldn’t be much. You don’t have many ties, not anymore.” The man furrowed his eyebrows at her, confused and curious. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted, “Be quiet. Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Never ask unnecessary questions. It only does harm to the person being asked. Now if you want advice, and bread and bed, you obviously need it, then come in. My house must always be open to visitors. Whether you’re pure of heart or not, is another matter, my dear. For your poor soul, I wish you are. It would make everything easier for the whole of us.”
He paused, only for a moment. He entered the hut.
The body was recovered three days after he had died and five days after he was found missing. The search party was given a clue as to where he quite possibly went by an irate taxi-cab driver, who had the man run out on him without paying. After driving a quite some distance, the driver had realised quite precisely who the man was, and then confirmed it by the wallet that was left behind (which was devoid of money, much to the dismay of the driver).
By the time they had found him, he was stiff, and not the usual cold stiffness of a high-end, stressed and depended upon large corporate businessman, but of a long since used, chilled and completely dead ordinary human body. What was different from the ordinary human body part was the lack of touch on his person.
Unlike most living (or in this case, dead) things, he remained untouched. The sort of dead body that all detritivores and carnivores came together to discuss and eventually formed a census on not to touch it. The only scratch on his body that they found was a small cut on his knee, which ruined his muddy suit pants even further. It was from running a mile and a half straight into a forest that would eventually, if he had kept running, reach deep into the Catskill Mts.
The body was brought back two hours after the news had reached the Miss Alice McKensey, who was even more enraged when told to identify the body. Alice McKensey was Mr. Wrensky’s private secretary, who did more than what she was paid for. She had no love and positively no like for the man, but did so just out of duty (and she was full of that). She had long reflections on why she stayed with him, and she decided that not only did it not matter, but she did not even begin to wish why. All she knew was that her boss had the severe tendency to skip out on the many meetings and visits she planned for him, and for that, she was always furious with the man. He even had the nerve to run out (quite literally, this time) of the most current of many meetings.
She stood outside the meat-packing factory, leaning against the Rolls Royce of a raven colour, deep black with a shiny purple undertone. She shivered and hugged herself further into her fur-lined coat, which was a “present” from Mister Wrensky, and only because he was annoyed by her middle class everyday coat which she wore everywhere. Annoyed with the image she brought upon herself, he gave it to her to make himself look better. She didn’t mind wearing it because it was warm and very comfortable, much more than her previous one.
She looked around, and noticed a man had exited the building. He was walking over, and most definitely was able to note her fine clothing. She sighed, puffing out steam. She moved off of the car and walked over to meet the man.
He had an apologetic and saddened look on his face. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here, Miss McKensey. We’re not allowed to take him out of the county, I’m afraid.” She gave the head cop a slight quizzical look. “Suspected foul play. We’re going to need a few statements and an alibi from you, too.” He paused for a moment, and went on, “I’m the inspector here, Inspector Charlie Kent.”
“Yes, well, state-level I presume?” He was about to say so when she cut in, “I don’t care. Not while we’re standing outside, too cold to do that.” He smiled acknowledging and nodded for her to follow, and they walked towards the door he came out of. He looked over at the woman as he held the door open for her who looked very much in control, emotionally and professionally.
Two men were standing inside, waiting. One was a tall man of deep ebony matte and there was a smaller man with a French body-type. Neither of them looking entirely too happy, which was rather reasonable. They were both cold, in the middle of Nowhere, New York in a meat-packaging factory and it was just plain, good manners to be solemn when there were dead people and their grieving friends and family around.
Alice looked around and gave a polite nod to the two men. She followed the inspector through the corridors and finally to a room. Alice noted to herself that it looked like where they cut the meat, which gave her a chill completely unrelated to the freezing cold of the room.
Sitting there on the table in the middle of the room was a white sheet which formed a fairly human-esque figure. The inspector walked forward, giving her a moment to regain her wits. She nodded for the go-ahead and he pulled the sheet away from the man’s head. Alice stared.
“I know it’s tough, Miss McKensey, but bare with me. Does this look like Mister Theodore Wrensky?” His voice was kind but rough. Alice nodded.
“Yes, it certainly looks like him, just never thought the man could die.”
¥
There was once a man who had a daughter. His wife died quite some time ago and he remarried. The new wife had a daughter also. The new wife did not like the husband’s daughter and so the daughter had a very hard time.
One day the father brought his daughter out into the woods and found a little hut standing on a chicken leg. He called out “Little hut, little hut, stand with your back to the woods and your front to me!” The hut turned around and out cam Baba Yaga (a little irate, she was in the middle of making tea and it spilled over when the hut moved).
“I smell a Russian!” she said, and that was by no means a complement. She wasn’t fond of Russians. They kept coming over and interrupting things.
The father bowed to Baba Yaga and said, “Baba Yaga, I have brought my daughter to be your servant.”
Baba Yaga was rightly pleased with that, she did have some things that needed to be done. She looked the daughter over, a little scrawny but manageable. “Very well, she shall serve me. I will reward her for it.” The father left.
Baba Yaga gave the girl a basket of yarn to spin, told her to make fire for the stove and dinner, then she left. The daughter attempted to spin the thread but failed and broke down crying. A handful of mice came running out and asked for some gruel. The daughter said, “If I give you gruel, then spin my yarn.” The mice did not have anything better to do and so did. They were rewarded and the daughter managed everything by the time Baba Yaga came home.
When Baba Yaga came home, she ordered the daughter to give her a bath. After that was done, the daughter received several fine dresses. The next day, Baba Yaga gave the girl even harder tasks. Again the mice ran out and asked for gruel and they made the same deal. The maiden received even more fine dresses.
One day the father sent out to find his daughter (and see if she is still alive). He found his daughter well and happy. The step-daughter was jealous of the many fine dresses and the step-mother ordered her to head off to the Baba Yaga’s house (much to the annoyance of the poor old woman).
The Baba Yaga gave her the same orders she gave the daughter and left again. The girl started weeping (the family never was good at spinning yarn). The mice ran out, hoping for a little gruel, but when the step-daughter saw them, she killed them with a rolling pin. She never got the spinning done.
When the Baba Yaga returned, she was irate. Not only were these Russians bothering her but they were getting more and more useless. She was already missing some gruel. She killed the step-daughter and put her bones into a basket (the meat was hung). The husband went to pick the daughter up but was handed only a basket.
¥
A raven’s caw sounded. It was evening or late afternoon. All he knew was that it was dark, but that could have been from the trees and heavy clouds and not the sun creeping away towards the other parts of the Earth. He was sitting up and contemplating on his next move. He was very fond of that idea, but the raven called again and he knew that it would not be possible. His option was to stand up, and that was it.
He brushed himself self off, being a bit muddy, and looked over to where the raven was standing in a tree. The raven ruffled its feathers and cawed again. The man looked up at the bird and threw a nearby rock at it. He missed. The bird paused to look at him and flew off, making what sounded remarkably like a laugh. Annoyed, the man turned and walked in the different direction, walked in what he hoped was a way out of the forest.
It was not that he did not like the forest. Sure it was muddy and full of pesky flea-ridden beasts, but it was dark and creepy. A place you would find imps and demons and monsters. A place to scare little children with and he liked that. It made him feel powerful. More powerful than he already was, that is. It just made him happy, and yet he had to leave it. It was not an option. It was like some profound and god-like being ordered him to move and never to rest and that he had no option to disobey it. So he moved.
He left the glen and pushed around bushes until he came upon a path. It was no real path of clean-make and of dirt (or rocks, as some prefer) or widened for people to walk upon with ease. It was a path that had over-brush and rocks and tree roots and was completely unnoticeable to those who were not meant to move along the path. It was a rare and unfindable path that was meant for only one way, person and use. This specific path was for this man to find his way to a house and after that, it would disappear into trees, rocks and any manner of such things.
It took a small manner of difficulty to move along the path, only because he wished to keep his suit as clean as possible. This was already a hard task, for it was soiled from him being on the ground so long. It felt as though the brambles and branches were reaching out and grabbing a hold of him the further he went and that the rocks and roots were tripping him up more and more as he walked. Annoyed and stubborn, he walked on.
¥
Alice was wondering why she was here. The man was the inspector of her boss’s death, after all. She did not even like him. He was too fatherly and she was not fond of her father. She picked up her coffee and sipped it.
“I know it is hard at a time like this, but I do need an alibi. You were the closest person to Mister Wrensky and it will be hard. It would just be better if you found an alibi quick.”
“Inspector, I already have an alibi. It is rather simple and very hard to be. I had just finished setting up the next month’s agenda and printed it out when I got a call that he never showed up to his meeting. I called his phone several times and at all possibly locations. After I could not reach him, I drove over to the meeting room. Look on my phone bill or ask the people I reached instead of Mister Wrensky or look at the security tape that watched me call all these numbers. I was most certainly not anywhere near him. I was in my office all day.” The inspector nodded.
“Yes, we will need to check those tapes.” He said, “I did not bring you out to this diner just to talk about your alibi or legal things. I came to make sure you are OK.” The waitress came around and put a plate of scrambled eggs, some pancakes and bacon in front of the inspector and a plate of toast in front of Alice’s.
“I am fine, inspector. He was my boss and was not a very kind one. If it wasn’t for being out of job, I would not care. He never showed me much kindness, only worried about his self image.” The inspector nodded.
“Is there anyone to contact? I know his parents are dead and his brother is gone. No uncles or cousins you know of?”
“No,” Alice said. “He really wasn’t a family person. He mainly just worked. There were no calls on his birthday or the holidays from family or friends. He didn’t have much of anybody, sad really.”
¥
Finally, the man reached his unknown destination. He looked back and the path melded into the trees and bushes and rocks and things. He looked forward.
What the man saw was a house, a hut, rather. A hut with no doors and no windows (in truth, there was a door, just not visible until it wished to be so), which was rather sensible if it was left to that. For it was also a hut with chicken legs (one in each corner) that was shifting from foot to foot, scratching here and there and shifting around in its paddock. It looked bored. The man stared.
“Staring at it in that stupefied expression doesn’t do you or it any good, you know.” said a quick and haughty voice next to the man, who was trying to collect his thoughts. He looked over to his right and was not so much surprised, but confused (and his lack of surprise perplexed him). Standing there, looking up at him was a surly black cat. “And staring at me doesn’t do much good either, mister.”
Coming back from his daze, the hero retorted in a more pompous manner than he had intended, “Perhaps, then, you ought to stop talking! Act like a real cat and meow, beg for a bit of meat. Act as you should. It’s unnatural and should cause staring. Look at that house, even. It has chicken legs! ”
The cat rolled its eyes and walked towards the hut, calling back, “Then should you not act as you should? You are as every bit as ‘unnatural’ as I am, good sir.” Perplexed, the man followed the cat until they were both standing in front of the gate and fence that surrounded the hut.
Quite like the hut, the gate and fence was just as abnormal (or unnatural, as our hero would say). It was ivory-white, a bleach bone colour. On closer inspection, it was actually made of bone (and when our hero leaned in, he realised that they were very human). Upon every post was a human skull except on one to the exact right of the gate, which was bare, almost waiting for the next unlucky visitor to come by.
The man reached his hand forward to touch the bone fencing to a spot not far from the left of the gate. “They’re quite tired of that, little one,” The keyhole of in the middle of the gate moved and mouthed the words, “Tired of it, indeed.” The gate huffed. The man stopped and looked at the gate surprised. A cat and a moving house he could deal with. After all, houses could move in this day and age, praise technology and profoundly rich people with realism issues, and cats were just cats. He had never understood cats. They could talk for all he knew. However a gate made out of human bones was talking to him. And not only had this gate spoken to him, but it had called him “little one”. For all he knew, he was not the type to be called little one like a small child being talked down to by an aged and pompous adult.
“Might as well go ahead and listen to him. Not much good in risking it. S’not like those bones are standing of their own free will. Take any chance to bring in another to share their pain. Misery loves company and all that,” the cat said.
The gate sniffed in a bored manner, “Oh yes, misery and all that. You know what’s miserable? Not those wankers up on the fence, I’ll tell you that. It’s good ol’ sturdy Gate. Oh sure, people come and see me, but it’s only to use me, only to get to that bloody house. You should see it when it gets riled up. Means we have to keep the bugger in. It runs hard and fast, too. It screeches, too. You haven’t had the chance to hear it yet, little master, but stick around long enough and you will. Oh, you will. Hurts my ears.” Gate continued to rant on about his poor old self and the always moving, unhappy bone-fence as his face, or rather him, creaked and groaned, bones moving how bones never would do so normally and all doing so to form an overly dramatic and loud gate.
The cat looked up at the man and said, “Oh, don’t mind him just old, creaky Gate. His bones won’t take you. Just push on through. I feel up for a fine mouse or two. Talking to him always gets me hungry,” the cat stalked away and disappeared, not without looking back and adding, “Watch for that keyhole though. Get your hand too close and he’ll snap it off. He doesn’t get to eat much, you know.”
The man watched the cat disappear before turning back to Gate, who was still ranting angrily, only this time about a little girl named Vasilissa and her sticky, filthy fingers. Not sure of what else to do, he furtively pushes the gate, making sure not to get anywhere near the keyhole (or mouth, both and whichever) and walked into the lawn.
The grass was craggily and dry: dead and crispy under the man’s feet. He stopped in front of the shifting hut, unsure of what to do. All he knew was that he wished to enter it. He did not even know if he wished this freely or if it belonged to someone else and they passed the desire on to him. He knew that he did not care whose desire it is, but just that he did what it desired. And now, besides wanting to enter the hut, he longs to make it stop screeching.
“Stop it!” he tries. This did not work, mainly because, as everyone knows, houses and homes and huts do not have ears. He attempted again, adding a “now”.
“Open sesame?” No luck.
“Allow me to enter?” No change.
“Cease!” he shouts. In the background, he can hear Gate continuously talking. He sighs and looks around for help, looking for, just maybe, a magic biscuit or mushroom. At least Miss Wonderland had help, he thought. He made a face and spoke the nonsense that suddenly ran through his mind:
Turn your back to the forest, your front to me.
The hut stopped scuttling and stumbled only slightly to keep its balance and sat down. Our hero was only pleased for a second, for while he had stopped the hut, there was still a problem of entering. He tried the door, but it was locked. It had no windows.
Like a dog kicked out of the house, he sat down against the wall. He sat like this for a while, when suddenly there was a noise, a muffled noise of someone shuffling around. He moved away from the door, which busted open with a bang.
The first thing he noticed was a nose looking out of the doorway. Upon a second look it was a tall, gangly, infinitely aged woman with a long nose. She had wild, wiry hair that is a grey colour and a scraggily long dress that looked of leaves and coloured in many Earthy dead tones. Not morbidly dead, but a leafy, dirt death. She glares at the man.
“Ah, you’re not him. You look like him. Oh you do indeed, laddie. But no, you’re not him. You’re not proud an’ tall. He always holds himself like that. But don’t get me wrong, you’re a git alright. You wouldn’t be here is you weren’t. You’re just not that git,” she gives a pause to look closer at the man and made a clucking noise. “Now, state your purpose. I don’t have all day, you know. This old lady has too many plans to be bothered by some new troubled youngster.”
The man was unsure of what to say, for he had no real purpose, of course. He just came upon a path (just for him), talked to a cat and passed through a talking and potentially dangerous gate and, on a strange whim, ordered a house to stop moving. He realised, when taking this into perspective that it was all very wrong and unnatural. He did not know what, but there was something he could not remember.
“Advice! I’ve come for advice,” he figured this to be the safest choice. Everyone gets advice asked from them at one point in their life. What advice, he could not decide. How to get out of the forest, he thought. It wasn’t a complete lie, a little white lie. He wanted to exit the forest and he found someone to ask, perfect.
The old woman made a disgruntled face, obviously not pleased by this answer, “All you humans ever want is advice and advice and advice. Maybe a little bread and a bed here and there, but after that, it’s all the same. What is it this time, it couldn’t be much. You don’t have many ties, not anymore.” The man furrowed his eyebrows at her, confused and curious. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted, “Be quiet. Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Never ask unnecessary questions. It only does harm to the person being asked. Now if you want advice, and bread and bed, you obviously need it, then come in. My house must always be open to visitors. Whether you’re pure of heart or not, is another matter, my dear. For your poor soul, I wish you are. It would make everything easier for the whole of us.”
He paused, only for a moment. He entered the hut.
Zerfall - Mastered
There were chattering and murmurs coming from the double doors leading to the dining room of the mansion. One of the female servants stopped pushing the trolley to stop and straighten a cup and brush down her dress. She pulled a stray hair out of her face and was about to open the door when she heard a voice behind her, which caused her to jump. She looked around and was surprised to see a man in a fine, crisp colonel uniform completed with every adornment and award given to colonels. “Excuse me?”. She had been busy preparing herself that she had not heard what he had said.
“Would you mind me getting the door? I am late to my meeting and imagine how embarrassing it would be for the coffee servant to enter and I did nothing to help? As the colonel and head of this station, it is my duty to continue in gentlemanly acts.” She remained expressionless for a few moments, unable to comprehend his tone behind what he had said. Was he being cold, rude and manipulative, or was he just the type to state a matter of fact and was acting with her as his equal? He remained to wait for some sort of response, it seemed and she nodded, seeing no reason to decline the offer.
The man opened the door and allowed her to enter first. He walked over to the head of the table, as every sombre, serious official stood. The servant began placing down her coffee cups, starting with the head. To the man’s right, was a man in lieutenant’s uniform, with his nametag claiming his name to be “Lovecraft”. He held a seemingly bemused face, most likely because the colonel was late, and addressed the man, “So, our high and honourable Colonel Xavier Norris finally came meet with us?”
Colonel Xavier smirked and said, “Well, I was hoping to meet all that boring and dull stuff. You know I can’t stand meetings. Nothing interesting ever happens, Lovecraft.”
Colonel Xavier was given his coffee and turned to his front. He looked at all the men who sat at this table. They were the men brave enough to enter take the hardest position anyone had from the East Union Empire: guarding a captured country. They had all came to this country because they were assured that they would be given extra troops within time. However the EUE not only refused extra troops but stopped all communications from the surviving soldiers. The EUE was to forget that there was ever any military camp within this small, insignificant country. Colonel Xavier took another sip.
He allowed the men to talk for a while, mingling and calming nerves. He did not catch what they were saying and nor did he care. Finally he stood up and all the chatter stopped. The meeting was to commence again. Colonel Xavier cleared his throat and began reciting the typical procedure of all military EUE meetings. “By the name of our Empire, these lands shall be protected with our ever-giving devotion. Defeat is not an option. Cowardice is not permissible. Our heart and body shall remain strong as the strength of our Great Lion. All Hail East Union Empire!” He said this in a flat and bored voice. He sat down. The men sat down. Lovecraft raised his eyebrows at the Colonel.
“Is that not too sacrilegious to speak the words of commencement at a meeting such as this, Colonel? After all, our plan is rather cowardice.
“Lieutenant Lovecraft, if our plan is cowardice then perhaps it ought to change? I am not any more fond of cowardice than the Great Lion is. Of course I do not agree with him on much more points other than that of war.” Colonel Xavier arched his eyebrows at Lovecraft, who looked exasperated at the colonel.
“Of course, sir. I do know how you feel. I still believe it wrong to use those words here, especially if the country-folk hear it.”
***
Colonel Xavier entered the kitchen silently. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. The bag held a powder. He opened a cupboard and took out a tin box at the very back. He opened it up and place the bag in the tin box. He looked around and placed the tin back. He walked over and took some bread and left the kitchen.
***
Lovecraft opened the door to the Colonel’s balcony. Colonel Xavier was staring out into the mountainous forest. Lovecraft walked forward, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He asked, “Enjoying to view?” Colonel Xavier nodded.
“The wolves call. The moon does not shine. The wind whistles silently behind every tree and rustles the leaves behind your back.” Colonel Xavier looked at his lieutenant. “The bravest and stupidest of the country-folk do not dare enter the forest. Even our own men, when in battle, would do everything but enter those mountains. Why do you think that is?” Lovecraft had nothing to say and, so he sipped his vodka. “It is no fairytale. What is out there is real and it is powerful. The whole of East Union Empire could not take it down. That, whatever it is, is truly beautiful.” Lovecraft stayed silent but looked to his colonel. His eyes shown with eagerness. He radiated cruel happiness.
***
Two maids were preparing the coffee when the head of the maids, Isra, relieved them. “Have rest, you will need it”, she had told them. All she really wanted to do was be alone with the coffee. As soon as they were gone, she went into the cupboard and took out a tin box from the back. She distributed the powder into each cup and pushed the trolley out of the kitchen and down the hall. She knocked on the door. Colonel Xavier appeared where the door was once closed. He held the door open as she entered. She gave a nod and said, “Thank you, colonel.” He nodded back and sat down.
Lovecraft looked to Colonel Xavier as he was handed his coffee. “What do you believe we should do, if not run away? I tell you, there are not many options.” Lovecraft took a sip. A raven cawed outside. The Colonel smiled as he took his coffee. He tilted his head at Lovecraft and looked outside.
Lovecraft gave him a puzzled look and turned around as he sipped his coffee. He furrowed his brow and stared at the trees in horror. There were many young men donning their EUE uniforms hanging. All of the foot soldiers left were hanging; all of the soldiers were dead.
The Colonel smiled eerily, his eyes shining. “What odd fruit the trees of these parts grow, Lovecraft. This country ceases to amaze me.” Lovecraft turned back to the Colonel.
“What do you mean by this? What has this accomplished?” he said in awe.
“By this? Oh, just a means of disposal. I did not need them. I have my own squadron now, Lovecraft. None of the old EUE men are needed and nor are they wanted.” To the left of them, one of the men began to gag. He stumbled out of his chair and threw up on the carpet. He tried to gag again but fell, twitching. The rest of the men began to gag. Lovecraft took out his pistol and aimed it at the Colonel, who was still smiling.
Lovecraft stumbled forward as he pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang and Lovecraft’s pistol was in Isra’s hand. The bullet had entered the ceiling missing its mark completely. Lovecraft managed to say “Monster!” before he fell to the ground, dead. The Colonel arched his eyebrows and moved his foot away from Lovecraft. He looked outside. A raven cawed out as more flocked to the odd tree-fruits.
The Colonel stood up and walked forward. He stared out at the ravens momentarily before spinning around quickly. Isra followed him. The Colonel kept walking until he was facing the start of the forest. Isra had taken off her peasant’s dress and was now wearing tight pants and shirt. She stood to the right of the Colonel. He turned towards the woman next to him. She was his second-in-command. Her name was Yamin; Isra was the name she took from a missing maid. The Colonel looked past the opening through the trees and to the wide expanse of forbidden forests and mountains. Behind him stood the trees with odd fruit and a manor of poisoned coffee left out for foolish rats.
“Zerfall is a beautiful thing, Yamin. Decay is, after all, the basis of war.”
A/N: The three astericks are the breaks. Originally I had some fancy squiggle, butblogger cannot handle it too well.
It might seem a little rushed, I hope not, though. I wrote this at the beginning of September but kept re-writing it. Each one was relatively different from each other, so I put in subtitles. This is the final and fourth one. There was the original, visited, re-visited and then mastered. This one is much less detailed in other people other than Lovecraft, Isra/Yamin and Xavier.
The names all meant something, so it was a little hard to throw them all away. Lovecraft was the most random of all. The name was from the author. I just like the name, I think. It could have reflection or some sort of meaning, but I really didn't intend. I just couldn't think up a grand and wonderful name. (Sorry to disappoint, HAHA).
Isra means 'riches' and is Arabic (depends were you get the information, I suppose. I just looked it up on babynames.com which put it as 'riches', but I was originally told that it meant 'peace'). Xavier means 'new house' and is Spanish. Yamin means 'right hand' and is Hebrew.
“Would you mind me getting the door? I am late to my meeting and imagine how embarrassing it would be for the coffee servant to enter and I did nothing to help? As the colonel and head of this station, it is my duty to continue in gentlemanly acts.” She remained expressionless for a few moments, unable to comprehend his tone behind what he had said. Was he being cold, rude and manipulative, or was he just the type to state a matter of fact and was acting with her as his equal? He remained to wait for some sort of response, it seemed and she nodded, seeing no reason to decline the offer.
The man opened the door and allowed her to enter first. He walked over to the head of the table, as every sombre, serious official stood. The servant began placing down her coffee cups, starting with the head. To the man’s right, was a man in lieutenant’s uniform, with his nametag claiming his name to be “Lovecraft”. He held a seemingly bemused face, most likely because the colonel was late, and addressed the man, “So, our high and honourable Colonel Xavier Norris finally came meet with us?”
Colonel Xavier smirked and said, “Well, I was hoping to meet all that boring and dull stuff. You know I can’t stand meetings. Nothing interesting ever happens, Lovecraft.”
Colonel Xavier was given his coffee and turned to his front. He looked at all the men who sat at this table. They were the men brave enough to enter take the hardest position anyone had from the East Union Empire: guarding a captured country. They had all came to this country because they were assured that they would be given extra troops within time. However the EUE not only refused extra troops but stopped all communications from the surviving soldiers. The EUE was to forget that there was ever any military camp within this small, insignificant country. Colonel Xavier took another sip.
He allowed the men to talk for a while, mingling and calming nerves. He did not catch what they were saying and nor did he care. Finally he stood up and all the chatter stopped. The meeting was to commence again. Colonel Xavier cleared his throat and began reciting the typical procedure of all military EUE meetings. “By the name of our Empire, these lands shall be protected with our ever-giving devotion. Defeat is not an option. Cowardice is not permissible. Our heart and body shall remain strong as the strength of our Great Lion. All Hail East Union Empire!” He said this in a flat and bored voice. He sat down. The men sat down. Lovecraft raised his eyebrows at the Colonel.
“Is that not too sacrilegious to speak the words of commencement at a meeting such as this, Colonel? After all, our plan is rather cowardice.
“Lieutenant Lovecraft, if our plan is cowardice then perhaps it ought to change? I am not any more fond of cowardice than the Great Lion is. Of course I do not agree with him on much more points other than that of war.” Colonel Xavier arched his eyebrows at Lovecraft, who looked exasperated at the colonel.
“Of course, sir. I do know how you feel. I still believe it wrong to use those words here, especially if the country-folk hear it.”
***
Colonel Xavier entered the kitchen silently. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. The bag held a powder. He opened a cupboard and took out a tin box at the very back. He opened it up and place the bag in the tin box. He looked around and placed the tin back. He walked over and took some bread and left the kitchen.
***
Lovecraft opened the door to the Colonel’s balcony. Colonel Xavier was staring out into the mountainous forest. Lovecraft walked forward, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He asked, “Enjoying to view?” Colonel Xavier nodded.
“The wolves call. The moon does not shine. The wind whistles silently behind every tree and rustles the leaves behind your back.” Colonel Xavier looked at his lieutenant. “The bravest and stupidest of the country-folk do not dare enter the forest. Even our own men, when in battle, would do everything but enter those mountains. Why do you think that is?” Lovecraft had nothing to say and, so he sipped his vodka. “It is no fairytale. What is out there is real and it is powerful. The whole of East Union Empire could not take it down. That, whatever it is, is truly beautiful.” Lovecraft stayed silent but looked to his colonel. His eyes shown with eagerness. He radiated cruel happiness.
***
Two maids were preparing the coffee when the head of the maids, Isra, relieved them. “Have rest, you will need it”, she had told them. All she really wanted to do was be alone with the coffee. As soon as they were gone, she went into the cupboard and took out a tin box from the back. She distributed the powder into each cup and pushed the trolley out of the kitchen and down the hall. She knocked on the door. Colonel Xavier appeared where the door was once closed. He held the door open as she entered. She gave a nod and said, “Thank you, colonel.” He nodded back and sat down.
Lovecraft looked to Colonel Xavier as he was handed his coffee. “What do you believe we should do, if not run away? I tell you, there are not many options.” Lovecraft took a sip. A raven cawed outside. The Colonel smiled as he took his coffee. He tilted his head at Lovecraft and looked outside.
Lovecraft gave him a puzzled look and turned around as he sipped his coffee. He furrowed his brow and stared at the trees in horror. There were many young men donning their EUE uniforms hanging. All of the foot soldiers left were hanging; all of the soldiers were dead.
The Colonel smiled eerily, his eyes shining. “What odd fruit the trees of these parts grow, Lovecraft. This country ceases to amaze me.” Lovecraft turned back to the Colonel.
“What do you mean by this? What has this accomplished?” he said in awe.
“By this? Oh, just a means of disposal. I did not need them. I have my own squadron now, Lovecraft. None of the old EUE men are needed and nor are they wanted.” To the left of them, one of the men began to gag. He stumbled out of his chair and threw up on the carpet. He tried to gag again but fell, twitching. The rest of the men began to gag. Lovecraft took out his pistol and aimed it at the Colonel, who was still smiling.
Lovecraft stumbled forward as he pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang and Lovecraft’s pistol was in Isra’s hand. The bullet had entered the ceiling missing its mark completely. Lovecraft managed to say “Monster!” before he fell to the ground, dead. The Colonel arched his eyebrows and moved his foot away from Lovecraft. He looked outside. A raven cawed out as more flocked to the odd tree-fruits.
The Colonel stood up and walked forward. He stared out at the ravens momentarily before spinning around quickly. Isra followed him. The Colonel kept walking until he was facing the start of the forest. Isra had taken off her peasant’s dress and was now wearing tight pants and shirt. She stood to the right of the Colonel. He turned towards the woman next to him. She was his second-in-command. Her name was Yamin; Isra was the name she took from a missing maid. The Colonel looked past the opening through the trees and to the wide expanse of forbidden forests and mountains. Behind him stood the trees with odd fruit and a manor of poisoned coffee left out for foolish rats.
“Zerfall is a beautiful thing, Yamin. Decay is, after all, the basis of war.”
A/N: The three astericks are the breaks. Originally I had some fancy squiggle, butblogger cannot handle it too well.
It might seem a little rushed, I hope not, though. I wrote this at the beginning of September but kept re-writing it. Each one was relatively different from each other, so I put in subtitles. This is the final and fourth one. There was the original, visited, re-visited and then mastered. This one is much less detailed in other people other than Lovecraft, Isra/Yamin and Xavier.
The names all meant something, so it was a little hard to throw them all away. Lovecraft was the most random of all. The name was from the author. I just like the name, I think. It could have reflection or some sort of meaning, but I really didn't intend. I just couldn't think up a grand and wonderful name. (Sorry to disappoint, HAHA).
Isra means 'riches' and is Arabic (depends were you get the information, I suppose. I just looked it up on babynames.com which put it as 'riches', but I was originally told that it meant 'peace'). Xavier means 'new house' and is Spanish. Yamin means 'right hand' and is Hebrew.
Outline of the Indict
Year One: Introduction, Ex-major Ophelia Courts
Year Two: Jeremy Tindelman medical report
Year Three: Conversation between Ophelia and Lydia
Year Four: The first of its Kind, Time Travel
Year Five: Colonel Jack Sumner medical report
Year Six: 50th Failed Experiment
Year Seven: DNA News
Year Eight: Leaving the Lab
Year Nine: The First Surviving Egg
Year Ten: The Meeting
Year Eleven: The Influenza
Year Twelve: It Returns
Year Thirteen: Detention
Year Fourteen: Working Together
The Indict: The End and the Beginning and the Middle
What is the disease?
Year Two, Five, Seven, Eight, Ten, Eleven, The Indict
How does the machine work/is build?
Year Three, Four, Six, Nine, Twelve, Thirteen, The Indict
What is the journey forward?
Year Fourteen, The Indict
What about the colony itself?
Year One, Indict
Dr Heind Dies
Dr Lydia Dies
DNA News Report
A/N: I just liked the names for each year, really. It's sort of like a 'reader's guide' to the story. I'm just putting it up here for my amusement.
Year Two: Jeremy Tindelman medical report
Year Three: Conversation between Ophelia and Lydia
Year Four: The first of its Kind, Time Travel
Year Five: Colonel Jack Sumner medical report
Year Six: 50th Failed Experiment
Year Seven: DNA News
Year Eight: Leaving the Lab
Year Nine: The First Surviving Egg
Year Ten: The Meeting
Year Eleven: The Influenza
Year Twelve: It Returns
Year Thirteen: Detention
Year Fourteen: Working Together
The Indict: The End and the Beginning and the Middle
What is the disease?
Year Two, Five, Seven, Eight, Ten, Eleven, The Indict
How does the machine work/is build?
Year Three, Four, Six, Nine, Twelve, Thirteen, The Indict
What is the journey forward?
Year Fourteen, The Indict
What about the colony itself?
Year One, Indict
Dr Heind Dies
Dr Lydia Dies
DNA News Report
A/N: I just liked the names for each year, really. It's sort of like a 'reader's guide' to the story. I'm just putting it up here for my amusement.
The Indict
Year One
We heard the news, all of us. All of the people on the world heard it. It was not so much of a broadcast across the papers and the television and the internet, but it was a broadcast through the Homo sapiens DNA. We all heard the news.
I was the prominent world-leading scientist’s assistant. Because of that, I survived. She did not. Her name was Lydia Chovsky. She dealt in time, space, the continuum and travel of. Not many would consider this to be the world-leading branch on the Earth, but unbeknownst to the common humans, it was. It saved the species, after all.
She was the head of the physics department, but she was also on the Council. Dr Lydia was witness to much odd and sometimes ‘fun’ experimentation. Dr Heind was a close friend of hers and he tended to ask her to witness an unusual medical examination, experiment or surgery. She often wrote her own reports, just in case Dr Heind became invalid.
I met her by ‘chance’ when a wild theory of mine got me noticed by the USN, or the United Science of Nations. It is alright to tell you this now; the organisation has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years. Everything has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years.
That was how long it would take before Earth was safe. Certain things needed to die, to be killed off. A team of the top medical doctors calculated it to be seventy years, but we wanted to be sure, really sure. That was how long for this disease to pass through the rest of the remaining population and for those infected to die off. There was no vaccine for this disease, much like the past SARS and bird flu and AIDS and certain cases of cancer and the many prions out there.
There might still be small pockets or groups here and there, in the most remote of places, but I don’t think we need to worry about that now. I hope that is the case, at least. It will not go without testing, of course. I do not rely on hope anymore. I cannot do that. As Leader, I cannot. I wish I could, just like those primordial Homo sapiens could. With all I have seen, I believe there are still pockets of the Diseased. Diseases do not like to die. Nothing does.
Year Two
Subject: Jeremy Tindelman
Age: 7
Height: 4’ 3”
Weight: 100 lbs.
Patient Number: 25717
Observations: At 0200, Patient 25717 was shown into the lab. He had convulsions, similar to epilepsy. The patient was strapped down. Blood was drawn. Fifteen minutes later Dr Heind began the examination. The patient responded violently towards light, especially when flashed in his eyes. Five minutes later, at 0230, the convulsions raised in intensity. Heart rate was at 200 and rapidly increasing. The patient spewed blood, all orifices bled. The patient’s left eye and aorta burst and veins popped, causing massive internal bleeding. The heart was left indescribable: one massive hole and the cells left completely indistinguishable. The lungs had several punctures and filled with blood. The liver was ripped to pieces. The spine and chest cavity held blood. The bone marrow was liquid, completely destroyed. The brain liquefied and leaked through the ears, nose, mouth and down through the throat. Dr Heind took several blood samples. Dr Mendelssohn and Dr Klein took several biopsies.
Blood Sample 1: Taken at 0205. No signs of viral or bacterial infections. The dissected platelets held an unidentified protein.
Blood Sample 2: Taken at 0235, from the chest cavity. No viral or bacterial infections, like sample 1. An abnormal amount of platelets.
Blood Sample 3: Taken at 0235, from the head. Same as sample 2.
Blood Samples 4-10 are the same as sample 2 and 3: Taken from the lungs, heart, bone marrow and spine.
Biopsy from heart: Cells were destroyed, indistinguishable. It was nothing like human or any other animal cell recorded. Cells were crushed into a mass, nuclei destroyed beyond recognisable.
Biopsy of brain: Stems cells were elongated and most were broken into several pieces. They were recognisably stem cells.
Biopsy of liver: Cells torn apart. Almost like the heart cells, however several cell organs were left intact while there were very few whole cells.
Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2006.
Year Three
I entered Dr Lydia’s office with a sheet of permission. I handed it to her. She skimmed over it and looked up at me from the sheet. She raised an eyebrow. “You believe that you are ready to begin experimentation, Major Courts? We have very bad luck with your line of work, you do realise that.”
I nodded and shifted position. “Yes, I do realise that. But Dr Chovsky, you know what a great deal this is to me. I have read over the past files and I cannot find fault in my machine. I do not believe it will bring attention to us from the government. If you are that unsure, then look over my work. Look over the diagrams and my notes.”
She looked faintly bemused. “I will sign this, Major, but remember that if this machine brings the government to our doorstep, you will disappear forever. There is no going back.” I nodded. I knew what I was dealing with here. I gave up my life to pursue this line of work and I was finally getting close enough to the final stages. “However I am pleased that you are making progress, Major. If you did not show a result within a year, you would be in a very dangerous position.”
Year Four
I walked around the machine and looked over at the desk smothered with blueprints. I sighed with the pleasure of finishing a great task and touched the machine. I walked over to the incubator in the right corner and held up an egg, my first of many-to-come subjects. I opened the hatch of the machine and placed the egg inside.
I entered the closet which held a few lab coats, a radiation apron or two and many various types of helmets. I picked up a hefty steel welding visor and lugged a radiation helmet onto me. I picked up thick gloves made of the same materials as my apron. I walked over to the blast room and began setting the controls up. I flipped the switch that turned on that warning red light outside the lab room. I began my work: watching lights flicker, flipping switches, and finally switching on the important and gigantic lever that diverted the power to the machine. Light indicated it worked and the machine disappeared.
The machine reappeared. I checked the radiation levels in the room and all other sort of levels that could possibly endanger my being. I opened the hatch to the machine as Dr Lydia entered the room and looked around. She raised an eyebrow and said, “The… fiftieth one, I presume?”
Year Five
Subject: Colonel Jack Sumner
Age: 35
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 167 lbs.
Patient Number: 25721
Observations: Patient 25721 entered room at 1450 hours. Heart rate was at 120 and patient was tensed. There was slight convulsing. We took a blood sample. The patient was not able to make any form of speech, but made grunting noises. The patient responded to our questions, but was unable to speak. The patient developed a twitch, located in the neck and right arm. Dr Heind commenced the stimuli test done on Patient 25717. Similar results, especially to the light. As time passed, the patient began jerk and twitch. Convulsions worsened. Heart rate increased to 180. The patient began sweating profusely. The grunts became more like screams, showing pain. Fifteen minutes later, at 1505 hours, patient’s right eye exploded and heart rate stabilised at 195. The patient began jerking at his straps. Dr Heind’s assistant took a blood sample without luck. The patient refused to cooperate or could not. He drooled and his eyes seemed crazed. He started screaming. He began to attempt to rip out of his bondages without any luck. The patient’s heart rate went up to 200 and past. The convulsions started again, worse. The patient began to throw up blood. Blood started leaking through the ear, nose, tear-ducts and anal orifices. The brain began to leak out the patient’s nose. The patient died at 1523 hours. Autopsy showed that the heart was thoroughly worn through and aorta was ripped. A few ventricles in the stomach and lungs broke, leading to the throwing up of blood. Some vessels in the brain also broke and also the brain itself had begun to liquefy. Another blood sample was taken.
Blood Sample 1: High adrenaline. A foreign protein was detected in the platelets.
Blood Sample 2: High adrenaline and a high count of platelets, although less than that of Patient 25717’s count.
Blood Sample 3: Same as sample 2.
Biopsy of Aorta and Heart: Both had same results, the cells had begun to break apart when the heart stopped.
Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2007.
Year Six
Dr Lydia walks into the lab and picks up the nearest jumble of burnt mass of wires. She raises an eyebrow and looks over at the woman picking up a burnt and exploded egg. The doctor sighs and walks over.
“The… fiftieth one, I presume?” The woman dumped the egg in the trashcan and stood up, brushing off her radiation apron.
“Ah, yes. I think that’s the number now and that red light outside the room is there for a reason. I’ve stopped counting, really. I think we’re missing something. Maybe if you actually showed up once and a while we might figure it out, but in the mean time we’ll be keeping this up, depleting our funds. I suppose your funds, too.”
“I’ve got unlimited funds, major. You’re on your last limb. If you cannot find a break-through, you’re done here.” The woman glared at her and strode out of the room.
“I’ve told you, I am not a major anymore. Remember this super-secret top-security organisation we’re in? My home country thinks I am DEAD now, not many dead majors.”
“You mean not many active dead majors.”
Year Seven
I was putting my old blueprints away when it happened. An assistant I was rather fond of was in the room. He started shaking and shivering. I began to move over to him to see what was wrong when I started shaking and shivering too. His eyes were wide and he was staring off into nothing. I could not help but do the same. I saw things.
There was the entire nation, the world encompassed by my fellow Homo sapiens. We were all linked together, I could feel it. I did not feel safe. We were not happily linked, but there was a part of me scared. I was frightened. Something was wrong and it was disastrous. I wanted to cry out; I most likely did. All of us were afraid and we all knew it. What we were afraid of exactly, I am unsure. It was big and it was inevitable. There was no stopping it. We knew it would spread and fast. It shall encompass the entire world and Homo sapiens will be no more.
I fell forward, screaming. I had lost my balance. The assistant looked up at me, sweating and breathing hard. “It has begun,” he said. His eyes were wide.
Year Eight
I looked over my blueprints and my notebooks on last time before I stood up. I had work to do, a lot of work. Every scientist on the compound is being forced to go to a meeting. I have too much work to do and this epidemic break-out of a deviant strain of something unknown is not in my field. I do not care, not yet. All scientists within this compound do not concern themselves deeply in other fields. It pulls them away from accomplishing their own work. Dr Lydia is the only one I know that concerns herself too much into the realm of Dr Heind’s little medical playthings.
I sighed and began to close everything down: lights, computer, everything but the device monitoring my machine of time. This meeting I was forced to go to is to decide on Dr Heind’s future at this compound. Because he has not produced a specific result for two years, all the scientists must decide whether or not his current work is important enough to allow Dr Heind to stay. These meetings normally do not fare well for the scientists in question but Dr Heind is high up in our politics. I wish for him to leave. He unnerves me.
Year Nine
I made the final adjustments on my machine. This new power system should work. The last one produced a poisonous and flammable gas within the life form when it was forced to enter the speed of light, the speed at which we may travel time. At first I thought it was the travelling itself, but I refused that to be the case. Why would metal survive but my hardy little eggs should not? This time I used my own version of the Tipler cylinder instead of electromagnetism. My Tipler cylinder did indeed rotate, but it was not forced to such an ungainly length and could go anywhere it needed or wanted instead of only being able to go where it has already been. There was my original circular and rotating piece, but I added into it a cylinder which pumped up and down in the middle of the circular piece. This created the correct type of friction to create a miniature black hole for the time it was moving. The cylinder held several rare crystals which were the power source for creating the black hole. The crystals restored energy by the active life forms around them. Only human or another life form as mentally active as that could power up a crystal.
With these new modifications, I hoped for my egg to survive. I donned my apron and helmet and gloves and began to turn on my machine. Unlike the last one, this must be turned on by outside force. No computer was capable of doing so. It required an arcane knowledge, something only known by someone in tune to the space-time continuum. Every control changed slightly compared to where, when, who and what was. I specified the when and pulled the lever to begin the process. I stepped back as the circular and cylindrical pieces moved and rotated. There was a power surge, the lights in the lab dimmed. I could hear, no feel the rushing of the crystals working and the black hole forming. The egg sat silently. The lights went out. When they returned, my machine was gone. I looked at my watch.
Year Ten
We were all called into the medical conference-room today. Dr Heind and his assistants were solemn. Their medical experiments on a handful of unfortunate individuals were not going well. The team was in trouble. They could not figure out what this epidemic was, how to cure it and whether or not the occurrence a few days ago was actually related to the epidemic and how did that occurrence happen in the first place. The first victim they knew about was in Cardiff, Wales. It was a young man, Captain Ian Middler. He was a pilot. He fell ill; the doctors thought it was a seizure. After he died, a doctor who witnessed the autopsy noticed it as an odd case. Two days later, Jeremy Tindelman came in with the same symptoms. The doctor called us up and Tindelman came here. After the boy, there was Suzie Bates, Miranda McKay and Todd Derringer. They were all alike in their sickness. Then Colonel Jack Sumner came along and he ended up differently. Not only did he last longer, but he was able to show what happened psychologically to the patient; he became violent and bloodthirsty. After that, the next patients were in the same lot. If not held down, they would attempt to attack others. They let one loose on an animal once. The animal died.
After hearing their long plea for salvation, we began to vote. I pressed the No on the computerised ballot in front of me in an assured manner. No matter that he was the best doctor we had, there was something wrong. This entire matter was wrong. I did not want him working on this epidemic or anything remotely near it. Of the people who voted sat silently as the others meditated on the offer. Everyone was given an hour to decide.
Year Eleven
It had been only twenty minutes after the voting began when it all started. My assistant ran into the room. “You need to turn on the telly, Major. Channel 3, news.”
I went to my computer and ran the channel through. The news footage had already started. At the bottom of the screen, there was a call number for specific medical help and to stay where you were. The newscaster reported, “-And do not panic. I repeat, do not panic. For all who are in Cardiff and the surrounding outskirts, this is quarantine. Stay where you are. For those who just tuned in, Cardiff as been quarantined. An epidemic has gone out of control and medical professionals are attempting to see what they can do. Do not attempt to reach your loved ones within the city, you could become infected. Officials have got this under control and are doing all that they can to reduce the victims-” I began to record the report and left the lab. I did not need to see this now. It only confirmed my suspicions on Dr Heind. This was most assuredly the disease that has claimed so many of their patients and baffled the entire medical branch. Even the timing was suspicious and blatantly so.
I entered the voting room and looked up at the counter. The vote for Yes had risen from when I left. He was going to stay. I left.
Year Twelve
I was in the lab taking readings. I was still unsure of where my machine went. It was not unusual for this to happen. If I got it wrong, it would not come back, hopefully in my life time, but there was a possibility of it just disappearing. I sighed, not only did I lose my machine but I was also waiting for my reprimand. We were not supposed to drain the base’s power; it tended to make the government suspicious.
My readings showed me nothing, so I sat down at my computer and waited. Sure enough, the Council’s courier appeared and handed me a letter. Just as I reached out for it, the lights dimmed, flickered and ended. There was black pitch of nothing and then I heard a sound; it was the sound of rotating cylinders and circles. It was not squeaky or un-oiled, but not smooth either. The sound was of a machine working, the parts creating friction and doing precisely what they are supposed to do. The sound ended and the light reappeared. My machine had returned. I momentarily looked at the courier’s surprised face then ran over to the machine and opened it up. Sitting there was a quaint little omelette on a plate, a fork and a note. I was puzzled. I picked up the note. It said:
- Good job, you are on the right track. Try not being so enthusiastic next time; the machine is more sentient than you realise.
I looked at the note fondly, and picked up the omelette and fork. I offered them to the courier, who shook his head quickly. He left.
Year Thirteen
An irate Dr Lydia entered my lab, where I was polishing my machine. I was ready to send her off again. This time I was going to take that advice and try not to be so strong in my emotions. I did not want to have to rely on some other person or possibly even the future me, to return my machine.
“You realise the trouble you are in for this, major? The government is homing in on our position. They are beginning to figure it out. They are not stupid, you know that. We have enough on our hands than dealing with your disgusting pet project. Dr Heind and his men are trying to fix this horrific mess and one more clue to the government and everything will be lost. From now on, you are to suspend all work and shall be confined to your quarters.” Five detaining personnel entered the room.
Year Fourteen
The lights showed red. The alarm sounded. Heavy iron doors cut the compound into quarantined sections. Dr Lydia Chovsky readied her single-hand shotgun and ran towards the quarters. She pounded twice on one of the doors which were reinforced like all quarantine doors. Five knocks came from inside. Dr Lydia swiped her card on the door and pressed seven numbers on the number pad. The door retracted and Major Ophelia Courts found herself with a single-hand shotgun pointed at her face.
“Your name?” said Dr Lydia. Major Courts raised an eyebrow.
“ I am Major Ophelia Courts, or rather ex-Major Ophelia Courts.”
“Good, and where are we and what is your purpose?”
“The location is classified and I have no bleeding clue what my purpose is. I like physics, though, especially the kind that deals with time.”
Dr Lydia glared at the Major and said, “I ought to shoot you just for being so damn cheeky. If you haven’t heard, that alarm means quarantine. The compound has been compromised.”
“What happened?”
“Everything. The human race is dying. The entire world has been compromised, if you wanted to get technical. It was the unknown epidemic Dr Heind was working on. It continued to mutate. He never figured it out, no one did.”
“And why take me out of quarantine?”
“You know how to run the time machine. Your assistant tried to, but it did nothing. It just sat there. We figured you put a lock on it.”
“I did not. It is sentient, must not have liked him.”
The Indict
One of the new Council members came into my tent. He came to report that there had been a sighting of a group of humans in the woods outside of camp and they looked Diseased. He said that the camp was beginning to pack up, just as planned. If any single human was seen outside of the camp members then we were to move forward in time. We did not want to take chances. Chances meant death.
I started to pack everything. All my belongings, all work and notes, my futon and tent was packed and brought into the time machine. It was bigger than I first made it. Dr Lydia and my assistants had hooked it up to larger ship. The original was still there, thankfully. The last bits and pieces of the camp came in when a group appeared over the ridge: the Diseased. The doors locked shut. We sat there momentarily, staring at the group. I could barely recognise them. They had not aged, but so much as changed. They were filthy and wild and ill. They were travel-wearied from time. We could not help but stare at our old colleagues. Dr Lydia and Dr Heind were there. Dr Heind had fallen before I was let out of my quarters but I had witnessed Dr Lydia being attacked and bitten. I was forced to close the hatch on her.
I leaned forward and began to pull the levers: the one to the left, then to the upper right and then the fourth and fifth and sixth. My time machine reacted and began its rotations. On the fifteenth lever, or the indict as I liked to call it, I reached to major lever of power and switched it on. I looked up as we began to dematerialise.
I felt my machine ripping the continuum. We were alone, the machine and I. I felt its power surging through me. We re-materialised in Dr Lydia’s office. I had a chance to look at the papers on her desk. A medical report of Jeremy Tindelman was sitting there, ready to be faxed to Dr Heind. I felt the ripping again and felt us moving forward. I appeared and appeared. I witnessed the creation of my machine and witnessed the experimentations done on the victims of the Disease. I watched myself smile with pride when the machine came back with the omelette and note and I laughed to myself at the courier’s surprised face. I materialised in the security room during the quarantine. Everyone was dead; they had shot themselves or swallowed the proper cyanide pills issued. I looked at the screens, watching everything happen. I saw Dr Lydia and I running to my machine. I watched passively as I saw Dr Heind and his assistants stumble forward and intercept Dr Lydia and I. I was ahead of them and looked back when I heard a scream. Dr Heind leapt forward and Dr Lydia was brought down. He bit her. She screamed and shot him in the face. I had already reached my machine and opened went through the hatch. I looked behind and saw Dr Lydia running towards me. I closed the hatch and the machine started up.
My machine and I reappeared in a medical lab. Dr Heind was alone. He looked up at me and I could not help but stare at him. He raised his hand and dropped the phial he was holding. It broke. He calmly walked forward and pressed the alarm button. Lights showed red and the medical quarantine began. My chest started to feel heavy. I had trouble breathing. My machine began flashing back and forth. I could feel my machine was hurt. The rotations were struggles. The power was failing. It struggled backwards; I felt it searching through my childhood. It zoned in to Cardiff. It felt a great surging power from there. We materialised in an old hangar bay, in a corner behind some crates. A captain was washing on of the older planes wistfully. He looked over to where I appeared.
A/N: The blogger messed up the layout of the story, so I did the best I could (so no indented paragraphs randomly and such).
For those of you still wondering, an indict is fifteen years. It is no longer in use for measuring time, but I liked the word too much. It sounded faintly scary and intense. I hoped that this story reflected it, but at least I tried and that counts for something. On the other hand, I might change the ending. I am still a bit unsettled on it. It seems all too deus ex machina (in a bad way, I assume) and there are loopholes in it. I'll see how others feel about it.
We heard the news, all of us. All of the people on the world heard it. It was not so much of a broadcast across the papers and the television and the internet, but it was a broadcast through the Homo sapiens DNA. We all heard the news.
I was the prominent world-leading scientist’s assistant. Because of that, I survived. She did not. Her name was Lydia Chovsky. She dealt in time, space, the continuum and travel of. Not many would consider this to be the world-leading branch on the Earth, but unbeknownst to the common humans, it was. It saved the species, after all.
She was the head of the physics department, but she was also on the Council. Dr Lydia was witness to much odd and sometimes ‘fun’ experimentation. Dr Heind was a close friend of hers and he tended to ask her to witness an unusual medical examination, experiment or surgery. She often wrote her own reports, just in case Dr Heind became invalid.
I met her by ‘chance’ when a wild theory of mine got me noticed by the USN, or the United Science of Nations. It is alright to tell you this now; the organisation has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years. Everything has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years.
That was how long it would take before Earth was safe. Certain things needed to die, to be killed off. A team of the top medical doctors calculated it to be seventy years, but we wanted to be sure, really sure. That was how long for this disease to pass through the rest of the remaining population and for those infected to die off. There was no vaccine for this disease, much like the past SARS and bird flu and AIDS and certain cases of cancer and the many prions out there.
There might still be small pockets or groups here and there, in the most remote of places, but I don’t think we need to worry about that now. I hope that is the case, at least. It will not go without testing, of course. I do not rely on hope anymore. I cannot do that. As Leader, I cannot. I wish I could, just like those primordial Homo sapiens could. With all I have seen, I believe there are still pockets of the Diseased. Diseases do not like to die. Nothing does.
Year Two
Subject: Jeremy Tindelman
Age: 7
Height: 4’ 3”
Weight: 100 lbs.
Patient Number: 25717
Observations: At 0200, Patient 25717 was shown into the lab. He had convulsions, similar to epilepsy. The patient was strapped down. Blood was drawn. Fifteen minutes later Dr Heind began the examination. The patient responded violently towards light, especially when flashed in his eyes. Five minutes later, at 0230, the convulsions raised in intensity. Heart rate was at 200 and rapidly increasing. The patient spewed blood, all orifices bled. The patient’s left eye and aorta burst and veins popped, causing massive internal bleeding. The heart was left indescribable: one massive hole and the cells left completely indistinguishable. The lungs had several punctures and filled with blood. The liver was ripped to pieces. The spine and chest cavity held blood. The bone marrow was liquid, completely destroyed. The brain liquefied and leaked through the ears, nose, mouth and down through the throat. Dr Heind took several blood samples. Dr Mendelssohn and Dr Klein took several biopsies.
Blood Sample 1: Taken at 0205. No signs of viral or bacterial infections. The dissected platelets held an unidentified protein.
Blood Sample 2: Taken at 0235, from the chest cavity. No viral or bacterial infections, like sample 1. An abnormal amount of platelets.
Blood Sample 3: Taken at 0235, from the head. Same as sample 2.
Blood Samples 4-10 are the same as sample 2 and 3: Taken from the lungs, heart, bone marrow and spine.
Biopsy from heart: Cells were destroyed, indistinguishable. It was nothing like human or any other animal cell recorded. Cells were crushed into a mass, nuclei destroyed beyond recognisable.
Biopsy of brain: Stems cells were elongated and most were broken into several pieces. They were recognisably stem cells.
Biopsy of liver: Cells torn apart. Almost like the heart cells, however several cell organs were left intact while there were very few whole cells.
Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2006.
Year Three
I entered Dr Lydia’s office with a sheet of permission. I handed it to her. She skimmed over it and looked up at me from the sheet. She raised an eyebrow. “You believe that you are ready to begin experimentation, Major Courts? We have very bad luck with your line of work, you do realise that.”
I nodded and shifted position. “Yes, I do realise that. But Dr Chovsky, you know what a great deal this is to me. I have read over the past files and I cannot find fault in my machine. I do not believe it will bring attention to us from the government. If you are that unsure, then look over my work. Look over the diagrams and my notes.”
She looked faintly bemused. “I will sign this, Major, but remember that if this machine brings the government to our doorstep, you will disappear forever. There is no going back.” I nodded. I knew what I was dealing with here. I gave up my life to pursue this line of work and I was finally getting close enough to the final stages. “However I am pleased that you are making progress, Major. If you did not show a result within a year, you would be in a very dangerous position.”
Year Four
I walked around the machine and looked over at the desk smothered with blueprints. I sighed with the pleasure of finishing a great task and touched the machine. I walked over to the incubator in the right corner and held up an egg, my first of many-to-come subjects. I opened the hatch of the machine and placed the egg inside.
I entered the closet which held a few lab coats, a radiation apron or two and many various types of helmets. I picked up a hefty steel welding visor and lugged a radiation helmet onto me. I picked up thick gloves made of the same materials as my apron. I walked over to the blast room and began setting the controls up. I flipped the switch that turned on that warning red light outside the lab room. I began my work: watching lights flicker, flipping switches, and finally switching on the important and gigantic lever that diverted the power to the machine. Light indicated it worked and the machine disappeared.
The machine reappeared. I checked the radiation levels in the room and all other sort of levels that could possibly endanger my being. I opened the hatch to the machine as Dr Lydia entered the room and looked around. She raised an eyebrow and said, “The… fiftieth one, I presume?”
Year Five
Subject: Colonel Jack Sumner
Age: 35
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 167 lbs.
Patient Number: 25721
Observations: Patient 25721 entered room at 1450 hours. Heart rate was at 120 and patient was tensed. There was slight convulsing. We took a blood sample. The patient was not able to make any form of speech, but made grunting noises. The patient responded to our questions, but was unable to speak. The patient developed a twitch, located in the neck and right arm. Dr Heind commenced the stimuli test done on Patient 25717. Similar results, especially to the light. As time passed, the patient began jerk and twitch. Convulsions worsened. Heart rate increased to 180. The patient began sweating profusely. The grunts became more like screams, showing pain. Fifteen minutes later, at 1505 hours, patient’s right eye exploded and heart rate stabilised at 195. The patient began jerking at his straps. Dr Heind’s assistant took a blood sample without luck. The patient refused to cooperate or could not. He drooled and his eyes seemed crazed. He started screaming. He began to attempt to rip out of his bondages without any luck. The patient’s heart rate went up to 200 and past. The convulsions started again, worse. The patient began to throw up blood. Blood started leaking through the ear, nose, tear-ducts and anal orifices. The brain began to leak out the patient’s nose. The patient died at 1523 hours. Autopsy showed that the heart was thoroughly worn through and aorta was ripped. A few ventricles in the stomach and lungs broke, leading to the throwing up of blood. Some vessels in the brain also broke and also the brain itself had begun to liquefy. Another blood sample was taken.
Blood Sample 1: High adrenaline. A foreign protein was detected in the platelets.
Blood Sample 2: High adrenaline and a high count of platelets, although less than that of Patient 25717’s count.
Blood Sample 3: Same as sample 2.
Biopsy of Aorta and Heart: Both had same results, the cells had begun to break apart when the heart stopped.
Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2007.
Year Six
Dr Lydia walks into the lab and picks up the nearest jumble of burnt mass of wires. She raises an eyebrow and looks over at the woman picking up a burnt and exploded egg. The doctor sighs and walks over.
“The… fiftieth one, I presume?” The woman dumped the egg in the trashcan and stood up, brushing off her radiation apron.
“Ah, yes. I think that’s the number now and that red light outside the room is there for a reason. I’ve stopped counting, really. I think we’re missing something. Maybe if you actually showed up once and a while we might figure it out, but in the mean time we’ll be keeping this up, depleting our funds. I suppose your funds, too.”
“I’ve got unlimited funds, major. You’re on your last limb. If you cannot find a break-through, you’re done here.” The woman glared at her and strode out of the room.
“I’ve told you, I am not a major anymore. Remember this super-secret top-security organisation we’re in? My home country thinks I am DEAD now, not many dead majors.”
“You mean not many active dead majors.”
Year Seven
I was putting my old blueprints away when it happened. An assistant I was rather fond of was in the room. He started shaking and shivering. I began to move over to him to see what was wrong when I started shaking and shivering too. His eyes were wide and he was staring off into nothing. I could not help but do the same. I saw things.
There was the entire nation, the world encompassed by my fellow Homo sapiens. We were all linked together, I could feel it. I did not feel safe. We were not happily linked, but there was a part of me scared. I was frightened. Something was wrong and it was disastrous. I wanted to cry out; I most likely did. All of us were afraid and we all knew it. What we were afraid of exactly, I am unsure. It was big and it was inevitable. There was no stopping it. We knew it would spread and fast. It shall encompass the entire world and Homo sapiens will be no more.
I fell forward, screaming. I had lost my balance. The assistant looked up at me, sweating and breathing hard. “It has begun,” he said. His eyes were wide.
Year Eight
I looked over my blueprints and my notebooks on last time before I stood up. I had work to do, a lot of work. Every scientist on the compound is being forced to go to a meeting. I have too much work to do and this epidemic break-out of a deviant strain of something unknown is not in my field. I do not care, not yet. All scientists within this compound do not concern themselves deeply in other fields. It pulls them away from accomplishing their own work. Dr Lydia is the only one I know that concerns herself too much into the realm of Dr Heind’s little medical playthings.
I sighed and began to close everything down: lights, computer, everything but the device monitoring my machine of time. This meeting I was forced to go to is to decide on Dr Heind’s future at this compound. Because he has not produced a specific result for two years, all the scientists must decide whether or not his current work is important enough to allow Dr Heind to stay. These meetings normally do not fare well for the scientists in question but Dr Heind is high up in our politics. I wish for him to leave. He unnerves me.
Year Nine
I made the final adjustments on my machine. This new power system should work. The last one produced a poisonous and flammable gas within the life form when it was forced to enter the speed of light, the speed at which we may travel time. At first I thought it was the travelling itself, but I refused that to be the case. Why would metal survive but my hardy little eggs should not? This time I used my own version of the Tipler cylinder instead of electromagnetism. My Tipler cylinder did indeed rotate, but it was not forced to such an ungainly length and could go anywhere it needed or wanted instead of only being able to go where it has already been. There was my original circular and rotating piece, but I added into it a cylinder which pumped up and down in the middle of the circular piece. This created the correct type of friction to create a miniature black hole for the time it was moving. The cylinder held several rare crystals which were the power source for creating the black hole. The crystals restored energy by the active life forms around them. Only human or another life form as mentally active as that could power up a crystal.
With these new modifications, I hoped for my egg to survive. I donned my apron and helmet and gloves and began to turn on my machine. Unlike the last one, this must be turned on by outside force. No computer was capable of doing so. It required an arcane knowledge, something only known by someone in tune to the space-time continuum. Every control changed slightly compared to where, when, who and what was. I specified the when and pulled the lever to begin the process. I stepped back as the circular and cylindrical pieces moved and rotated. There was a power surge, the lights in the lab dimmed. I could hear, no feel the rushing of the crystals working and the black hole forming. The egg sat silently. The lights went out. When they returned, my machine was gone. I looked at my watch.
Year Ten
We were all called into the medical conference-room today. Dr Heind and his assistants were solemn. Their medical experiments on a handful of unfortunate individuals were not going well. The team was in trouble. They could not figure out what this epidemic was, how to cure it and whether or not the occurrence a few days ago was actually related to the epidemic and how did that occurrence happen in the first place. The first victim they knew about was in Cardiff, Wales. It was a young man, Captain Ian Middler. He was a pilot. He fell ill; the doctors thought it was a seizure. After he died, a doctor who witnessed the autopsy noticed it as an odd case. Two days later, Jeremy Tindelman came in with the same symptoms. The doctor called us up and Tindelman came here. After the boy, there was Suzie Bates, Miranda McKay and Todd Derringer. They were all alike in their sickness. Then Colonel Jack Sumner came along and he ended up differently. Not only did he last longer, but he was able to show what happened psychologically to the patient; he became violent and bloodthirsty. After that, the next patients were in the same lot. If not held down, they would attempt to attack others. They let one loose on an animal once. The animal died.
After hearing their long plea for salvation, we began to vote. I pressed the No on the computerised ballot in front of me in an assured manner. No matter that he was the best doctor we had, there was something wrong. This entire matter was wrong. I did not want him working on this epidemic or anything remotely near it. Of the people who voted sat silently as the others meditated on the offer. Everyone was given an hour to decide.
Year Eleven
It had been only twenty minutes after the voting began when it all started. My assistant ran into the room. “You need to turn on the telly, Major. Channel 3, news.”
I went to my computer and ran the channel through. The news footage had already started. At the bottom of the screen, there was a call number for specific medical help and to stay where you were. The newscaster reported, “-And do not panic. I repeat, do not panic. For all who are in Cardiff and the surrounding outskirts, this is quarantine. Stay where you are. For those who just tuned in, Cardiff as been quarantined. An epidemic has gone out of control and medical professionals are attempting to see what they can do. Do not attempt to reach your loved ones within the city, you could become infected. Officials have got this under control and are doing all that they can to reduce the victims-” I began to record the report and left the lab. I did not need to see this now. It only confirmed my suspicions on Dr Heind. This was most assuredly the disease that has claimed so many of their patients and baffled the entire medical branch. Even the timing was suspicious and blatantly so.
I entered the voting room and looked up at the counter. The vote for Yes had risen from when I left. He was going to stay. I left.
Year Twelve
I was in the lab taking readings. I was still unsure of where my machine went. It was not unusual for this to happen. If I got it wrong, it would not come back, hopefully in my life time, but there was a possibility of it just disappearing. I sighed, not only did I lose my machine but I was also waiting for my reprimand. We were not supposed to drain the base’s power; it tended to make the government suspicious.
My readings showed me nothing, so I sat down at my computer and waited. Sure enough, the Council’s courier appeared and handed me a letter. Just as I reached out for it, the lights dimmed, flickered and ended. There was black pitch of nothing and then I heard a sound; it was the sound of rotating cylinders and circles. It was not squeaky or un-oiled, but not smooth either. The sound was of a machine working, the parts creating friction and doing precisely what they are supposed to do. The sound ended and the light reappeared. My machine had returned. I momentarily looked at the courier’s surprised face then ran over to the machine and opened it up. Sitting there was a quaint little omelette on a plate, a fork and a note. I was puzzled. I picked up the note. It said:
- Good job, you are on the right track. Try not being so enthusiastic next time; the machine is more sentient than you realise.
I looked at the note fondly, and picked up the omelette and fork. I offered them to the courier, who shook his head quickly. He left.
Year Thirteen
An irate Dr Lydia entered my lab, where I was polishing my machine. I was ready to send her off again. This time I was going to take that advice and try not to be so strong in my emotions. I did not want to have to rely on some other person or possibly even the future me, to return my machine.
“You realise the trouble you are in for this, major? The government is homing in on our position. They are beginning to figure it out. They are not stupid, you know that. We have enough on our hands than dealing with your disgusting pet project. Dr Heind and his men are trying to fix this horrific mess and one more clue to the government and everything will be lost. From now on, you are to suspend all work and shall be confined to your quarters.” Five detaining personnel entered the room.
Year Fourteen
The lights showed red. The alarm sounded. Heavy iron doors cut the compound into quarantined sections. Dr Lydia Chovsky readied her single-hand shotgun and ran towards the quarters. She pounded twice on one of the doors which were reinforced like all quarantine doors. Five knocks came from inside. Dr Lydia swiped her card on the door and pressed seven numbers on the number pad. The door retracted and Major Ophelia Courts found herself with a single-hand shotgun pointed at her face.
“Your name?” said Dr Lydia. Major Courts raised an eyebrow.
“ I am Major Ophelia Courts, or rather ex-Major Ophelia Courts.”
“Good, and where are we and what is your purpose?”
“The location is classified and I have no bleeding clue what my purpose is. I like physics, though, especially the kind that deals with time.”
Dr Lydia glared at the Major and said, “I ought to shoot you just for being so damn cheeky. If you haven’t heard, that alarm means quarantine. The compound has been compromised.”
“What happened?”
“Everything. The human race is dying. The entire world has been compromised, if you wanted to get technical. It was the unknown epidemic Dr Heind was working on. It continued to mutate. He never figured it out, no one did.”
“And why take me out of quarantine?”
“You know how to run the time machine. Your assistant tried to, but it did nothing. It just sat there. We figured you put a lock on it.”
“I did not. It is sentient, must not have liked him.”
The Indict
One of the new Council members came into my tent. He came to report that there had been a sighting of a group of humans in the woods outside of camp and they looked Diseased. He said that the camp was beginning to pack up, just as planned. If any single human was seen outside of the camp members then we were to move forward in time. We did not want to take chances. Chances meant death.
I started to pack everything. All my belongings, all work and notes, my futon and tent was packed and brought into the time machine. It was bigger than I first made it. Dr Lydia and my assistants had hooked it up to larger ship. The original was still there, thankfully. The last bits and pieces of the camp came in when a group appeared over the ridge: the Diseased. The doors locked shut. We sat there momentarily, staring at the group. I could barely recognise them. They had not aged, but so much as changed. They were filthy and wild and ill. They were travel-wearied from time. We could not help but stare at our old colleagues. Dr Lydia and Dr Heind were there. Dr Heind had fallen before I was let out of my quarters but I had witnessed Dr Lydia being attacked and bitten. I was forced to close the hatch on her.
I leaned forward and began to pull the levers: the one to the left, then to the upper right and then the fourth and fifth and sixth. My time machine reacted and began its rotations. On the fifteenth lever, or the indict as I liked to call it, I reached to major lever of power and switched it on. I looked up as we began to dematerialise.
I felt my machine ripping the continuum. We were alone, the machine and I. I felt its power surging through me. We re-materialised in Dr Lydia’s office. I had a chance to look at the papers on her desk. A medical report of Jeremy Tindelman was sitting there, ready to be faxed to Dr Heind. I felt the ripping again and felt us moving forward. I appeared and appeared. I witnessed the creation of my machine and witnessed the experimentations done on the victims of the Disease. I watched myself smile with pride when the machine came back with the omelette and note and I laughed to myself at the courier’s surprised face. I materialised in the security room during the quarantine. Everyone was dead; they had shot themselves or swallowed the proper cyanide pills issued. I looked at the screens, watching everything happen. I saw Dr Lydia and I running to my machine. I watched passively as I saw Dr Heind and his assistants stumble forward and intercept Dr Lydia and I. I was ahead of them and looked back when I heard a scream. Dr Heind leapt forward and Dr Lydia was brought down. He bit her. She screamed and shot him in the face. I had already reached my machine and opened went through the hatch. I looked behind and saw Dr Lydia running towards me. I closed the hatch and the machine started up.
My machine and I reappeared in a medical lab. Dr Heind was alone. He looked up at me and I could not help but stare at him. He raised his hand and dropped the phial he was holding. It broke. He calmly walked forward and pressed the alarm button. Lights showed red and the medical quarantine began. My chest started to feel heavy. I had trouble breathing. My machine began flashing back and forth. I could feel my machine was hurt. The rotations were struggles. The power was failing. It struggled backwards; I felt it searching through my childhood. It zoned in to Cardiff. It felt a great surging power from there. We materialised in an old hangar bay, in a corner behind some crates. A captain was washing on of the older planes wistfully. He looked over to where I appeared.
A/N: The blogger messed up the layout of the story, so I did the best I could (so no indented paragraphs randomly and such).
For those of you still wondering, an indict is fifteen years. It is no longer in use for measuring time, but I liked the word too much. It sounded faintly scary and intense. I hoped that this story reflected it, but at least I tried and that counts for something. On the other hand, I might change the ending. I am still a bit unsettled on it. It seems all too deus ex machina (in a bad way, I assume) and there are loopholes in it. I'll see how others feel about it.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The Perfect Love Story (and for a warning, it is lesbian)
She entered the classroom. What was she doing here? She should be in history class right now. I scrunched down in my chair, trying to avoid her more than the stares directed to me. I was disrupting class again and she was in front of me. The teacher had excused me, but I refused to move, or rather I could not move. She was standing and was so pretty. She had a beret in her hair and was looking so pretty. It certainly turned heads.
“Hey, Vennie Charles,” she called. “You’re late for our meeting. They told me to come find you.” I looked up her, surprised. How could I have forgotten?
I forced myself to stand and slung my satchel onto my shoulder. I mumbled a “sorry, excuse me” and walked out of the room. She followed me out.
“You’re lucky to get out of Schrider’s class,” she said. “I hate math. I don’t understand it at all.” She smiled warmly as she looked at me. I got butterflies in my stomach when she did that. She was so beautiful.
“Well, I’m not that bad at that. It’s just boring. He drones on and on. I can’t help but drift off. I sit by the window, doesn’t help at all.” I laughed happily.
I looked at her face and then away. It’s her hair, I think. Her hair was a deep, dark brown and long. She was an athlete. She played soccer. She was taller than me, too. She wasn’t the first one I would pick in the crowd, but she played soccer so beautifully. It amplified and made her radiate. We continued down the hallway and I stuck my hands into my pockets. It was a hopeless dream to be her girlfriend. Harriet Burman was not a lesbian.
“So,” she said. “What experience do you have in soccer? Do you have a favourite position? I’ve never seen you play before.”
“Position? I don’t know. I don’t know any. I’ve never played sports before, not outside gym, that is.” I smiled and looked at her. “What is yours?” I said. “I’ve only seen you play goalie. You’re great at that.” I looked away. I loved watching her play goalie. I’ve watched her play ever since freshman year and I am in my senior year.
“Being goalie is all I know how to do.” She laughed and opened the door. “Here we are.”
♀♀
The meeting began and ended. All of the members flocked to me, trying to recruit me to their favourite position. I knew nothing of soccer, only of what I saw from Harriet. I was afraid of being goalie because Harriet would have to coach me. I’d die if she did that. I’d burn up and die of embarrassment and love. I stood up despairingly. I regretted joining the club. The entire thing was completely embarrassing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do now. I had missed lunch and by the time I got my books put away, everyone had fled.
I turned to the door and she was standing there. She had a friendly smile.
“Hey, you missed lunch, didn’t you?” she said.
I nodded.
“Then you wouldn’t mind eating during my period? Best stick together!” She kept smiling.
“I do have a free period. I was going to do an essay, but I’m so hungry!” I said. “I’ll run over to Radcliff’s room and sign in. We’ll meet you outside. Is that okay? I always eat under the trees.”
“Do you? Coincidence! I like eating outside better too.
♀♀
I hated facing Radcliff. She always left a bitter taste in my mind. I was too happy, though. It made me so happy to finally be able to eat lunch with her. I get a period to be with her! We don’t have any classes together and I only saw her on the field. I finally get actual time to be with her and not in front of the entire soccer club.
I walked down the hallway and opened the doors that led to the outside.
There was Harriet Burman.
There was a man.
They were kissing.
My eyes burned.
I ran into the hallway, another hallway to the right and down that forever and then, finally, up stairs until I reached the very top and out onto the roof. I stopped running. The wind had picked up and whipped out at me. I huddled against the wall. I just laid there. I felt like screaming, crying, tearing myself apart and those pieces float away into the wind. I wanted the wind to pick up harder and harder and whip me. I felt stupid.
Then the door opened.
“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” she said. “I don’t like him. I want to let you that. I didn’t want that to happen. It wasn’t my choice. He made me.”
I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t answer her. The wind toned down.
She walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I sprang away from her and hid myself on the other side of the doorway. I was crying. She followed.
“I’m sorry if you liked him,” she said. Her eyes were tear-stained.
I shifted away from her. “I wanted you,” I said.
Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth hung open a little. “Oh,” she said. She brought her hand up to her hair and looked down.
“I loved you since I saw you on the field,” I said. “First game of your freshman year.”
I moved out of my crouch and wiped my face and smiled. “I guess you don’t like me then,” I said. “No chance of that? You’re one for the men?”
She looked at me with a confused expression. “Oh, no,” she said. “I suppose I owe you the truth. I don’t really like-men.”
I blinked. She coughed.
She walked towards me and tugged at her ear. She looked down at me in my sitting position. She kissed my forehead. I fainted.
♀♀
I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling. I sat up slowly and looked around. I appeared to be in a bed, the bed in the nurse’s room to be precise. I looked around and Harriet entered the room. She gave me an embarrassed smile, scratched her head, gave a quick look to me and fixed her gaze on the sink. “Awake, I see. Good.”
“I fainted.” She nodded. “You’re cute and I couldn’t help it.” She looked surprised by my forwardness.
“Oh, well. I guess I won’t kiss you anymore, right? I can’t keep taking you to the nurse’s office.”
“You’re so mean!” I acted indignant. She sat on my bed.
“Are you alright though? I didn’t think you were going to faint.”
I looked abashed, it was pretty embarrassing. “It was too much for me to handle! I was emotion-ed out. First I thought I was going to be able to eat with you, then you and that guy were kissing and then you kissed me!”
“Do you accept?” She leaned over me, her hands on either side of me so she looked directly so she was looking directly into my eyes.
“Accept?”
“My proposal!” She sat up.
“What proposal?”
“You’re so THICK! So never mind.” She crossed her arms.
“What proposal? You never said anything! How can I accept something if I don’t know what it is?” She leaned in to my face. We were inches apart, noses barely touching and eye to eye.
“My proposal to date you.” She was so close; all I could see was her.
“Oh. That kind of proposal. Well-“ I looked down.
“TOO LATE!” She stood up and started to walk to the door.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘too late’? I accept! I accept!” She spun around and looked at me.
“Are you serious?”
“Well, are you serious?”
“I asked first.”
She looked at me impatiently and collapsed exasperatedly.
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
We smiled happily at each other for a frozen moment.
I leaned over and kissed her.
A/N: Some people in my fiction class asked whether or not this was from personal experience, and no, it was not. I just felt like writing a love story and it turned out to be two women.
Everyone loved it, a LOT. Ross tried to make it better (suggestions) and everyone basically growled and stood firm that it was perfect. I was rather unhappy about the beginning. Ross ripped my story apart and typed up a version (using purely only MY sentences, so adding nothing of his own work) and we had an 'exercise' with that for class. It did not go well. Everyone just thought it was perfect how it was (I felt bad for Ross, because he was correct. There were things that needed changing). This is the final version (I had originally posted up the first one, which was much longer. It used to be up to 8-9 pages, now it is 5).
“Hey, Vennie Charles,” she called. “You’re late for our meeting. They told me to come find you.” I looked up her, surprised. How could I have forgotten?
I forced myself to stand and slung my satchel onto my shoulder. I mumbled a “sorry, excuse me” and walked out of the room. She followed me out.
“You’re lucky to get out of Schrider’s class,” she said. “I hate math. I don’t understand it at all.” She smiled warmly as she looked at me. I got butterflies in my stomach when she did that. She was so beautiful.
“Well, I’m not that bad at that. It’s just boring. He drones on and on. I can’t help but drift off. I sit by the window, doesn’t help at all.” I laughed happily.
I looked at her face and then away. It’s her hair, I think. Her hair was a deep, dark brown and long. She was an athlete. She played soccer. She was taller than me, too. She wasn’t the first one I would pick in the crowd, but she played soccer so beautifully. It amplified and made her radiate. We continued down the hallway and I stuck my hands into my pockets. It was a hopeless dream to be her girlfriend. Harriet Burman was not a lesbian.
“So,” she said. “What experience do you have in soccer? Do you have a favourite position? I’ve never seen you play before.”
“Position? I don’t know. I don’t know any. I’ve never played sports before, not outside gym, that is.” I smiled and looked at her. “What is yours?” I said. “I’ve only seen you play goalie. You’re great at that.” I looked away. I loved watching her play goalie. I’ve watched her play ever since freshman year and I am in my senior year.
“Being goalie is all I know how to do.” She laughed and opened the door. “Here we are.”
♀♀
The meeting began and ended. All of the members flocked to me, trying to recruit me to their favourite position. I knew nothing of soccer, only of what I saw from Harriet. I was afraid of being goalie because Harriet would have to coach me. I’d die if she did that. I’d burn up and die of embarrassment and love. I stood up despairingly. I regretted joining the club. The entire thing was completely embarrassing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do now. I had missed lunch and by the time I got my books put away, everyone had fled.
I turned to the door and she was standing there. She had a friendly smile.
“Hey, you missed lunch, didn’t you?” she said.
I nodded.
“Then you wouldn’t mind eating during my period? Best stick together!” She kept smiling.
“I do have a free period. I was going to do an essay, but I’m so hungry!” I said. “I’ll run over to Radcliff’s room and sign in. We’ll meet you outside. Is that okay? I always eat under the trees.”
“Do you? Coincidence! I like eating outside better too.
♀♀
I hated facing Radcliff. She always left a bitter taste in my mind. I was too happy, though. It made me so happy to finally be able to eat lunch with her. I get a period to be with her! We don’t have any classes together and I only saw her on the field. I finally get actual time to be with her and not in front of the entire soccer club.
I walked down the hallway and opened the doors that led to the outside.
There was Harriet Burman.
There was a man.
They were kissing.
My eyes burned.
I ran into the hallway, another hallway to the right and down that forever and then, finally, up stairs until I reached the very top and out onto the roof. I stopped running. The wind had picked up and whipped out at me. I huddled against the wall. I just laid there. I felt like screaming, crying, tearing myself apart and those pieces float away into the wind. I wanted the wind to pick up harder and harder and whip me. I felt stupid.
Then the door opened.
“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” she said. “I don’t like him. I want to let you that. I didn’t want that to happen. It wasn’t my choice. He made me.”
I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t answer her. The wind toned down.
She walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I sprang away from her and hid myself on the other side of the doorway. I was crying. She followed.
“I’m sorry if you liked him,” she said. Her eyes were tear-stained.
I shifted away from her. “I wanted you,” I said.
Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth hung open a little. “Oh,” she said. She brought her hand up to her hair and looked down.
“I loved you since I saw you on the field,” I said. “First game of your freshman year.”
I moved out of my crouch and wiped my face and smiled. “I guess you don’t like me then,” I said. “No chance of that? You’re one for the men?”
She looked at me with a confused expression. “Oh, no,” she said. “I suppose I owe you the truth. I don’t really like-men.”
I blinked. She coughed.
She walked towards me and tugged at her ear. She looked down at me in my sitting position. She kissed my forehead. I fainted.
♀♀
I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling. I sat up slowly and looked around. I appeared to be in a bed, the bed in the nurse’s room to be precise. I looked around and Harriet entered the room. She gave me an embarrassed smile, scratched her head, gave a quick look to me and fixed her gaze on the sink. “Awake, I see. Good.”
“I fainted.” She nodded. “You’re cute and I couldn’t help it.” She looked surprised by my forwardness.
“Oh, well. I guess I won’t kiss you anymore, right? I can’t keep taking you to the nurse’s office.”
“You’re so mean!” I acted indignant. She sat on my bed.
“Are you alright though? I didn’t think you were going to faint.”
I looked abashed, it was pretty embarrassing. “It was too much for me to handle! I was emotion-ed out. First I thought I was going to be able to eat with you, then you and that guy were kissing and then you kissed me!”
“Do you accept?” She leaned over me, her hands on either side of me so she looked directly so she was looking directly into my eyes.
“Accept?”
“My proposal!” She sat up.
“What proposal?”
“You’re so THICK! So never mind.” She crossed her arms.
“What proposal? You never said anything! How can I accept something if I don’t know what it is?” She leaned in to my face. We were inches apart, noses barely touching and eye to eye.
“My proposal to date you.” She was so close; all I could see was her.
“Oh. That kind of proposal. Well-“ I looked down.
“TOO LATE!” She stood up and started to walk to the door.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘too late’? I accept! I accept!” She spun around and looked at me.
“Are you serious?”
“Well, are you serious?”
“I asked first.”
She looked at me impatiently and collapsed exasperatedly.
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
We smiled happily at each other for a frozen moment.
I leaned over and kissed her.
A/N: Some people in my fiction class asked whether or not this was from personal experience, and no, it was not. I just felt like writing a love story and it turned out to be two women.
Everyone loved it, a LOT. Ross tried to make it better (suggestions) and everyone basically growled and stood firm that it was perfect. I was rather unhappy about the beginning. Ross ripped my story apart and typed up a version (using purely only MY sentences, so adding nothing of his own work) and we had an 'exercise' with that for class. It did not go well. Everyone just thought it was perfect how it was (I felt bad for Ross, because he was correct. There were things that needed changing). This is the final version (I had originally posted up the first one, which was much longer. It used to be up to 8-9 pages, now it is 5).
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