Category: Writing

Mon Dieu

The uneven cobblestones made her more nervous than she already was. The village looked remarkably unchanged for centuries, the faux-antique signs staying true to the ancient aesthetic. The café was at the end of the street, she gripped the parcel tightly to her chest as the aged man clung to her arm and his cane while they slowly ascended the upwardly sloping street.

He was there, sitting comfortably in that tiny chair, legs crossed, glasses on, reading a book, mindlessly stirring a coffee. They neared him and he brightened at their approach.

“Ah Ma chere, monsieur,” he stood, donning the quintessential bisoux – three indicating he was from the north and shaking the elderly man’s hand.

“Bonjour, professeur.” She replied, the accent lacking much French.

“Please, we may speak English, if you prefer.” Thick with a guttural northern French accent.

She sighed in relief and disappointment in herself, “Yes please. Thank you, sir.” She indicated to the gray-haired man she came with, “I’d like to introduce you to my grandfather.”

“Mon plaisir, monsiuer. Call me Maurice, if you please, my dear.”

“Maurice.” They sat down, ordered a café au crème with three sugar cubes for herself, black coffee for her grandfather.

“I see you have truly become a northerner.” He laughed and she blushed.

She put the parcel on the table and slid it across to him.

“Is this it? Are you certainment?” he asked with excitement.

She nodded and he slowly pulled the brown paper off the parcel and opened the box. His eyes widened. “Mon dieu. C’est manifique. Bain, c’est incroyable. Comment est-ce vous la trouvez?”

She blanched. “My dear, I am sorry. How did you find it. This treasure, my family has been seeking it for a century, and here you, a little Americaine has brought it back from the new world.” He chuckled and eyed her over his spectacles, “The last known record of this was in mille six cent… er 1648, when the Avignon pope fled to Boulogne with treasures to escape the Vatican from absconding with them all. And here it is, untouched, not a gem missing. I must hear the tale.”

She nodded to her grandfather who sat up, cane still upright, his hand atop it. “You are Monsieur Chalon, yes? Descended from the noble house of Chalon-Arlay, the founders of France’s Regiment des Gardes Francaises?” The elderly man, his eyes normally cloudy with age were bright and boring into the professor.

Maurice looked from the old man to the woman in confusion, “Mais oui. It is something I discuss in my lectures.”

The old man nodded, pulled the parcel towards him and slowly began pulling back the nondescript tawny colored paper. “Then this belongs to you. It is now your sacred duty to protect it.” He peeled back the second and final layer of the parcel, revealing an aged box, tattered and worn simply from old age. The grandfather removed the lid revealing a wad of beige fabric. It appeared to be loosely wrapped around something. The old man gingerly lifted what was inside and began unraveling the top of the wrapped item.

The final piece of cloth was separating them from the item. The old man looked at Maurice, his eyes burning with intensity, “You will have but a mere second for your eyes to fall upon these, and then they must be returned to safety.” Maurice nodded, his eyes not leaving the swaddled fabric.

It was opened for a scant second, and within Maurice could see the pocked iron of large ancient nails. “Mon dieu.” he whispered in reverence.

“Indeed, professor.” The elderly man passed the nails to his granddaughter, who quickly began wrapping them again. “They have not aged for thousands of years. The iron should have succumbed to rust and decay, but these haven’t.”

“Le sange.” Maurice asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Mon dieu.” Maurice repeated. “So the family legends are true?”

The old man nodded, “Those and many more. These are the last piece needed to put the plans back into place and correct what history got wrong so many centuries ago.”

Building 86

The stupid sensor went off again. It was always going off for no reason, which meant I had to go back into that horrible place and look around. Yes, that’s my job, but it doesn’t mean I want to do it. I have no problem looking into any other building on these grounds, but building 86 was creepy, it always had been. The old man who trained me told me crazy stories about that building. Said it was where they stored the organs from alien autopsies, real venom from a basilisk, and he even said they had a mummified faery and the body of a gnome in some liquid in a jar like a science experiment. It was a trip. Needless to say I have never seen any of these things, but I will say that building 86 was the loudest building and the sensors kept going off. I complain to maintenance about how the sensors aren’t working, and they check it out during the day shift and say it’s fine. But it’s not at night, I can tell you that. Something was setting them off in that stupid building, and nothing the old coot told me about could do it, because all of those things were dead. So unless the gnome broke out of the jar and is now a zombie gnome wandering the building, it was something else. In all likelihood it was a bird or a rat or maybe even a racoon that got in there and somehow knows where all the cameras are and can avoid them. Yes, it sounds crazy, but it’s a hell of a lot more sane sounding than a) a zombie gnome, b) a mummy faery come back to life without the help of Brenden Fraser, or c) an alien putting back in his harvested organs. When comparing a smart rodent to that, the smart rodent wins every day, because it’s the least goddamn crazy of the group.

*BAM* I heard while approaching the building, and it was not imagined. Something knocked or rammed into the door. All things a, b, and c were still bottom of the list of suspects. That may be a dumb bird thing, throwing themselves at the door to get free, so despite the weirdness of the building I opened the door, and what did I see? A dead bird who had bashed its head in flying into the door. Knew it. Wait, and then there was another, but a little further from the door, and then another further inside the building. What the fuck. How were birds hitting the door, or wall or whatever and falling to their deaths? There was nothing for them to hit in the middle of the road, after I had found four more birds.

The sunlight had all but disappeared, the birds should have been in their nests by now. Looking up, they circled above the troubling building.

“Told ya.” came the croak from the old coot Tom, startling me. Where had he come from? “Building 86 gets busy at night.”

“What the hell are’ya doing here, Tom? You should’ve clocked out hours ago.” I didn’t even bother looking at him, plus didn’t want to miss if any birds were going to fly into an invisible wall again. Tom just grunted. “Besides it’s barely night, and them birds should already be asleep.”

“‘Sept they ain’t.” Tom said staring up at the birds, a scene reminiscent of Hitchcock.

Without a sound, both me and Tom were being pushed away from the building by nothing. No wind, no force really, it felt like a wall was pushing us back slowly. I reached out and my hands pressed hard on something invisible, it had no heat or cold, it was flat and hard. I knocked on it, it made no sound. But sure as birds fly, we were being pushed back, closer to another building. It wasn’t fast, mind you, but it was relentless. Our backs were slowly approaching building 85, so me ‘n Tom headed to the space between 85 and 83. Surely whatever that was would stop at another building.

When it continued to expand into buildings 85 and 83, Tom and I ran towards the control booth. Not sure who or what to call, but we weren’t sure what was gonna happen next.

Fiction Uncategorized Writing

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.