Author: Heather Mac

The meeting

All I could remember was the sound of laughter ringing in my ears before the darkness. I bolted up and looked around trying to put the pieces together of what happened and where I was. I’m pretty sure this is the couch that was in our house when I was fourteen. I looked, yep, that’s the place where the not yet fixed dog had her period and stained the pastel floral fabric. It’s the couch, but not the house. No. This was an unknown space, but it was full of items made of memories. I could see my first car parked outside, even though I would swear there was no window. On the bookcase I saw some of my favorite books, a disc camera that I got for Christmas when I was 12 or so. A pile of Hard Rock t-shirts in a pile of dirty laundry – Berlin, Amsterdam, Paris, London, Barcelona. That’s as far as I looked.

The door opened and an old bearded guy in a flowing muslin outfit came in. Please, please, please don’t tell me it’s Saint Peter or some other Catholic bullshittery. I did not spend the majority of my life an atheist for this religious crap.

“Saint Peter?” I ask dryly.

“No. I’m here to fetch you. You have a meeting.” His voice sounded surprisingly young, in contrast to his classic saint-like appearance.

“With whom?”

“Does it matter? Do you somehow have something better to do?” he waved around the small space, where now all the bric-a-brac and memories had vanished.

I sighed, “Guess not.” And followed him out the door.

“Where am I? How did I get here? What is going to happen next?”

“You all ask the same inane questions, and I don’t give a fuck to answer them. You’re here. You have a goddamn meeting, so shut the fuck up and go meet.”

He led me down a hallway that looked like an exact replica of the house I lived in when I was 6-years old, with my mom’s door at the end of it.

“Just knock.” he said impassively, then disappeared. Just literally disappeared.

I looked around, it was no longer the childhood hallway, but the door before me still looked like my mom’s from that house. I rapped on the door, and before the second rap “Enter.” was heard by a warm maternal voice.

Pushing the door open into a lush green landscape with grass, trees, flowers, the sounds of birds, a brook singing as it skipped over rocks was audible, and it smelled like flowers and chlorophyll, a freshness I remembered from camping and summer camp.

A massive tree with the sun streaking through it’s spring green leaves was in the center of the space, with a woman, plump and smiling with silver hair piled in a messy but elegant twist atop her head seated in a nook at the base of the tree’s trunk. Small animals snuggled near her feet and legs, and she held a gigantic white rabbit with pink eyes in her arms.

“Come closer, child. I’m sure you have questions.” Her voice felt like a fluffy blanket wrapped around my soul, inviting me to curl up and rest. Without conscious thought I walked towards her, I felt pulled to her.

I stood in front of her as she looked at me, her face remaining the picture of serene happiness. I felt as though I should curtsy or bow.

“We don’t do that here.” she said, and chuckled.

“You heard that?” I said, more embarrassed than surprised or upset.

“Oh yes. I know everything about you.”

My face flushed and my throat went dry.

“You shouldn’t do that. You’re not what you think you are. You, like all people, are a product of your birth and upbringing. Each of those things made you who you are.” she smiled and pet the rabbit, “And today we’ll work together so you can see it all more clearly.”

“Her levels look good.” the woman was in a white lab coat, checking a medical monitor. A nurse came beside her and checked the IV hanging beside the bed.

“Will this really work, doctor?” The young woman sat, holding the hand of a middle-aged woman in a hospital bed.

“We’ve had great success with similar patients, Ms. Merene. This kind of deep dive into her subconscious will allow her to work through the trauma and sort through what is real and what is fantasy.” the doctor smiled, “You’ll have your mother back soon, I’m certain of it.”

Dystopia Fiction Writing

Angels

Turning into the dark alley, surrounded by the putrid smell of rotting food, waste, and death we saw the door with the watchful eye painted roughly over decades of grime and layers of chipped paint. This was it, the moment of decision. Would we enter and follow through or retreat back and fade into the emptiness that may be our death?

I turned to her, the look on her face told me the answer – onward. Lingering on the face that I knew so well, the single crinkle between the eyes indicating deep focus or concern, her rich hazel eyes, a crown of gold circling the dark pupil like an eclipse, but mostly it was the sadness that stained every pore. Oh she was beautiful, stunning actually, and that’s why we came to this butcher.

Turning the doorknob and pushing the door open, the smell of smoke, sweat, and incense assaulted our senses, filling our noses, blinding our eyes. The heat seeping into our clothes and skin, urging our own sweat to mingle with the scents of others. It was dark, visibility was nearly impossible, but I suppose that was by design, no one should see who was here. Decades-old broken furniture cluttered the outskirts of the cramped room with other visitors seated in masks that obscured their faces. I quickly put a mask on Deeanna’s face so we remained anonymous as well.

The sounds of buzzing reverberated into the waiting area, muffled cries and sobs heard far off in the distance. I looked at my cracking boots, the dirt was holding them together as much as my feet. I gripped tightly the small pouch of gold rocks in my pocket, that represented six months of hard labor in full hazmat gear. Looking over at Deanna, her fidgeting a clear announcement of her nerves. I put my hand on hers, she looks at me with those eyes, so bright and welcoming; she’s scared. She should be. Butchers aren’t known for their delicate touch. I want to touch her soft skin once more, to feel the silkiness of it again, but I know last night was the last time I’d feel that smoothness. If you wanted to survive and escape the slave-trade, you wanted to be average, like all the rest of us – rugged, deformed in one way or another, not the perfect angel that sat beside me. Angels have targets on their back, and it’s a hard life that often ends in suicide.

Dystopia Fiction Writing

Dystopia two ways

June 1^st was upon us again, though according to the travelers, we’ve lost another 2.1 million. By my calculations we’re losing people faster, now that the water has run out and the desalination plants destroyed in the frenzy, it continues to get worse.

In a way, the frenzy was pointless. The lottery never benefited anyone, so what did they think would happen when they clamped down even harder on water? A hydrogen atomizer was the only option, so the masses rushed and rioted during the lottery, believing they hid hundreds of atomizers that they used to provide unlimited water to the government, or to those who can pay the premium price for it.

That was a long time ago. I learned when my Pa never came home, making me the man of the house and responsible for finding water for the whole family.

So I stand in the line, move myself forward with the foolish hope that any of it matters. Maybe the ground-dwellers had the right idea. Digging my toe into the earth.

“Ya know, people used ta dig in the ground for watah back in the day.” The ancient man with the weird accent said again.

Yes, I know, you keep saying it. But I just nod politely and continue to say nothing. What this idiot doesn’t understand is speaking means I need liquid to lubricate my vocal chords. I don’t even remember the last time I spoke aloud. The only reason this old coot is doing it is because he never learned sign language.

I hope he dies soon. No, that’s a cruel thought, I don’t think that, not in a mean way, but I do mean it. One less person means a better chance at an atomizer.

I look up and down the row of people and start thinking about murdering each person. But doesn’t that make me as bad as the soulless bipeds who did this to us? Our ancestors. That word feels dirty in my mind.

Different character

It were bright, like it always been this time o’year. The line o’ people in front o’ me warn’t too bad. Last year I were a few hundred back, at least this year I can see the front. They might’n run out of lottery fobs. I got a chance, Kay. I know she can hear me up there. She’s gon’ help me this year, I kno’ it. Her up in heaven, makin’ sure I gets a ticket and that atomitizer. I dun know how it works, but Imma get it and figur it out.

“Ya know, people used ta dig in the ground for watah back in the day.” I say to the young’un digging his toe in the dirt. We had a well, deep underground with cool, clean water. I ‘member threatenin’ to throw that rowdy boy who threw that ball at school. My face spreads into a smile while I remember the feeling of the waterin’ hole, the rope burn from the swing into the cold water. It don’t seem so long ago, but my hands look like old man hands, n I can’t unnerstand these kids round here.

Maybe all these young ones will figur out how ta get new watah. I bet they got the know how. I ain’t got another year in me. I los’ too much in them frenzies. Got no watah, los two fingers, n’ a week in da box. I still dunno why they give you watah when you in da box. Shoulda just let me die then. No, that ain’t how it works here. We gotta live long enough to die by nature, not by the Keepers.

Nonfiction Writing

The fantasy

I clutched my side of the bed, partially falling off; the nightly lifeboat to save me from him. Maybe if he can’t feel me there he won’t touch me again. As I scooch closer to the edge, a foot off the side, then a leg, I fantasize about a world where I’m able to slide out of that prison, glide silently through the creaky house, gather the kids who have magically become mute, and flee on a chariot into the sky, leaving Hades to burn alone below.

Tears stung my eyes again. How many times would I dream and fantasize before I snap? Before I pick up that hammer and crack his skull open? I’ve had that lovely fantasy countless times, the look of shock on his face as his blood and brains pour out of that vacant head, like a miniature volcano seeping lava. The image keeps me warm as he’s rolled over taking the covers once more.

I fill up with violent thoughts of ways he could die. No, not of ways he could die, but of ways I could kill him. Maybe I could become a vigilante against abusers. Swathed in black leather and some ridiculous fedora, seeking out dropped domestic violence charges or too many falls down the stairs. Appearing before these weak and desperate men to show them what real power is. Seeing the light in their eyes fade with each stroke of pain, each drop of blood, or slice of a knife.

The smile on my face threatens to become a delirious giggle, but it must be suppressed. He can’t wake up. I don’t want him to remember I’m there. Because in truth, I’m not a vigilante, I’m not the heroine of this story, I’m not even the heroine of my own story, much less anyone else’s. I am meek and frightened.

No. That’s not me. That’s him. Those are his lies. One day he’ll realize that I’ve been biding my time, waiting him out until he was too lazy, too tired, an inability to fight, and then it would be my hands around his neck, but I wouldn’t stop. I would destroy my hands to squeeze the last breath from him, and if I could. I’d bring him back to life to do it again if that was possible.

Each night the fantasy is the same. Each night I become closer and closer to making it real. One day I’ll be wearing an orange and finally be happy.

Fiction WIP Writing

Have we met?

Jasmine pushed open the door into the cool night air, a paradise in comparison to the stifling heat inside. The parking lot was sparse, as usual, despite the bar being packed beyond capacity. This wasn’t abnormal, she had become accustomed to that oddity in this world. She found her comfortable spot against the wall, just outside reach of the single light above the door. This was her time to recharge away from everything.

A match lit up a few feet away. The woman, dark olive-toned skin, black hair that hung in model-like waves around her shoulders, a dark brown cigarette held between two long fingers. She lit it and inhaled deeply, before the match was extinguished disappearing into darkness.

Looking back at her feet in the dark, Jasmine knew she had seen that woman before. In fact, it was here, in this same spot. Maybe another frequent visitor.

The clip clop of heels approached and she could make out the shape of the woman, who inhaled her cigarette the glowing orange ember lighting her face slightly.

“Back again?” Her voice sounded like Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup, rich, thick, buttery, and sweet, with a depth of timbre that was alluring in an uncomfortable way.

“I’m sorry?” she responded, thinking her voice sounded squeaky in comparison to the vixen before her. Now she felt painfully aware of her mediocre average appearance, looking down at her own dirty Chucks and faded jeans.

“I see you’re back again. It’s hard to stay away, I know.” She gave a throaty chuckle.

“Have we met?” Jasmine asked in what she’s now accepted must be a tiny, squeaky voice. Had she always had that voice? She internally groaned to herself. No wonder she was alone.

“Not yet, but I’ve seen you around, and I know you’ve seen me too.” This startled and embarrassed Jasmine. Yes, she had seen her, but they’ve never met. This Venus of a woman wasn’t someone she’d actually talk to. No, she was accustomed to staying in her normal human lane, avoiding the oddities of this new world.

The goddess inhaled deeply, lips upturned slightly at the corners in a playful smirk, looking up and down at Jasmine. “Chucks.” she nodded approvingly.

“Huh?” Jasmine’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, “Oh. Yeah. Love em.” she squeaked awkwardly.

The raven-haired beauty flicked the remaining portion of her cigarette, it falling in front of Jasmine. Without thought, she stepped on the glowing ember to extinguish it.

“How safety conscious of you.” the beauty purred with a smirk. She started walking away, the clip clop of her heels bouncing off the building behind Jasmine. “Until next time.” she looked back over her shoulder with a sensual and mischievous look at Jasmine. “Soon.”

Fiction WIP Writing

Filling a vial

His skin began to glow and radiate light, dread locks became beams of light from his head, and his eyes shined like diamonds. His mouth opened and a song you’d imagine was sung by angels came flowing out, but his mouth wasn’t moving, it was just open like a speaker projecting this ethereal sound. Jasmine would have thought that’s impossible, but after the things she had seen, she just sat back as Arniel instructed her to, awaiting the conclusion of this ritual.

To her this is what she imagined seeing angels must have been like. Perhaps that’s what people in the Bible days saw, not angels, but Elves doing this. She considered that this seemed to be an awful lot of work for a tear. Couldn’t he just fake cry, or stub his toe or something like that?

There were so many things in this world that didn’t seem to apply in her world, so many words that didn’t mean the same thing, or didn’t provide the same response. In a way this made her happy, or at least contended and satisfied that she was able to experience something so unique to her life thus far.

The vial glowed, a soft iridescent radiance that didn’t settle on a single color; it felt warm in her hands, and she wasn’t sure if that would cool down like a cup of tea might, or if it had magical properties so always stayed warm. It was fun to imagine that, and why not? It was the tear of an elf, fresh from the source. She looked over at Arniel and could see he was spent, panting and unfocused.

Without releasing the vial from her hand, she went to him. “Are you alright? Does that hurt you?” She was genuinely concerned, and glowing and singing like that might have caused him some pain. Or maybe it was equivalent to having an orgasm, I mean the after effects are similar.

“No, no. I’m just tired. It’s not painful at all, rather a bit enjoyable.” He replied, not even attempting to modernize his speech. He gave that up soon after their introduction.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, before you go, can I ask you to pass something along to Pierre?” His brow was glistening, though no longer glowing and ethereal.

“Yes, of course.” She replied. She wasn’t about to deny him anything, he helped her in a way she never expected.

Arniel reached into his vest and pulled out a small, well-worn leather pouch. It was a rich chocolate color with faded patches where the color had worn away a bit. He placed it in Jasmine’s hands and looked her in the eyes, his were intense and mournful. “Please tell him that I’ve never forgotten, that I think about that day each morning, and hope he does as well.” Jasmine nodded and took the pouch, feeling a bit embarrassed that he would give her something with such an intimate message to share.

Jasmine felt the pouch, it felt like a few small items were inside. Her curiosity wanted her to peek in, but her exposure in this world had taught her that ignorance wasn’t just bliss, it could mean survival.

Nonfiction Writing

The last time

The lump in his pocket I felt when waking him make my skin go cold.

The hard, roundness, the unmistakable feeling of a glass pipe. Another glass pipe.

It was the last time. It had to be. My heart hardened. My spirit became numb.

There was no room in my life for glass pipes. For sleepless nights. For the lies.

There was no room in my life for him. Not anymore. It was the last time.

The last time I’d sleep with him beside me. The last time I’d wake him

The last time we’d share a home.

That single lump sealed our sarcophagus, leaving it to the relics of memory

Memory of love. Of lies. Of betrayal. Of dysfunction.

It was the last time I’d be second place to a substance.

The last time I’d experience love, as untrue as it might have been

It was the last time for him. The call from the ICU. The medivac emergency.

It was the last time.

Fiction Writing

Zoinks!

“I want you to spank me.” She said.

His eyes bugged. Spank? This wasn’t the Scooby Doo of his youth. Here was Velma, leaning over his lap, cell phones out recording every moment, while he looked down at Velma’s ass barely covered in the brown and orange skirt and thought of the absurdity of Shaggy spanking Velma.

Well, you gotta give the people what they want.

“Zoinks!” he said, then pulled a hand down towards her ass where the short skirt had ridden up and revealed the bottommost part of her cheeks.

“Jinkys!” she yelped as the hand came down. “Will you spank harder for a Scooby Snack?” she asked.

“Well gee whiz, you don’t gotta ask me twice.” He squeaked out in his best Shaggy voice and brought the hand down harder, feeling the flesh beneath and the sting on his palm.

A cacophony of cheers erupted.

Fiction Writing

467 Days

Looking at the scratches on the wall, I knew it had been 467 days. Four-hundred and sixty-seven days of isolation. The poor sleep, the odd filtration system to use for the toilet, and the never-ending cans of food. Except, they were not never-ending, in fact, they were running low. Down to that one can of black beans and one of peas and carrots.

For the last 467 days I have been contemplating this exact crisis and what I was going to do. After being cut off from everything for so long, I no longer recalled what people were like, or even what I was like. People should realize that being away from them is good in many ways, but it really means that we’ll forget how to behave once we get around them again.

For the millionth time I cursed myself for not checking if a cell signal or wifi could reach all the way down here. As far as bunkers go, they knew how to make them in the 50s. But now I don’t know if the pandemonium happened. I don’t even know if there was nuclear warfare, who won the election, or even get to see WW84. But now, time for thinking, for fear had run out, it was time to climb up the 100 feet of iron ladder to see how the world had fared during the pandemic.

I didn’t have a mirror in the bunker, but looking down I could tell that I had lost weight and was wearing the same sweat suit for this week. Yes, I choose one a week. I’m not trying to impress anyone. It also helps me to edit any survival videos I’ve made. Oooh, I wonder if social media was destroyed. I mean I’m all for tearing down the patriarchy, but the patriarchy tends to fight with big ass bombs, so who knows what’s upstairs.

487 days

The blood had dried, adding to the many existing rust colored stains on my sweat suit. With a sardonic chuckle I continued to sharpen the makeshift spear made from a discarded kitchen knife and broom.

You guessed it, things did not fare well in the pandemic. They say we’re only 4 missed meals away from societal collapse, and that’s what happened. After marshal law was declared and Trump bunkered in the White House the resistance started, reminiscent of scenes from The Purge. Lawlessness and violence consumed everyone.

Darwin really nailed it – the strong will survive, and being strong means you can’t be afraid to kill to survive. The first time is the most horrifying, no matter how it’s done, but it’s necessary, critical even. If you don’t have that first kill, you won’t harden up and shed that last remnant of society that tries to stay alive in you. That world is gone, and there’s no place for the softness that once was.

Fiction WIP Writing

While everyone sleeps

It occurred to her that this rich world she lived in, where she could smell the jasmine vining up the walls, and feel the warmth and heat of the sun occurred while everyone sleeps. Her dreamscapes were more fanciful and fulfilling than her humdrum life, and she needed it. Some part of her knew there were answers in these moments, that they weren’t simply dreams, but a map.

The labyrinth remained the same as always, the pinkish stone walls with flowering vines, the openings with benches and pergolas strategically placed, and all looking identical. On the rare occasion Erik might appear in one of those openings, providing her with wordless conversations about the desert and her quarry, it made her heart speed up, the urge to find what was hidden grew stronger in his presence, despite the niggling feeling that he wasn’t there to help her. No one since these dreams started seemed to be helping her, but everything, every part of it propelled her forward, and stoked the desire to satiate her knowledge of what was in the desert.

And then it happened, no longer did her feet feel the cool stones underneath, but she emerged onto hot, smooth sand, the sun brighter and more intense above. She wanted to cry. She escaped the neverending labyrinth, she could feel herself closer to the vision in her head.

Squinting in the brightness, shielding her eyes from a sun that had no tress or vines between it and herself. She felt her body heat up and begin to sweat, her breathing quickened. She looked back and saw nothing.