Categories
Dystopia Fiction Writing

Dystopia two ways

June 1st 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.

Categories
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.

Categories
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.”

Categories
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.

Categories
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.

Categories
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.

Categories
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.

Categories
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.

Categories
Fiction WIP Writing

Sun Goddess

She had dark, tumbling hair, skin the color of bronze, gleaming, smooth and perfect, eyes black as onyx, and a face too lovely; Jasmine couldn’t stop staring. The mystery woman turned her focus on Jasmine, she felt her face heat up, yes she was blushing, but she felt warmer with that gaze upon her.

Something about the woman’s focus that felt as if it was seeping into her soul. She imagined the rays of the sun penetrating her skin, reminding her of beach days as a kid.

Immediately Jasmine could picture the day, including the bathing suit she was wearing, a mock bikini that made her feel older than her 9 years of age, and the sandcastle she built that was destroyed in seconds when a wave took it out, a tsunami to the imaginary princesses and princes. She could hear the laughter, feel the beach blanket on her cheek and she napped in the radiance of the sun.

No, wait… was it the sun? There was no sun, she wasn’t at Huntington Beach, she was in this dark, wet alley, in a city she couldn’t remember. But she felt like she wasn’t there, that she was warm and safe and cared for, and it was this mysterious woman.

The raven-haired goddess nodded to her compatriots, inso turning her gaze away from Jasmine, and she instantly felt cold and alone, a sadness consuming her, a tightening in her chest, she thought she might cry. Her elbow was gripped gently from below.

“My dear, that’s perfectly normal,” she could hear Sir Reginald’s calming velvet voice, but never removed her eyes from the woman. “She has that effect on all mortals, even you it would seem.”

Jasmine began to register that words were being said to her, “I’m – I’m sorry?” she said, shaking off what felt like the lethargy of a sleeping pill.

“Ana, my dear,” Reginald indicated his head in the direction of the source of warmth.

“Ana?” Jasmine said, still stunned and groggy.

“Yes, Jasmine,” Reginald trying to be more forceful, “Ana… the djin. The immortal goddess of infinite power.” His voice was a forced whisper, that never seems to be actually quiet.

Jasmine shook her head, feeling the cobwebs break apart and her conscience returning. The dark alley returned, the sounds of cars and shuffling feet in the city got louder, and Jasmine felt an emptiness, and a longing for Ana to return her focus, providing that sense of warmth once again.

Reginald took Jasmine’s arm and led them out of the alley, and she accepted that this melancholy was now a part of her.

Categories
Fiction WIP Writing

The Awakening

An excerpt from an upcoming novel….

According to Google maps the mass of trees should not have been there, smack dab in the middle of a barren desert, close enough to see the glow of Las Vegas debauchery, yet there it was, out of place. Jasmine had learned that unnatural things often meant magick was afoot. So off she went, venturing her way through the dense and moist foliage thick from years of growth.

Uncertain of the hours she passed walking, her body ached, the blisters rubbed painfully in her boots, but she refused to slow or resign. She had come too far in this world, no longer willing to cling to the bland and safe existence she had lived until a few short weeks ago, when she first learned the signs of magick, The air of this impossible forest made her certain a witch or something greater must be near, so despite the pain, she pressed on.

Faint blue lights streaked through holes in tightly packed greenery. Hacking at the shrubbery to augment the spaces, she finally saw it. A flat opening surrounded by massive trees bending over a small unassuming house nestled in the center. It was quaint and somewhat square, covered in large gray rocks and pebbles stacked crookedly forming an imperfect but enchanting house with a thatched roof and chimney peeking out above. It was the quintessential witch’s house.

The blue glow came from luminous apparitions in the sky, floating and flying around the dwelling; one to the chimney, a few to the windows, soaring in a circular pattern flowing synchronously like a school of fish working together in majestic harmony, and It was hypnotic.

Jasmine found her body swaying with the rhythm of the specters, hearing, and feeling a soothing musical hum of connectivity. An invisible string was tugging from her core, trying to lift her from the ground, singing directly to her essence.

Fear prickled her skin urging her to fight, to remain tethered to the earth. She physically reached out to grip the thick branches nearby in a vain attempt to hold on to terra firma. The sound of the musical humming grew more intense, drawing Jasmine’s focus back to the swirling luminescence, as the apparitions sped up melting into a smooth glass-like forcefield surrounding the building protectively. The spectacular sight intensified the pull towards it, luring her in with its siren song. 

She felt a part of her flying, watching the entire scene from above. Her spirit abandoning her to join the dance. It could look down and see there was desolate land, a moat of cracked dirt surrounding the lush forest of trees, the crooked stony house in the center of the opening, the pale blue dome of light, containing symbols burned into every surface of the building; various runes and pictograms from multiple cultures; Nordic runes, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and so many others she couldn’t identify. They sang to her, tempting her body to join her spirit, and release herself completely.

Fizzling and crackling, the dome lost its smoothness, evaporating into the space above as if was never there.

Her spirit crashed down to earth. She was breathless and alone, the forest eerily silent. Her mind reeled with thoughts of the incandescent glow.  The symbols so clear in her mind, their absence leaving an emptiness inside her.

The uncanny silence broken by trees swaying and singing with a fresh breeze. She looked at the house, its stones bland and gray, but it sang with the trees, a song calling to her center, encouraging her to push back any fear and simply feel with her whole being freely and openly.

This frightened her more than anything this world had yet presented.

She could feel a deep chasm inside of her bubbling and boiling awakened by the symbols’ song. Was it darkness? light? Mere water that would evaporate into steam once released?

Once again she wondered who she was, who she had become through a lifetime of being a pinball, moved and directed into different roles. A daughter, student, girlfriend, employee, wife, divorcee. So many labels that felt stuck on with post-it’s; a false permanence that carved the weak resemblance of a life.

Unable to resist the magnetic force of the song she walked towards the house, the rhythmic beating and hum of each symbol summoning her with increased ferocity, the glyphs joining into a symphony of harmony, music like she had never heard or felt before, her eyes became wet with emotion.

When she connected with the stony surface, the music became a part of her, she felt it in each cell, each raised hair on her skin; the music joined directly with that exposed chasm, beckoning to it, calling it out from the hidden space within, a pied piper luring out this cloistered part of her.

The cold stone walls burned under hot her hands as the symbols glowed vividly opening her up wider, allowing each image to be brought directly into her. Dancing with the music. the symbols flirted with that void, twirling and spinning; a ballet pas de deux of the orange glowing marks and the unseeable murky depths of her soul. With each arabesque, each rellevé, gracefully twirling deeper into her spirit.

As they further invaded, the hidden contents of the chasm slowly revealed itself, like a dance of the seven veils, stripping away the labels of her existence, discarded to the floor, forgotten and meaningless, revealing the naked truth of who she was. This wordless dance elegantly transformed Jasmine’s realization of what her life had been, of the mere existence she had shuffled through.

Silver ethereal smoke rising from that abyss within creating a formless dance of light encircling her. The soft feel of it brought a comfort and sureness that Jasmine had never recalled.

The runes and glyphs nestled themselves into every open space in that chasm, filling it like concrete filling a defunct well, making it whole.

A final rune “the warrior” laid on top burning into it, igniting a connection with all the other symbols filling that chasm and lighting it aglow, sending a shock of heat and energy reverberating through Jasmine’s body.

She could no longer feel the world around her, no earth beneath her feet, no wall under her hands. She felt light and free, floating in an ecstasy that was unfamiliar, yet intimate.

The shimmering smoke shaped into wisps white and glowing, with tendrils that reached around creating a female form.

A single sheer curl of light floated from behind the form’s back to gently caress Jasmine’s cheek. Upon touch, her body became consumed with compassion and it overwhelmed her. Tears poured down her face, it was an unfathomable beauty and grace, a feeling of profound acceptance and understanding. Jasmine then knew. She knew who she was, she understood what her role was, not just in this moment or quest, but in her life. She could clearly see the truth of each person she had met over the last few weeks, each encounter, and who was friend, who was foe, for she finally uncovered the reality of who she was.

She stepped into the faceless form, allowing it to become her, and she realized it was comfortable and right. Because It was her. She had hidden herself away deep inside, and knew why, she finally understood what had to be done, she just didn’t know how it would be possible.