Tag: #Fiction

Fiction · Scene · Writing

Cupid

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The torch flickers in the wind as you approach the cave. The sconce is shining under the lambent torch. You notice a small heart sticker on the scone. The icy breeze forces you into the cave just to avoid the frost any further.  The back of the cave is perfectly visible under the will of the torch. You immediately are taken back by the markings on the wall. A tally mark counter is carved into the stone; there are hundreds of tallies. Next to the tallies, a worn stuffed bear with an eye missing. A torn picture rested next to the bear, the picture was tattered yet you can make out the faces. Smiling girl resting her arm around your love, happy, much different than the missing person profile. I didn’t know they were friends. A sudden pinch pricks your back; the pinch was sharp and quick. Your love is maximized. Your love is the only person you can think of. The day you met your love. The way you felt when your love holds you and tells you that they love you. The good and the bad, your love is always there to tell you it will be okay. A second prick pinches in the same spot; no pain follows this pinch. Love reconstructs into aversion. Why am I here? The dangers of the Ox are all you can think about like the screech through the marsh. Love crumbles in your mind, you cannot even think about your love, all you want to do is escape.

Departing the cave, sprinting past the marshes, and past the damp poster. The street is barren, street lamps flickering like the torch from the cave, the chill follows you still. The streets are long before any civilization, you have to run, run as fast as you can. The Ox fades behind you. I can’t go back. Your cul-de-sac is nearing, gasping for air, the cold is invading your lungs. Houses pass as blurs, the wind pushing against your skin, stopping is not an option. The key under your mat glistening under the moonlight. You pass by the picture frame without even a glance. Finally, relaxing on your couch, hoping to catch the end of Johnny Carson.

Fiction · Scene · Writing

Medusa

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The marshes are dank and cold. The water is high to your knees and thick as honey. Your ears bleeding, dripping slowly, sore and the hum conquers all other noises the forest produces. The icy zephyr creates ripples in the water as if there was an invisible hand skidding across. Moonlight reveals the cloudy mud infested water, filth comes up, knees reaching your torso with each step. Shimmering light shines into your eyes, reflecting the huntress, reflecting you. Mirror shards clutter the underside of the marsh: your boot crushes a large mirror, producing these shards. A tight grip takes custody of your right thigh. The constrict has a shroud of brown marsh and undetectable in the shards. The tightness is present and increasing with each passing moment, narrowing subsides, and your unable to feel your right leg. Paddling to the exit, trying to leave the thick marshes, regretting traveling deeper into the tears of the forest. Sharp agony impales your abdomen. A brown sleek serpent attached to your belly like a limb. Your body adds a red tint to the cloudy marshes. You began feeling tight, fingers becoming unresponsive, losing feeling in your left leg, perception of your surroundings vanishing. Your scream is stolen by the forest, marshes taking over. Peering towards the exit, a third serpent emerges. This one is larger than the other two, same sleekness, with a sage body. The eyes. The serpent’s eyes were magnificent. The large emeralds, white sclera encloses tightly around, circular like a solemnly human. Cracks across the sclera construct black straight hard turning lines that have remanence of ruins. No longer able to move your lower half of your body, out reaching toward the eyes. Your hand began gradually turning into stone. Trying to move your fingers, like you have before, and nothing. Forearm commencing the process as the stone disease takes your body. The eyes never leave yours. A lonely tear travels from your disease-free eye as the emerald ones do the same.

Fiction · Writing

Hades

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The gust almost knocks you to the ground. The path is on a steady climb. Your red eyes turn the forest into a blood nightmare. Closer to the peak the earth is becoming soft and weak. You reach the peak of the hill; the earth has a layer of fog thick as honey. A metal fence is surrounding this small, isolated part of the forest. The moon is full and considerable. There was nothing at the top of the hill except for a solid stone plaque, sticking out of the earth. Fog swirls around the plaque as a savior, praying to their god. When you take a step closer to the plaque, the fog separates, pardons so your boot only touches earth. A howl erupts from the forest, the howl of a powerful beast. The plaque was as tall as your arm, thick as your bicep. Words are inscribed onto the plaque but they are in a different language, a language you have never seen before. Symbol of a cowl is inscribed onto the plaque, a cowl a warrior might have worn to battle in an older time, a cowl any man would fear. The howl returns for a second time. The hair on your arms standing up reaching for the huntress. Sweat drops from your brow as you stare at the blood red color of your world. Somethings wrong. My love would not come here. Earth shakes in terror as the third howl burst. A fist explodes from below the earth and grabs onto your ankle. This being has no eyes, only a skull. The grip tightens and pulls you closer to the earth. Shaking free and escaping the grips of death, a second and third reach out from the earth and grab onto your legs sending you crashing into the earth. Death stares right into your red eyes. A fourth appears gripping onto your torso and pulls. Your body slowly is being pulled into the earth, into nothing. Your love appears in your mind, wondering if she is okay, wondering if she is thinking about you. Wishing you would have taken your love to all those events you hate so much. Grasping for oxygen as a fifth and sixth grab hold of your neck and arms pulling you deeper and deeper. I’m sorry.

#Fiction · Scene · Writing

Tails

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“There’s two sides to every coin. A head and tails. Winning and losing. Flipping a coin is everything. Every path, every choice, every decision is a coin flip. Those who avoid flipping, waste away. That’s why I admire you. Never afraid to take a risk.” He laughs spewing spit. “Yet, this is what got you in this position. You flipped to many tails. Too many tails. Some people flip heads and some flip tails. Trouble was going to find you, reaping what you owe.” His face falling, and the other. The other was laughing. The laugh echoes around your drums, traveling, never escaping. “Bang.”

Fiction · Writing

Food Fight Ep.6

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David

 Daisy was increasingly heavy with no sign of slowing down. Exiting the Staters, David inhales the scene, a dozen bodies spread across the parking lot. Gummy bears own the Staters parking lot. Two new jeeps occupy the lot, engines still humming, and colorless. Half the outlaws are breathing and half lie still. Bringing Daisy to the outlaws jeep,

“Lauren! Let’s go!” No response. The parking lot was absent of sounds except for the jeeps. “Lauren?” The nest was empty. The ice chest was absent, no Ramon either. The sound of impending trucks speeding to the lot. Daisy laying unconscious in the passenger seat. David had to make a choice. David speeds off in the jeep getting Daisy back to the camp.

David looked through each street, looking for a sign of Lauren. I can’t show up without her. Luke will kill me. The camp was up ahead and David throttles forward. A pink lawn chair rested in front of the camp, Laurens chair. David placed Daisy carefully, placing the key in his pocket. David holds the key to the sun. Heading back to the jeep and heads back toward Stater Bros.

Fiction

Food Fight Ep.5

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Jenna

Walls shaking, barricades crumbling, the fort has fallen apart. Exiles have hit the camp outside the Walgreens. How did they know we were here? The cocky Exile’s stormed through the fort, no mercy, leaving no survivors.  They didn’t see Jenna. Jenna laid beneath debris, leftovers of a nest crushing Jenna’s shin. Pain bites down and tears escape Jenna, praying the Exiles do not discover her. Citrus breeze relocates rocks and wood chips through out the rubble. Scent of blood and death overcame the citrus as quickly as it came. Bodies of Jenna’s friends were no longer breathing. Fredrick, Max, Rose. Different tears erupt through Jenna this time. Doing her best to quiet, a man with a large belly, stripped jacket, and p-shooter strapped to his shoulder began passing through the remains. The belly has two followers, two more Exiles. The other is a short woman, brunette messy hair, a green tank top tucked into high wasted grey pedal pushers finished with a golden steel belt. The woman wielded her p-shooter, hoping to find another victim. Defined figure, thin waste and long legs, without a flaw from a distance. The last Exile is a younger man, a worn grey thermal, tan cargo pants held up with a seat buckle. Weapon strapped to his back, maybe even a virgin. Up kept black chucks and a dull green scarf were this kids signature. Exiles crossed the rubble in direction of the medical supplies.

“No reason to kill  everyone. Could of taken the path Lauren laid out for us,” The young blond kid said.

The girl smirked to this, “Going to have to man up Luke. Outlaws will kill you first chance they get and today we got them before they got us.”

“Still could have avoided this,” Luke responds. “If you didn’t want to take the path we could have waited for Lauren to lead this run.”

The girl did not like this. The name Lauren made her furious, “We don’t need Lauren to hold our hand. If your going to be such a bitch about it, don’t come next time.” She’s such a brute.

They were closer to the ruble concealing Jenna. The belly walks past with the brute, unconcerned with the rubble. Luke’s eyes were large and blue and filled with tears and sadness. Wiping his eyes, looked down, into Jenna’s eyes. Subconsciously grabbed his p-shooter, never removing it from it’s back strap. Luke notices the broken leg of Jenna and peers at the backs of the belly and the brute. Luke lets go of his p-shooter and removes a military grade knife from his ankle, drops it near, and smiles. He’s so handsome, his eyes are large blue stars. Luke trots after his Exile comrades and enters the Walgreens.

Jenna fidget, pushing the layers of debris off and halts before removing the matter above her shin. Blood leaks from the gash where a copper pipe has pierced the skin. She held the knife, considering. Placing the knife where Luke originally dropped it, resting her palms around the pipe. Two quick breaths and pull. Jenna bit her lip so hard it drew blood filling her mouth. Removing the flannel she was wearing, Jenna ties the thick clothing around her open wound and ties it, tight. Preparing herself, palms dark red wielding the knife, began gathering her good foot. Staggering and limping to a mild hop, heading in the opposite direction of the Walgreens. He helped me once, no guarantee  he can save me from the brute. Light head and dizzy, Jenna swerving in the open street, dragging from death and looking for life.

 

Fiction · Scene

Unlucky Stan

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Stan stairs at the basement door, in horror. Through the door, the weak steps plunged deep into darkness. Stan flicks the flashlight to reveal a pool of floating slippers, clear containers containing various arts and crafts from Emily’s childhood, and a couple of unpaired socks floating in dark filthy water. Barbra must have left the washing machine overflow again.  Stan knows what will happen if Barbra comes back and see the ocean developing in the basement. This fight seems worth avoiding even though it is her fault. Not going to tell her that.

Without his floaty, Stan ventures into the sea of forgotten. Empty Gain containers and fabric softeners floated across the current Stan was creating. Flashlight reveals the drowning aging sweatpants and old pair of tennis shoes being weighed down by a dung bell. More unpaired socks floating past Stan looking for their long lost love. Cotton fuzzes turning into dark clouds lost, without an exit. Family albums Barbra’s mother had given her last Christmas. The albums are filled with family members like her cousin Margaret, uncle Gregory, and great grandfather Tyler the Navy Seal. Stan remembers Tyler’s picture in full attire receiving a medal of honor from the Vietnam war. A bicycle with a frail basket and a flock of pink ribbons that Emily use to ride up and down the street when she was little. Emily use to take the bike to her friend, Tiffany, house down the block for sleep overs.

The water, up to Stan’s naval, and Stan is six feet high. The washing machine, spewing water, was indeed left open and continuously over flowing. Stan, subconsciously, searches and found the overhead electrical outlet far above the forming basement pond. Reaching for the knobs without moving underneath the water is unsuccessful. Twisting the knobs had no effect on the water and soon the entire basement will be submerged.  Stan takes a deep breath and plunges under the water. Flashlight leading the way, looking for an alternate way to end this flushing nightmare. The Dyson is still under warranty and would need to be taken in, that’s for sure. Everything seemed to be plugged in, Stan wouldn’t know if something was in the wrong spot. Stan began adjusting the washing machine hose, loosening, and removing. The hole is small, but Stan figures something might be caught in the hole and be the reason the machine isn’t jumping to the next cycle. Stan burrows the top and takes another deep breath and heads back down. Placing his hand into the hole, the sensation of oil taking hold of his hand made Stan feel uneasy and pushed his arm in deep enough to cover his forearm. Stan notices the sudden shake in the washing machine. Spin cycle? Excited Stan jerked his arm out. The second attempt proved even less successful. Panic over takes and began flopping around like a circus gold fish. Air bubbles escape Stan a few at a time. His arm was stuck. Stan looks around, looking for anything that could help him escape. Nothing but the family album staring back at him. Stan felt heavy, cold, and alone. I wish I was you Seal. 

Fiction

Food Fight Ep.4

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General Gonzalez

The camp was a well oiled machine. A large fence protects the camp. Several guards patrolling the fence, wielding  WN rifles and police riot gear, looking for the slightest change in familiarity. A single wooden sniper nest is home to Caitlyn, the most proficient Spoil with a WN rifle. A tomato garden flourishes under the fair sun. Botany expert, Martha, always in reaching distance like Caitlyn and her rifle. Yang teaching history to the a couple of the children about the world before the bomb.

General Felix Gonzalez stand six feet and four inches high two-twenty pounds. Wide shoulders and broad chest. Unshaven face, covering a strong jawline and impeccable cheek bones. Black hair, crew cut, tight and neat. Black and grey eyes with a razor sharp edge flowing with wisdom and power. Black bullet proof vest covered by a onyx flight jacket with a patch on the right shoulder with a shark fresh after a kill. Crisp black work trousers and shin high dark brown military combat boots. General Gonzalez watches his people every morning and every evening.

Caitlyn walking into the General’s chambers. Caitlyn was five foot five just around a hundred pounds. Outlined cheek and jawline and her cheeks looked like they’re being sucked in by a vacuum. Emerald eyes with a tint of darkness, a hint of secrecy. Light long brown hair tied in a ponytail with a few strands dangling on her brow. Full developed breast covered with an identical flight jacket, except for the size, covering a t-shirt that says AC-DC . Fitted black work trousers and lower cut military combat boots.

“Lex made contact with the Outlaws. Says Exiles beat them to it,” Caitlyn said. The general began pacing, tying his arms behind his back. Caitlyn just watching the general patiently.

“Where is Lex now?”

“Still by the Walgreens.”

“Remain scouting. No engage. Got it?” Caitlyn turns quietly and exits. General watches Caitlyn head back to the walkie and relay the orders. The glass is strong and hard to make out the words, yet, Caitlyn seems uneasy. Caitlyn struts quickly, returns back to the general, worried.

“It’s Kristen.”

“Dead?”

“No word. An ambush from the Outlaws.”

“Did the flower plan this?”

“Doubt it. My guess, an Outlaw scout.”

“Can we spare guys and get Kristen out?”

“She brought Aaron with her but we have Ki and Newman to spare.”

With a deep breath from the general, “Send them.” Caitlyn nods and exits for the second time.

Deja vu, watching Caitlyn making the call on the walkie. Martha still hard at work with her ammo. Yang still teaching the kids about the constitution. General looks about with disapproval with a concerning feeling building in his belly. If the flower did this, she must have leverage to make a move. General didn’t like the smell of this and won’t take any chances with her. Caitlyn, off the walkie, nods at the General and Ki and Newman exit the fence jeep, spud shooters, and battle horn loaded.