Happy Friday everyone! Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you like it!
Love Bites by Adam Wright
The zombies were dead. The doors were bolted. I fell in love.
She sat across from me, a light cut on her forehead. Red blood trickled down her face in tiny droplets. Her hair was short. It doesn’t pay to have long hair when undead creatures grab at it. At one time it was dirty blonde. We’d been through a lot together. I was a wall street broker and she was my barista. We’d met each other day after day for years. I didn’t know her name and she always misspelled mine. In the end it didn’t matter.
We knew the drill. Get inside, barricade yourself. Clear the area if any were left. Check for wounds. Scratches hurt but would heal. Bites were the end. Once bitten, there was only one end. I would prefer a bullet to the head over becoming one of those things. She agreed.
When you go out into the world amongst diseased and desiccated corpses, there is a smell. It hangs there like rotted meat swarmed by maggots. Most of the world smells that way now. So even as we run together, sweat and body odor rising into our nostrils, the human smell of it is all you want to cling to. The aliveness of the other person. It’s comforting even when you know your life could end at any moment. You’d do anything to protect that one other living thing next to you.
We learned to trust each other. She saved my life on the day of the outbreak. I was lucky enough to be at the front of the line and she grabbed my hand and rushed us to the exit. We evaded the mass of undead. We hid in sewers and raided grocery stores. I found weapons. We both learned to shoot. I still prefer the aluminum bat.
I knew enough to get a campfire started on that first day. We soon learned that was a bad idea. We still do it when we’re locked indoors and can make sure no light is let in. You can’t fall asleep though or the fire will take you.
We’ve done everything right for as long as we can. We have survived. I’ve tried not to fall in love. When you get close to someone it’s a weakness. I have seen couples come and go. Usually one ends up shooting the other. It’s good to have a partner. Bad to be in love.
If I was going to fall in love with anyone in my life it would have been her. We didn’t know each other well but she was always kind. I tipped well. I didn’t want love to begin with but now I had the worst kind of love. A dangerous love.
The real problem? I didn’t love her for her body, her kind soul, or her good deeds. I loved her for her brains. The bite didn’t even sting anymore.
Without saying a word, I passed her the gun and closed my eyes.
Happy Friday everyone! Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you like it!
Totality
During the eclipse I saw my life flash before my eyes. Jennifer held my hand, her soft fingers interlaced with mine. We were both a little breathless after climbing up the hill to get to the best vantage point in the neighborhood. She was not just an amateur astronomer, she was about to earn her doctorate in the science. But her eyes still lit up at the idea of an eclipse. And she wanted to spend it with me.
We had set out folding chairs, filled our thermos up with hot cocoa, layered up in our warmest winter jackets and waited for the early evening when the eclipse was predicted. A total eclipse of the sun this time. As she explained to me the vast distances between us, the moon, and the sun from the moon, I couldn’t help feeling her passion. It was the way I felt about her.
For about the millionth time she reminded me not to look directly at the sun. I had no plans to do so. We looked through our eclipse glasses and they reminded me of watching a 3D movie. There were plenty of other couples and families around us. I thought briefly of what it would be like when we had kids.
Then she gripped my arm and gave a little gasp.
“First contact,” she said.
I thought of Star Trek. But then I realized she meant the eclipse was happening.
It seemed like forever as the sun dimmed and the black shadow of the moon grew. I started to feel a pit in my stomach grow. There was something unsettling about it to me.
Eventually she whispered in my ear, “Second contact, Isn’t this exciting?”
I nodded but I felt as if I was becoming weightless. A strange smell wafted into my nose. It was a smell of rot and decay.
Her hand gripped mine tighter and suddenly it didn’t feel like her young, soft skin. It was hard bone. I tried to look at the eclipse, fearing what I would see beside me.
When a rattly whisper came again from my right side, the voice sounded like Jennifer’s grandmother.
“Totality.”
Suddenly I was spinning. I closed my eyes against the total darkness.
When I opened them I remembered where I am now. In this hospital. In this bed where they bring me pills. They tell me it will make me better but they are liars.
I know what happened on the day of the eclipse. The moment it was over, just as Jennifer said, “Fourth contact” I bent down on one knee and brought out the ring. She said yes.
The smell of decay had been my own from this very bed. Foul and filthy. I hate it. The feeling of unease was my mind telling me I was about to come back to this hell of a reality.
On that day, when I felt myself spin I saw the two of us married, we had five children, she became famous and I became an accountant. That’s what I thought would happen. In reality, she did become famous, at least, among academics. She wrote several books. I became an office drone for a tech company. We only had two kids.
But that memory of the eclipse, the things I saw that moment? They felt more real than anything I experienced.
Now, it’s cruel. I am there. There with my Jennifer, about to relive the most important thing in my life, with my love. I see it, I feel it. But then a man in scrubs snaps his fingers at me and says, “Hello Mr. Sinclair, how are we today?”
I’m confused. I don’t know who he is or where I am for a moment. He is not Jennifer and as far as how I am? I tell him. “I’m shit today. Who are you?”
He tells me but I don’t remember him five minutes later. My children come to me. Sometimes, I think Patty is Jennifer. At least, that’s what they tell me. I only know that day, that moment. The eclipse. If I can get back there to that moment, I could do it all over again with her. Perfect, the way it was.
They shove applesauce at me on a tray. The lights are bright. Like looking at the sun. Jennifer would not approve. The bony skeleton hand I feel when I remember that day is my own. I wake up holding my own hand, thinking it’s Jennifer. She’s been gone for so long.
I want to be out on the grass with her again. Full of life and youth and possibility. Waking up and seeing that your love is gone, you are old, and there are strangers everywhere? It’s hell. It’s a nightmare. I just want to rest. I want to see Jennifer again. There is only that moment for me. That moment, that day, her amber eyes tearing up. Her kiss on my lips. That’s the moment I want forever. And I keep getting it, only to come back here. To find an old man in an old body with a confused mind at the end of his life. A well lived life but one this old man can’t remember. I feel about as far from my youth as the moon is from the sun. But I can remember the eclipse.
As I grow irritated and sleepy once again, I see Jennifer’s young face. I feel her hand grip mine. She places glasses on my eyes so I can see the eclipse. I hear the words again.
“First contact. Second contact. Isn’t this exciting? Totality.” My nerves are on edge, my stomach is spinning. I’m about to ask the most important question of my life.
“Fourth contact.”
“Will you marry me?”
As my eyes darken for what might be the last time I hear her voice. I always hear her voice. She says, “Yes. In totality.”
Happy Friday everyone! Hope you all are having a good week. Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you like it!
New Year, New… Me?
When I awoke in the new year I looked in the mirror. I wish I had not done that. There were warning signs. In the dark of the room where I woke, my feet pressed against a footboard on a bed too small for my body. I wasn’t sure why but my fingers felt… thinner. And longer. It was a room I was familiar with. One I’d been in many times. My friend Pete must have given up his bed for me. I didn’t recall drinking the night before but I had no clear memory of it either.
I was wearing button up flannel pajamas. I have never, in my life, worn flannel anything. And I was wearing a… ring? A gold band. Oh shit. Did I get so hammered I got married last night? I rubbed my chin to find no beard. A bit of stubble but no beard. Whatever happened couldn’t have been good.
I walked into the bathroom. I took a deep breath, trying to keep it together. Then I turned on the light. Pete’s face looked back at me in the mirror. I stumbled backwards and hit my head. Pete’s head I guess. It still hurt me though. If I was in Pete’s body, where was Pete?
I’m a relatively cool headed person. I keep it together when everyone else loses it in board meetings. I knew the first thing to do here was to stay calm. I got dressed, wearing clothes from Pete’s closet, socks from his dresser, and I put on Pete’s shoes. No one saw me leave Pete’s house.
I walked three houses down to my house. It’s a big yellow house with white trim. I should’ve repainted it a decade ago. I realized I didn’t have my key but it didn’t matter. As I walked up to it, a woman I have never seen walked out, a toddler in hand.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Just wondering if this is for sale?” I figured my quick thinking would cover any awkwardness.
“Pete, you’re joking. We talked about this at length last night. Bad enough Rosey keeps trying to get me to sell. At least she’s an agent. Aren’t you like a stockbroker or something?”
“Mutual funds.” I muttered. I knew that’s what Pete did. We’d been best friends since third freaking grade.
“Right. Well anyway the answer is still no and I’ve got to get the kiddo to daycare so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off.”
In a daze, I just moved aside. If I was Pete, and someone else lived in my house, where was I? Who was I?
I waited around, sitting on the pavement for hours outside of Pete’s house. I watched for signs of myself coming or going from anywhere. Nothing.
As the sun went down and the air got cooler, I decided to head back into Pete’s house. I knew his wife would be back soon. Every year she spent New Years Eve with her mother and came back late the next day. I didn’t know what I would do when I saw her. How could I explain to her where Pete had gone? Anything I tried would sound out of this world, put me in an institution, crazy. But her husband was… Well, I didn’t know where the real Pete was.
When I did see Rosey, the last thing I expected happened. She walked up to me, her brunette hair tied in a bun, her hands full of luggage, and her chestnut brown eyes staring at me, and she gave me the most passionate, loving kiss.
Confession time. I’ve been in love with Rosey since before Pete even met her. I introduced the two of them. I never stood in Pete’s way because, well, Pete does love her, and he’s a good man. Was? I’m not sure.
When Rosey pulled away, I opened my mouth to try to say something. To find some way to explain. But suddenly, it was like I was Pete. I could remember everything Pete had done with Rosey. I remembered the scent of the perfume she used on our wedding day. Pete’s wedding day. I remembered the first time I made her laugh so hard she snorted. It was Pete telling the joke but it was now, my memory, from Pete’s point of view. There was the time the two of us went white water rafting and I fell overboard and Rosey just laughed as I struggled to swim back to the boat. I still found it embarrassing but Rosey thought it was hilarious. I should say, Pete found it embarrassing, but he was somehow me.
It took only a few moments for me to feel like I was Pete. But there has always been this small part of me that knows I am not. I had all of Pete’s memories, knowledge and skills. The next day, I went to Pete’s work and did Pete’s job.
Through the years I looked for myself. There was no record of my mother or father. I went to all of the addresses I had lived in. Even the college dorms but there was never any mention of me.
I grew old with Rosey. We had children together. I’ve tried a couple of times to explain this situation to her but it never makes any sense. Pete’s gone, yet Pete is me. And I’m, well I guess I’m here.
I can’t complain much. Rosey is the best person I know and my life has been full of bliss and wonder. But where the hell is Pete? I hope he’s okay but somehow I don’t think he is. Every year I wake up on New Years Day thinking this is the year it will switch back. It’ll snap me back to reality and I’ll lose Rosey but gain Pete.
But so far, since that first year, it’s always been New year… new me. Maybe next year. Who knows?
Happy Friday everyone! Hope you all are having a good week. Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you like it!
At Death’s Door by Adam wright
Dee sat at her desk, laptop in front of her, warm coffee in hand and logged into the system. She worked her way through the myriad of safety and security protocols to enter the system. Putting in passwords when prompted, authenticating when needed, and feeling like this would never end, she barely registered Gary walking into her office.
Gary stood there in his slim fit suit, simple black tie and clean cut hair and cleared his throat. Dee ignored him. She opened her inbox and saw the backlog of work she had to do. Overdue on more projects than she cared to count, she knew answering Gary would delay things further.
Gary knocked three times, the sound echoing in the little office. He wasn’t going away anytime soon. Dee noticed a slip of pink paper in his hand and had the sudden realization that this conversation was about to get serious.
“What do you want, Gary? I’m pretty busy. As always.”
“It’s not what I want. It’s from upstairs. We need to talk.”
Shit. Anything from upstairs was a pain. Hell, anything from downstairs was a pain also. But you can’t just ignore the orders from above, even if the messenger here was the most annoying person in the whole damn office.
“I’m listening. What do they want?” Dee tried to keep her focus on the laptop but her ears began echoing in her head, the sounds of the outside world trying to crash in on her.
“First off, you have to know, Dee… if I can call you Dee… this isn’t from me.”
“Obviously. You already said it’s from upstairs.”
Gary’s hand shook as he stuck out the paper towards Dee. She didn’t take it.
“Okay, so just, please remember, I like you. It’s bad news but I don’t want it this way, they do. There’s nothing I can do to change their minds. They’re letting you go.”
Dee resisted the impulse to throw her coffee at Gary. She knew that would accomplish nothing. This was the time for a rational adult conversation.
“What does that mean exactly? Letting me go? Do they have any idea how important what I do is?”
Gary scratched at his collar but kept the pink slip in his hand.
“Look… it means what it sounds like. You don’t work here anymore. Your services are no longer needed. In fact, it is kind of unclear what you do. You show up here every day, same time, same coffee in hand. You log in, you go through an inbox and then what? What exactly happens at that point?”
Dee let out a long sigh. Explaining this to Gary would be impossible. Explaining to those upstairs was nearly impossible too. That didn’t mean her services were not absolutely essential.
“Trust me. Without my services things are going to get… messy. There’ll be a lot of clean up nobody wants. I’m happy to sit here and do my job. I like my job. I’m not bothering anyone else. I just do my thing, wait for the annual check in, and move on with my life. What’s wrong with that?”
Gary crossed his arms, a sure sign he was losing patience. He set the pink slip of paper on Dee’s desk. She didn’t touch it.
“You’re not making any forward progress. Where’s your ambition? Where are your career goals? I mean, you’ve been doing the same thing day in and day out forever. It’s time for a change. It’ll be good for you. Good for all of us. We all need a change. Now’s the time for you to change too.”
Dee rocked back in her swivel chair and took in a deep breath.
“Gary, you have to just trust me on this. If I am gone, this place is going to have issues. Real issues. The people upstairs, and the people downstairs, are going to have to get involved. No one wants that, do they?”
Gary’s expression changed to one of feigned sympathy. Dee didn’t know why the people upstairs were such cowards. They should at least have had the guts to get rid of her themselves.
“I don’t have any choice here, Dee. I can help you pack up. Hell, I’ll buy you an iced latte on the way out. Don’t make me call security. Please?”
“Have they said I have done a bad job? Violated any rules?”
“No.”
“Then what ground do they have to stand on?”
Gary suppressed a small laugh.
“You know they never have been the type to stand on firm ground. But it’s orders. I have to carry out orders. Can’t you just go peacefully?”
Dee clutched her coffee and stood up. She grabbed her gray wool coat and her red leather purse and looked Gary in the eyes.
“I’m not doing anything that isn’t peaceful. I’m just telling you, this is a mistake. And it’s going to be costly. But, as you say, orders are orders. I’ll get my stuff and go. Just remember this: When you all want to bring me back in and ask me to clean up the whole mess, the answer is no.”
Her dignity intact, Dee walked out of the office and onto the street. All she had to do was wait. She was at a busy intersection where cars flew past, bikers made their way precariously in the bike lanes, and pedestrians jostled past one another.
Twenty minutes later, it happened. A Ford Mustang hit a tan SUV in the intersection, a bicyclist caught between them. A head on collision, one that left no room for doubt about the fate of the bicyclist. Except, Dee no longer had a job. There was nothing she could do. The bicyclist stood, a piece of metal jutting out of his chest. It should have impaled him to death. He screamed in agony. There was still nothing Dee could do. He was going to be the first of many to meet such a fate. Reluctantly, she walked away, feeling the cool breeze on her face.
She walked the earth in those later days, watching all the pain go around, never able to end it. She wanted to help. But death was out of a job.
Happy Friday folks! We don’t always know where inspiration comes from but sometimes we know the people who inspired us, even if they don’t know us. That’s what my story Inspiration is all about. I hope you enjoy it!
Inspiration by Adam wright
The store was poorly lit and Michael had to squint to see the titles on the graphic novels. He had walked past the aisles of men and women in capes, past the independent titles with questionable black and white art on the covers, and past the titles aimed at the really young kids littered with shiny ponies and round faced cartoon characters. He had made it to the bargain bins where you could get up to twenty comics for two dollars or fifty for five. The place where throw away stories went to die a quiet death but were afforded a last ditch opportunity to be discovered by someone who just needs one more issue to complete a collection. Michael wasn’t much of a fan of collectors.
When he was a kid, comics were seen as disposable. You read it, then you tossed it out, tore it up to line the bottom of a bird cage or used to wrap a gift. No one thought these things would ever be worth a damn. Hell, most of the people reading them didn’t think they were that spectacular to begin with. But time makes some things more valuable and some things less so. Michael, looking at his wrinkled hands as he thumbed through the pages and wondered which category he fell into. He decided it didn’t matter.
There was one good thing about the bargain bins. It meant that kids who had hardly any money could buy something to get themselves hooked on good stories. And Michael had to admit there were plenty of good stories out there. It was unpredictable what would hook a kid into loving a story. Sometimes it was as simple as a character that had a certain look, sometimes it was the drama of what happened in the story, or the nefarious villain that seemed so undefeatable to a young mind.
Michael spent a few minutes going through the bins when he discovered something he hadn’t expected. Right in front of him, in his hands, was an issue with his name on it. But not as the creator as he had expected. Michael thought about all those years with ink stained hands, painstakingly working at creating a picture. The pictures never quite looked like what he had in his head. Then came the dialogue. If the pictures were easy for him, it’s the words that killed him. He would spend hours sometimes just trying to make the ridiculous sound plausible. And finally the cover. That was the best part, the most fun part. He could do whatever he wanted and half the time it didn’t even have to relate to the story inside. The cover is what sold the thing.
This comic though, titled Michael Aarons: The Unsung Hero of Comics, had his own face on the cover. In it, he was standing next to a red brick wall. There was a street sign in the corner that marked the intersection of Cleveland St. and Grover Ave. It was where he spent most of his working life. He recognized it as a picture that was taken of him many years ago. The cover had a few things wrong. The wall was in a washed out sepia tone and he had one foot up, knee bent, his heel resting against the wall in a James Dean-like pose. That wall was always a bright and cheerful red, and Michael had never stood that way in his life. The artist must have altered the pose to “give it more action” as Michael himself used to say.
Michael took the comic out of the bin and pulled it out of the plastic in one quick movement. Collectors would have hated him if they had seen him do it. He opened the book, and licked his finger prior to flipping through the pages. Collectors would have hated that too.
Inside he found scenes from his own life. He saw his first wife and his second. The hair color on Gina was a deeper red than it should have been but it was close. He read how he was a pioneer in his field. Michael didn’t think that. They paid him to make funny books. That’s what they used to call them even when nothing was funny in them, and he did it for the pay. It didn’t amount to a lot of money but it was enough to buy a house with. It wasn’t enough to pay the alimony though, which is why he had to resort to some of the more questionable pulp novels he had cranked out. Those he never put his real name on but there were people who suspected it was him.
He didn’t really see much difference between the novels and the comics. Heroes sold and so did sex. If people wanted to buy it, all the better for Michael. He hadn’t ever thought of a biographical comic before. That was a new one to him. And one about his own life.
They put in all the things he had done professionally, like using the panels like a camera, doing an entire story from a first person point of view visually for the first time ever. They showed how he had intertwined his comics with other stories he had written, making them have what they called a shared universe. He just did it as a way to keep himself from getting bored.
What they left in was interesting but what they left out surprised him. There was no mention of his alcoholism. He didn’t see the years of himself drinking, virtually throwing away his relationship with his own son. Missing were the moments in his life where he had told fans that he couldn’t stand them. Missing was the lawsuit brought against him by his own publishers for not delivering on time. Missing was so much of his life but you could only fit a certain amount in the pages of a comic.
He stuffed the book back in its plastic, grabbed a stack of other books to buy without looking at them, then went up to the counter. The clerk was a young woman with purple hair wearing one of those air pod things in her ear. Michael assumed she was listening to music which was just fine with him. She barely looked up as she ran the issues through the scanner. Michael laid out his ten bucks, gave her a nod and went outside.
Just for an experiment, he leaned against the wall like the cover had him. It was awkward and uncomfortable and he hated it. There was a green trash can next to him. He tossed the comic of his life into it and walked away. He passed a young girl on the way, holding a crisp ten dollar bill in her hand.
Michael had long since driven away when the girl recognized his picture on the cover of a comic book.
She tucked it under her arm, hoping to find an incredible story. She wasn’t disappointed.
Wishing all of you the happiest of Fridays! I wrote another short little story called Too Quiet. I hope you enjoy it!
Too Quiet by Adam Wright
The sky was an open blue expanse only marred by the occasional wisp of clouds. Brandon wiped the sweat from his brow. He gripped the hilt of his sword automatically, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble. His brother walked next to him, a soldier already tested in battle, James was a slayer of kings and often thirsted for blood.
“Keep your eyes sharp in your head, you never know what’ll come from man or heaven,” James said.
“You expect trouble?”
“Nothing we can’t handle. Still, I don’t like the look of the sky. Not enough there.”
Brandon had no idea what James meant by that so he kept walking. After an hour they crested a hill, the tall grass up to their knees billowing against them. James held his hands up and Brandon halted.
“Listen. Do you hear that?” James asked.
“I hear nothing.” Brandon gripped his sword once more all the same.
“Exactly. It’s too quiet. I don’t like it.”
They continued their march through the day only stopping for short breaks to eat a bit of dried fruit and cheese. Further on Brandon remembered some bread he had stuffed in his bag and ate greedily. James didn’t notice.
“There’s no wind,” James said.
“What’s your point?”
“Could be nothing. Keep your wits about you.”
Brandon nodded as if he knew exactly what his brother meant. His hand never left his sword.
They reached a creek bed with the water low and the soft sounds of waves hitting against rocks.
“Be careful as we cross,” James said.
“Will it be safe?”
“As long as you look out for danger.”
The brothers hiked up their pants, letting the cold water run across their ankles as they waded through. Just as they were about to reach the other side a creature that seemed to be all fangs and bright white fur snarled at them. Brandon had his sword out and made himself look as large as possible to scare the creature away. James was faster than Brandon and had already wrapped his arms around the creature’s neck.
Just as Brandon was about to leap onto its back and rescue his brother he heard the sound of a voice from behind. The only voice that could bring an end to their battle.
“Boys, what are you doing? Get out of the mud and would you let the dog go? Honestly, I don’t know why we let you run around with those toy swords of yours,” their mother said.
“But ma, we’re just foolin’ around.” James let go of the dog and Brandon did the same.
“Now that you’ve had your fun, it’s time to get inside and wash up for dinner. Get a move on.” She pointed toward the door, a sure sign that she meant business.
As the brothers sat at the table trying to mind their manners Brandon leaned over to his brother.
Happy Friday folks! Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you enjoy it!
Handcuffs by Adam Wright
When the handcuffs clacked onto Thomas’s hands, the cold metal biting into his wrists, he knew he made a mistake. He must have been begging on the wrong corner. Some places it was ok to beg. Other places they made you move on.
The spotlight shone in his eyes, bright and unforgiving. The sea air whipped against his cheeks and he could taste the salt on his tongue. His clothes were old and torn, with brown smudges and stains on them. He was wearing four jackets and two pairs of jeans. The knit hat on his head had holes in places and was unraveling in others. The gloves he wore had holes where the fingertips should have been.
“What’d I do?” he asked the police officer.
“Thomas, I don’t know,” he motioned his head toward the squad car, “Feds tell me to put cuffs on, I put cuffs on, that’s it.”
Thomas looked back on the ground where his sketchpad and pencils lay. He never bought alcohol with the change he begged, but art supplies were expensive and hard to come by on the streets. On the paper was the beginning of his latest sketch, a building that not only scraped the sky but penetrated the clouds. It was an exact copy of an office building most people walked by without thinking about. Stock traders and big businessmen were the only ones who ever entered the place. Even they never paused to look at the structure. Thomas knew what it must have taken to make the building. The height alone was a challenge to the architect, but the way the walls creeped up into the air with such imposing dominance was perfection. He could tell without looking inside of the building exactly where the arch supports were, the floor plan on the inside, where the strongest and weakest points were located.
“Can I take my pad?” He looked hopefully at the officer.
“No. Get in the car.”
“That’s my livin’, my pad. It’s all I got.” He tried to move his shoulder toward the pad and the officer nudged him to the car.
Thomas sat down in the back of the car; the upholstery was cold and unforgiving. His hands were uncomfortable behind his back and the metal dug into him. He looked out of the window toward the crowd, if you could call it a crowd in a busy city like this, and saw a heavy dark boot step down and snap one of his pencils. The shards of fine lead scraped across the concrete as the foot moved away.
“Ohh,” he squeaked.
“What’s the matter, you hearin’ them voices again?” The cop turned his head toward the back of the car.
“No.”
“You know I told you about places that can help. I told you about them free doctors and clinics. If you woulda gone, maybe you wouldn’t be here.”
“I just wanna draw, don’t want no one tellin’ me I can’t draw or what I should draw. Them doctors do that to you, they do it all the time.” Thomas watched the buildings go by outside the car. He knew which ones were art deco, which were gothic or glass box style. He could name them all.
“Why didn’t you go to school, Thomas? I’ve seen your drawings, you coulda been an architect.” The officer kept his head straight forward looking at the road.
“I tried, sometimes I say stuff, talk to myself, can’t stop, said a bad word once, teacher thought I was cussin’ her. I was cussin’ them voices, they tell me I’m stupid, can’t do nothin’, won’t be nothin’, so I cuss ‘em. They kicked me out, I never tried again.”
Thomas and the officer were silent the rest of the way to the station. He loved the look of the station house. It had high curved arches, a large flight of concrete steps going up to the door, and big bright lamp posts that lit up the sidewalk. He had drawn that building too. In fact, he had drawn every building in the city at least once. From the coast to the business district, he sketched them all. The police station building was not a big seller on the streets. Most people wanted really tall buildings. Thomas could never get more than three dollars for the police station.
Inside the station, people were walking back and forth in a hurried fashion, ignoring each other. Phones rang and people shouted across the room. The officer led Thomas past the bustle and into a sterile, empty room with a table and two chairs. A man in a dark suit sat at the table and gestured for Thomas to sit down.
“Who’re you?” Thomas asked.
“Special Agent Fields, counter-terrorism division,” he replied as he pulled out a tape recorder and pressed record. The red light on it stared Thomas in the face. The agent was tall and thin and kept clicking the pen in his hand.
“Begin recording,” he said. “Interrogation of subject suspected of terrorist activities on February seventeenth. Subject’s name is?”
“I’m Thomas.”
“Do you know why you are here?”
Thomas looked at the man. He had no emotion in his face; he just stared in Thomas’s direction. Click, click, went the sound of the pen.
“I was at the wrong corner.”
“No, sir. You are accused of aiding an elite terrorist network with vital information about the design and structure of several buildings in the financial district. Do you draw buildings?” he asked, pausing long enough to cross his arms and sit back in his seat.
“It’s my livin’. And beggin’ but mostly I draw. Some people, they like it and want to buy ‘em.” Thomas moved his hands around as much as he could in the handcuffs.
“We have stopped an attack on the building you were outside of. One of their recon agents had piles of sketches in his briefcase detailing every inch of the building. They even knew delivery drop points and service entrances. How long did it take you to learn the layout, sir?” The agent clicked his pen again waiting for an answer.
Thomas looked down at the hard metal table and thought for a moment.
“I never been inside. I just know, I can feel the inside. It comes out when I draw. That’s when the voices stop, when I draw.” He rubbed his shoulder against his face to try to scratch the itch on his chin.
“Subject admits to knowing the inside of the building,” stated the agent.
“I never been inside,” said Thomas.
“Do you know what they do in that building?”
“No. People dressed all up in suits go there. They don’t give money even though they all dressed so nice. Some kinda office?”
“Yes. Some kind of office. It is the building that houses the nation’s foremost chemical weapons research lab. It is the most heavily funded lab on the west coast. You will be detained indefinitely, charges may or may not be pressed against you for your actions, you have been defined as a national threat, an aid to terror, and an enemy combatant. You should be happy. You won’t have to beg anymore for food, you will have a place to live and will be taken care of.” The agent set his pen down and pressed the stop button on the recorder.
“Can I draw?” Thomas asked.
“No. Never again, you are too dangerous to our security. Now let me remove those handcuffs.” The agent motioned to a police officer to take the cuffs off.
The key released the cold metal from Thomas’s hands.
“Now isn’t that better, sir?” asked the agent.
“Yes, sir, my hands feel much better now.” As Thomas rubbed his wrists trying to get the circulation back he knew that even if he was released he would not ever be free again. Not to draw was the same as cutting off his hands.
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Happy Friday internet! I was thinking about an unruly mob when I wrote this story. Hope you enjoy it!
The Librarian by Adam Wright
When the young man came in to check out a series of medical volumes I thought little of it. He had a tenacity beyond any I had seen before. Most days he came in at the sound of the church bell ringing in the noon hour. He stayed until the bells rang once more at midnight. The days he did not arrive must have been spent at his lectures or in study with his compatriots. I never saw him without a book in his hands.
Late at night when all the lamps were low I would see him at the tables. Books were strewn about and he would scribble furiously upon his pads, the ink pots running low, broken quills at the floor. I often walked to him quietly and tapped upon his shoulders. Every time he would start out of his seat as if he had been waiting for some unseen horror to come at him. It was only I, the humble librarian, come to send him on to wherever he could sleep. Presumably at his dormitories near the school. Later, I heard there was some site far off from the village he frequented. I never knew if this was true or not.
I saw him with a young woman on several occasions. Some said it was his sister, others his bride to be. It did not matter to me, I only loaned him the use of my tables and the books upon my shelves. His matters were not my matters. Still, when I saw them walking together in the street he looked happier than when he was at his books. The woman positively gleamed radiance in those days whenever she was spotted with him.
As time went by the young man became more frantic. Dark circles appeared under his eyes and he seemed to enter in a mad passion. He was searching for something but unable to grasp it. I spent hours with him walking through shelves finding volumes of knowledge for him to consume.
His requests became more esoteric. He demanded volumes I did not own and had not considered obtaining. He was a likable fellow and so driven with knowledge I found myself purchasing from dealers in antiquities and even occasionally those known to be associated with the criminal elements in the village to procure some volume or other. Most frequently they dealt with human anatomy and the study of the deceased.
The only other subject he found interesting had to do with weather. He was maddeningly curious about lightning and how it might be harnessed. I told him it may be a better idea to leave God’s will and the force of nature alone. He mocked me for a fool but I did not take it personally. Good men are still good men even when they disagree.
These long days of study were interrupted by months of absence. I found myself wondering where my young friend had gone off to. I wished him well but kept about my business.
When there were rumors of children gone missing or possibly taken from the village the worry for my young friend grew in my mind. I was not concerned with any violence being done to him. For all his academic rigor he seemed a hale and hearty fellow who could fend off attack if necessary. That sweet woman he was associated with, however, she was an altogether different story. She was slight enough a strong wind might have blown her away. If thugs or bandits were craven enough to abscond with children who knew what lows these miscreants might get up to when confronted with a beautiful young woman?
I was quite relieved when days later he came in once again. He had a much more focused list of books he was interested in. Had I known he would tear pages out I never would have let him peruse these copies but he did this in secret when I was not looking. I don’t know what he expected to find there nor why he would keep the pages for himself when he could simply copy down a passage if he wished.
Once I discovered his actions I confronted the fellow. I told him in no uncertain terms if he was to damage the property of the library he would not be welcomed back. This set his anger to boil and we nearly came to blows. In fact, he pushed past me, grabbed a book I had recently procured for him and he ran out of the building shouting to me that it was the last piece of the puzzle. What this puzzle was I had no knowledge of.
I considered following him but did not think recovering one volume, no matter how rare, was worth leaving all the books in the library unattended.
It was not long after when tragedy struck the village. There were wild rumors of a hulking creature with the strength of ten men roaming around the countryside. I never believed the wilder rumors but were there a man, perhaps a deranged one, in the countryside, it would explain the disappearance of the village children.
The events on the night of the fire are somewhat difficult to ascertain in their entirety. It seems the townsfolk were driven to anger over the loss of their children and the terror spreading from these rumors of a creature. They began to assemble in ones and twos and eventually became a large group.
I was walking home after hours when I saw it. They say it was a creature but I can tell you it was not. It was a man. A large one, hideously scarred, and uglier than any visage I had seen before. He was running past me toward the old mill. For a moment I thought about stopping this man but in the moment I saw his face, I felt pity in my heart. There was something everlastingly tragic in him. Perhaps things may have been different had I stopped this man. Perhaps there would have been less death amongst those I knew and cared for as patrons of my little library. There is no way to know for certain.
Soon the townsfolk became a mob. They carried their farming implements and held torches aloft to light their way. It was this group that passed me next. They asked where “the creature” had gone. Rather than try to reason with an unruly mob roused to anger I simply pointed. I hoped the man was not harmed but had he been the one tormenting the village I suppose his end would have been justified.
By night’s end much of the village had been burnt. Many people died. I saw the flames at the mill and decided the best course of action was to return to the library to defend it from any threatening inferno. Luckily for me, my little building remained safe through the night.
Tragically, I learned later, the beautiful young woman who so often accompanied my friend died that same evening. It was unclear if she were a victim of the fire, the man on the loose, or perhaps came to some other end. In my mind I keep seeing the anger and madness in my friend’s eyes as he told me my book was the last piece of his puzzle. This, to me, was more frightening than this “creature.”
The woman remains dead and my friend has not been seen for some time. There are rumors he took to sailing in an attempt to reach the North Pole. Ridiculous rumors are rampant in small towns and villages such as mine but this one seems more far fetched than any I have heard.
There have been months before when he has been absent and I still hope to see him again. If anything I think his grief may overwhelm him. It was clear he was everything to her. I was able to tell she was everything to him but I’m not certain he knew the same.
We’ve nearly returned to normal at the library and in the village. The reconstruction of the mill continues and I heard there was some extensive damage to one of our largest estates but the structure itself remains standing. Strangely, there were several graves disturbed from the cemetery but I believe this was simply school children attempting some ill conceived prank.
I think soon I shall see my friend once more. I hope he will be less frantic this time and perhaps take some time to see life around him rather than so obsessively pursuing his studies. Until that time, I have set several of his favorite volumes aside as no one else has been remotely interested in them. I’m sure they will get use someday, however, for, as they say, knowledge is power.
Happy Friday everyone! Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you enjoy!
Space Walk by Adam Wright
Transmission begins
Empty. Vast. Infinite. It’s everything I have ever imagined it would be. The universe expands beyond the line of my sight and off into the black eternity of forever. The quiet here is perfection. The only sound is my breathing, in and out. The exhalations of my lungs, automatic and repetitive, keep going. There is nothing else. Not all the bright stars I can see, not all the planets who have died out eons ago but are still shining to my eyes. The only thing that matters now is the breath of my lungs.
I see the space ship floating away from me. Rather, I float away from it but I can’t tell the difference. The hose of my tether is leaking oxygen as it hangs off the side of the ship, flopping like a sprinkler gone mad. I hope Molly remembers me. I’ll never know.
Communications are lost, visual is sketchy at best. I dreamed of being up here since I was six years old, wanting to understand how I am part of this vast universe and what an insignificant creature like me could possibly hope to do with that knowledge. I’m ultimately about to become a part of what we all will be someday, so much cosmic dust and debris. I don’t mind. It’s enough for me to know I was here and I saw it. I only wish I could document it. This recording may reach someone someday. I have no way of knowing if they will be able to understand it or if they will have any idea of who I was. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
I may go peacefully, the last of my oxygen cutting out and with a bit of mercy, I will become unconscious before the end. The other possibility is I will be ripped apart violently by something floating out here with me. A cosmic missile, that might crack my face shield or tear open my suit, or if I am unlucky, gouge right through me. I hope the end comes quickly and there is enough blood loss for me to pass out before I feel the impact. Or perhaps the vacuum of space will do its violence to me and choke me to death in mere seconds.
Molly never wanted me to leave. How could I tell her what it means to be out here? How could I say to her that as much as she means to me, I still have to see this, to experience this? One person can’t compete with the vastness of the cosmos. I’m living proof of that right now. Well, living for the moment at any rate.
There are unexplainable sights, there are stars beyond the beauty of humanity out here. There is a vast and deep universe. It’s secrets will never be completely unlocked. I don’t mind. I get to be a part of it now. To all those who ever knew me or loved me, goodbye. Molly, I hope you hear this but even if you don’t, I was thinking of you at the end. Go out and explore.
Happy Friday internet folks! Here’s a little story I wrote, hope you enjoy!
Invasion by Adam Wright
It was early morning when the sirens blared. The skies went dark and there was a smell of sulfur in the air. We ran out into the streets clutching our ears against the noise. Despite the darkness, glaring lights broke through. I had to shield my eyes from the intense pain of it. Most of us clutched our ears against the din. The sirens sounded loud and long, rescue vehicles making their way to pick up whatever wreckage they could. The low hum wouldn’t stop. The constant noise drove some of us mad.
I watched as people jumped from windows, making the sign of their faith as they fell to their death on the concrete below. Had I known what was in store, I would have envied them their foresight. Walking past the rubble and the wreckage it was too surreal to understand.
There had been no warning, nothing to alert us. In my mind, when I remember those moments, I still imagine the ships as flat saucers. The screen footage shows the reality of gigantic structures, larger than mountains, all in slick lines and angles, like arrows fired from an ancient bow. Yet, I see the saucers. I guess it’s what I expected them to look like. Little green men, you know?
I had been on my way to work like most of us. I grabbed a little pick me up beverage, part of my morning routine, and was close to the building. Seconds later I ducked for cover and wondered what could possibly come next.
The news feeds picked it up quickly. If I had access to a screen at the time, I would have gathered more information. As it was, I was concerned with surviving the moment and getting to Sara. I had to know she was alright.
The school was near me and I felt my legs pumping before I realized what I was doing. I traveled past the rescue vehicles, past fires already burning. I covered my ears. I don’t know when I realized I dropped everything I needed for work. All the documents and plans for the day were irrelevant. Forgotten detritus in a sea of debris that no longer mattered. Everything we knew, everything we understood changed forever in a matter of minutes. There was no turning back from it and no escape.
I arrived at the school and rushed past the gates, into the building. Sara was covering her head, cowering in the corner with a few others. I picked her up and ran outside. She clutched my side and clung to my clothing. I had no idea where to go. It was too big for me to understand. How could anyone understand this?
I imagined we would have to look to our leaders to sort this out, if it could be sorted out. In moments giant view screens appeared in front of us. It seemed they materialized out of nowhere. I still don’t know how they accomplished that. Then we saw the gruesome faces, shades of many colors, tiny eyes and mouths, snarling, speaking in languages we could not possibly know.
It took months for us to fight back. Months to gather resources, plan strategies, and attack without a word of warning, just as they did to us. Every day during that time, I had one goal. Keep Sara alive. I’m not a perfect parent but I did my job. I sacrificed as much as anyone else to do it but I have no regrets.
After it was all over, after we beat them back and they left us alone, Sara had aged more than I could have imagined. I’d done my part, fought alongside the others. It was just luck I was in the battalion that destroyed their main ship. But it was satisfying seeing those aggressive and angular structures split apart in a burst of fire and flames.
After all the heroes’ welcomes and accolades I received, I think there is only one relevant question. Of course, Sara was the one to ask it. I wish I had an answer for her then or now when she said, “Where is Earth and why do they want to destroy us?”
I fear there is no answer I can give her. I only pray they never decide to come back.
