Category: short story

The Girl On the Cloud

February 16, 2018

At the beginning of the universe there was nothing say for a single cloud, the final remnant of the last stars, it being all that remained from the last universe which had stood in its place. The dust sad quietly there for centuries, moving yet unchanging. A constant in a realm devoid of inconsistencies. Until one day, something did change and awoke.

She was the child of the nothing, who had since the beginning grown tired of its constant state and had so brought her into being, desperate to end and creation to begin.

She was small. So small compared to everything else. A water droplet thrown into an ocean. Her eyes were blue, like the oceans that she had not yet made and her lips were perfectly pink, similar to the roses she had not yet brought into creation. Her face and her body were perfect, soft and untouched by time. As they would remain.

She raised her head, unknowing of what it meant to be alive or awake. The surface she laid on was a pool but it did not wet her. She stood, nearly tripping, new to the ways of walking. She would have spoken, but she did not know speech, for man had not yet invented it and so she had no way of knowing it. Instead she walked through the stardust and the blackness until she reached the edge of the nothing and she starred into it. Trying to find within it the faintest bit of light, or of life to accompany her in her solitude. But in the abyss she found nothing. No light, nor life or warmth. The girl let out a breathe of air and she watched it as it formed in front of her and then dissipated.

She looked around at the dust, its shimmering lights being the only sources of such she had ever laid eyes on and she imagined the void to be filled with them. A thousand, thousand twinkling dots painted about the nothingness, but when she looked again at it, it had remained unchanged and she hung her head, disappointed at the consistence.

But then, from above, she felt the steady gaze of something quite unfamiliar and when she looked up to meet its eyes, she found there a single shining star, alone in the black above the nebula. The girl smiled at her lone creation, welcoming it to cosmos with a look, as she would do with the many more to come. The ones she would use to fill the void, and within that procure life and perhaps, companionship.

To Love The Devil’s Nightmare (Excerpt)

February 7, 2018

“I’m not afraid of you.” She said it so distinctly. Like it wasn’t at all a question whether she would be afraid of him. Like it was a given she wouldn’t be. An unquestionable fact. It was almost frightening and in a way utterly Victorian of her. It was not as though she had known him for a terribly long time. Instead, he was practically a stranger to her. She had met him only days previously and it was only moments ago that she had learnt about his true nature and yet here she stood, unfazed and unwavering.

“It’s alright if you are.” He sounded so genuine as he said it she almost was afraid of him for it. Not that he was paying attention to her in that regard. He was far too busy wondering how so little sunlight could cause her face to look like it was glowing so magnificently. “It wouldn’t change anything.” He added, finally.

“Are most people frightened of you?” She asked, not looking at him, but continuing instead to look out off the balcony at the children playing in the snow below them. Building snowmen and throwing snow balls at each other in a playful game of war. In the meantime, he could not for the life of him keep his eyes off of her.

“For them I am everything they have ever been afraid could happen.” He said it like it was fact, like he could read the villagers minds and foresee their fears. “Me-I am the worst case scenario; I am what hell spit out. And I’m the only one. The only one that survived. They look at me and their hearts stop. So yes, they are.”

He looked at her, at how the expression on her face had remained the same. She was still and calm and poised. Not at all phased by the prospect of him. Of the thing the devil threw away. The thing not even Lucifer could think to keep. Was it possible to fall in love with someone you had only known for a few days? He wondered silently.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” she sounded to utterly sincere, he didn’t know exactly what it was she wanted him to say. She looked at him. “Aren’t you afraid of hell?”

He sighed, and it was almost a laugh. “I can’t be afraid of who I am, love.”

She turned back away, “Yes, you can.” The way she said had that same sort of finality to it. And it made him think that, perhaps, she knew a little too well what it meant to be afraid of oneself.

Marlet #1

February 7, 2018

At the entrance of the Marlet school there sat a single wooden door atop a flight of three stone steps, all of it surrounded by a bungle of flowery, thorn filled bushes one had to make sure not to touch or else risk being poisoned by. The steps of the entrance gave off the impression that instead of having been carved they had been bunch of rocks which had for some reason been pushed together to make stairs and had since simply stayed put, with lack of anything better to do. The door was ancient looking, with a smooth texture and faded coloring and the distinct smell of firewood, as though someone had once thought to try using it as lumber but the door had refused to burn. On the door there was no handle but instead a small window with bronze bars and a glass panel on the other side of it to keep the warmth from inside from escaping. Underneath the window there was a single golden knocker clenched in the teeth of a lion’s head, his eyes accusatory and unmoving, as if daring whoever found himself standing in front of him to knock. On the right hand side of the door there was a small, silver tray with the appearance of a miniature birdbath. But at the bottom of its bowl instead of water, there sat flower petals and stranger still, ashes. What was even stranger is that when one entered the space the noises heard from every other area of the school; the sounds of birds, chirping of crickets; they would disappear and whoever stood there would find themselves in total, unwavering silence. The only noise being that of the knocker falling on the door and of the person’s own breath leaving his lungs only to breath in that same faint hint of firewood, and ash, and smoke.

Madeline

January 18, 2018

It was Chicago, 1926. Gangbangers and showgirls and gin and pizazz! The city streets where dank and cold and neglected but step into the nearest rat hole and you could find yourself a party. The city was more alive than it had ever been and it was almost like a secret that it was. For the first time in ever drunkards dined with fat cats and their wives drank with their mistresses. It was a blur of gin and smoke and feather boas and no one was complaining, least of all me. This was my town, my space. War, famine, rich, poor, none of that mattered here. Chicago was one big fiesta and something like that could only mean well for a girl like me, wanting to show off her lipstick.

Now, you might be wondering who I am exactly. My name is Madeline, pleasure. Or that’s what people around here call me, anyways. I’m the kind of girl that falls in with the showgirls, likes hanging near the fat cats. Not that I don’t enjoy the occasional drunkard, who doesn’t? But I like the things the fat cats buy me best, the drunkards are more good for a nice laugh, maybe a sweet compliment now and again, and plenty of other more helpful things too. The showgirls I like best cause they don’t judge, not that many people do. But thing with the showgirls is most of them are sluts dressed like goddesses and the sweet things know it. If I had to write down all the times at Shelby’s when I’ve walked into that dressing room of theirs and found one of them getting felt up by some degenerate, well there wouldn’t be much paper left in this city, now would there be?

Me, I’m no showgirl. I can’t dance to save my own life and I feel sorry for the poor fella who’d hear me singing in the morning, Id probably ending up making the poor dear’s ears bleed. No, me? I’m more of a working girl myself. Yes, I know, it’s very scandalous. A pretty girl like me working as a fancy lady, a streetwalker. A lady of the evening! Ha-ha!

Oh come now, don’t look at me like that, if you were a girl like me in a town like this you’d have ended up doing the exact thing then, just worse probably. But don’t feel bad for that, I’m pretty good at what I do. Had to work at it lots too. Practice, that’s all it takes. Day in and day out. It’s just like I said, the drunkards are good for lots too.

Torment

October 3, 2017

I remember how sad I was after my mom died. Henry said it was hereditary. Her dying it just made it easier for me to have it, the depression. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to go and watch everyone I ever loved die. Henry and Dad and Auntie Kay and Markus. I remember him telling me to run and I was just kid, so I did. I ran. And then I was in the conference room and the emergency doors slammed behind me and you were there, lying on the ground and I walked over to you and I was so completely terrified, but you told me…you told me everything was gonna be ok and I believed you. Then I watched you die too. I don’t remember how long I was there but it was at least a few days, you know, because of the smell. But it wasn’t that that bugged me most it was seeing you lying there, a person who I knew and who I had loved. Seeing you there, rotting away, I was just a kid but that…that broke me.

Don’t ever ask me a question you don’t want the answer to again.

Lost In Ones Mind

September 28, 2017

There are people all around me. They keep trying to talk to me. I don’t know why. They’re making me nervous. I wish they’d stop. I don’t like it when people look at me or talk to me too much, i feel like I’m standing on a stage with a giant spotlight pointed directly at me. Its blinding. I dont understand whats going on. I don’t understand why I’m here and not at home. I tried to go home but home wasn’t there and then these people came and took me away. I wish my mom was here. People always listen to her, i think she scares most people. It would also be nice if Dr. T. was here. She always makes people be more easy to be around. I like Dr. T..

The man talking to me is odd. I mean, he looks alright, buts he’s being too nice. He doesnt even know me, why is he being nice? People do that alot with me. I don’t like it. I wish they’d just be normal. And sometimes they try to get me to talk back to them, which I hate. I don’t like talking, especially to people i don’t know. I like talking to my mom sometimes and Dr. T., but not other people. Other people make me nervous.

I like drawing, drawing doesnt ever make me nervous and i can erase stuff when they go wrong. I wish i could do that with people, just erase them when they’re being annoying. The problem, though, would be putting them back. Cause then I’d have to find the person who drew them in the first place and ask them to do it all over again, which I know for a fact is super annoying and they probably wouldn’t want to do it. And then I’d have to try and I probably wouldn’t get it quite right.

My mom’s here now. Turns out I went to the wrong neighborhood. I don’t think I’ll be allowed to walk home from school anymore.

The Twins of Neverland

September 25, 2017

The girl and boy were brought in, each of them wearing what could have been described as sleek, state of the art combat uniforms. The girls was white with black lining and her brother the opposite, black with white lining. They were certainly aesthetic. They walked twenty or so feet until reaching the center of the room when they stopped, holding their arms behind their backs. They looked, in the Captain’s opinion, very much like soldiers, though not like any he had ever seen.

The twins were thin for their age. Neither of them looked particularly strong or built. But they did sport a distinct look in their eyes, as though they were both angry and terrified at the same time. That was a look he knew to be common in many soldiers. The ambassador spoke first. He was not a military man, he had no history with combat or the army and so it might have been true he didn’t notice the look as much as he did.

“Well then, Hello,” he said in a tone that suggested both forced amiability and annoyance, “We have been looking for you two for a very long time.” Neither of the twins said anything. “Have you been treated well?”

“Yes, sir.” said the boy, his voice was small but at the same time large, his words marked the beginning of an actual conversation.

“Good.” The Ambassador said, “We wanted you to come here to speak with you concerning your father.”

“Yes, sir.” He echoed again. “He was a criminal.”

“I’m glad you understand that, do you know why he was a criminal?”

“He killed people,” said the boy, “he helped terrorists.”

“Yes, he did.” said the ambassador. “So, tell us. What can you do?”

The question, i knew was a loaded one. Just how powerful were the children of the famous terrorist. “I rip things apart, she pulls them together, she can feel them too.” the boy said, losing some of his formality.

“I, er, see.” he said, “What else?”

“I can feel the air.” the girl said, finally. “I can feel everything.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, sir,” she said looking at him with wide eyes, “ That there are eight guns pointed at my brother and me. One on each side of the upper level, and one in each corner for down here. The floor is also wired to electrocute anyone standing on it, should the current be switched on.”

The Ambassador said nothing, instead he looked at her flabbergasted.

I, myself, was not surprised. The Ambassador was not a kind man, it was no shock he’s resort to the harming and or kidnapping of children.

“Are you happy?” I asked, they all turned to look at me, “On the island.” I elaborated.

“We are the gifted.” The girl sad, “Why wouldn’t we be happy?”

“Don’t you miss home?”

“Why would we miss a lie?” the girl said and her face wasn’t angry, it was nearly sympathetic. A look of pity.

I say nothing, there’s really nothing to say.

“Can we go home now?” the boy asks.

“Well, er, yes…yes i do think we have everything we need from you. Escort them out.” he signals to the guard and they take the children out of the room and back to their transport. “Jesus.” The Ambassador says, “Thank god all those freaks are trapped on that island.”

I smile, those people aren’t trapped at all.

The God-Bound Adventurer

September 19, 2017

I want to be free. I don’t know why. I want to leave here, but I have wanted that before and I have done so before and now I am someplace else and I still want to leave, I don’t know where. I imagine there’s something wrong with me. One cannot simply want to leave without reason, to run away and keep running forever. It isn’t natural, it isn’t right. But most of all, it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that i should never be satisfied where I am. That I should go through my whole life feeling restless and unhappy over my relentless dissatisfaction. But why has god cursed me so? What have i done in my life that merits punishment from the heavens themselves?

But then I begin to wonder whether it is a punishment at all. Perhaps god instilled in me this restlessness as a way of telling me where i ought to be. Or perhaps to show me the things i have yet to lay eyes on. What scheme, or heavenly plan does the father have in store for me and why-why has he chosen me for it!

I lay awake in awe and anxiety each night, praying for an answer to theme questions, until one night I do not and in the dead of night I rise from my bed and dress. And as I arrive at the docs and pay my transport I take a glance back at the realm of common sense and ungodly men and I think them lucky fools. I take my ticket and enter the monster of a ship and i soon find myself on the deck, glancing out on the disappearing city and on the ocean growing thicker and wider, with no idea where I might find myself next.

The Glass Box

September 19, 2017

I picture myself standing in a glass box, inside of which is light and visible but outside of it is nothing but the abyss. I see myself banging on the glass, banging and screaming as the box becomes tighter and smaller and I begin to feel as though I’m suffocating. I screech at the top of my lungs, begging for someone to let me out as water reaches up my legs to drown me, but nobody hears me and I am left alone in the dark to fend for myself once again, as my fear and anxiety engulf me in a world of utter and complete despair.

I am outside the box know, but I am far from free. My anxiety holds me to the floor, crushing me like a boulder and I can hardly move or utter a single word. But the one thing I can do is think, I think and think and think and in doing so I become more anxious and more afraid and more frozen where I lay. I can hardly cry but cry I do, and a single tear runs down my white hot face.

I have no control here, no pull of any kind. Here I am subject to my own immense emotions and my emotions are things which lead me to do such things as sitting on the floor crying ripping apart pieces of paper in my hands.

I come to imagine a good time, a better time in which I will be happy and carefree and with freedom from the normal world. I will be tied to none of the things which made me so unhappy as they had before. One day I shall be free, one day I will know what it is to love oneself…

Stay Here With Me

February 28, 2017

There’s blood everywhere. Everywhere. On the floor, on my clothes, this isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. He wouldn’t do this to me. To himself. He was doing so much better. He was happy, he was laughing, smiling. The ambulance will be here soon. It will be ok, it will be ok. It has to be ok, doesn’t it. It can’t end this way. It can’t end, not here, not now. Please, please. Please be ok. Just stay with me, please. If not for yourself than for me. Stay here, right here. Forget the world, forget everyone and everything, just stay here, with me, forever.