This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Killer Toothache
By Plot Roach
My teeth were killing me and four days into the torture that was my life, my dentist tells me he can’t find anything wrong with me. We’ve done x-rays, he’s sampled the infected areas, and still nothing. And about the time I’m ready to take a shotgun to my head, my mother calls. The family wants me over for dinner.
“Not tonight, Mom.” I tell her. “I’ve got a killer toothache.”
“Which one, dear?” she asks.
“Does it really make a difference?”
“Just tell me.”
So I do. They are twin orbs of burning pain on either side of my upper jaw, about an inch away on either side of my buck teeth. She tells me to come over, that there are some home remedies she has that have been handed down over the years, that are sure to do the trick. I’ve tried everything that I can find on the internet, but it only seems to make matters worse, so sure, I tell her. I’ll come over.
Dad is already home from golfing with friends, he gives me a sad, but appreciative look and pats my shoulder as he ushers me into the house. My brother Scott is there as well, he jabs me in the side and makes fun of my chipmunk cheeks, there’s been a lot of swelling to go along with the pain. And he makes sure to poke fun at both.
“Ah, hell.” he says, with another poke in the ribs. ”We all went through it too.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
But Dad gives him a ‘knowing look’, and Mom ushers me upstairs into her ‘sewing room’, which used to be my bedroom when I lived here. She’s got enough surgical equipment laying around to outfit an emergency room in the local hospital and I wonder just what she has planned for the swelling in my gums.
“Uh, Mom..” I say, backing away from the stainless steel torture implements laid out by the sink. “If my dentist couldn’t find anything, what makes you think that you can?”
“Because I’m your mother.” she says, patting me on the back. “I know every inch of you. I am, after all, the one who made you.”
“But this is different..” I star to argue. But she won’t put up with it, instead steering me to sit on the toilet seat lid as she lines up all her tools.
“This will hurt a little, I can’t help that. But it would have been easier on you if you had come to me first.”
“I didn’t know you were a dentist…”
She waves my comment away and puts a metal contraption in my mouth that holds my mouth open -painfully- while she goes to work. “You tried garlic and colloidal silver?” she asks, not waiting for an answer I cannot give vocally. And I dare not move my head to nod while she has a scalpel in there. “That was a mistake, it only made the swelling worse…” She rubs something on the infected gums and goes to work with the scalpel and a set of long needle nosed pliers that I hope have not spent time in my father’s greasy tool box. I smell the blood, but my sense of taste is off what with the stuff she rubbed on my gums. She tells me to keep spitting and I’m amazed and worried about the amount of blood and tissue in the sink. Just when I think that I’m about to pass out from the sight of it, she announces that she’s done.
“Now, I’ll have to tell you to refrain from eating tonight, but somehow I don’t think you would have been up to it.”
I nod, not really up to conversation. I feel like the walls are closing in and the floor is swimming up to meet me. But my mother keeps an iron strong arm around me and leads me downstairs. We stop at the mirror at the end of the stairway where I look at the damage. There are two minute holes now cut into my gums where the swelling was. And within these holes are tiny white pearls.
“What?” I ask, taking a closer look.
“Let’s sit down at the dinner table, and your father and I will explain.”
Scott is already there, tearing into a rare steak and winking at me as he notices my revulsion at the thought of eating. “Green isn’t a good look on you Sis.” he says, shoveling in another bite.
“Don’t tease your sister at a time like this” my mother scolds.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“You’re finally an adult.” my father says, beaming as if I had won a Nobel Peace Prize.
“Dad,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that happened five years ago at summer camp.”
“We don’t mean your menses, dear girl.” my mother says, rolling her eyes. “We mean that you are finally one of us.”
“One of…?”
In response, my brother opens his mouth wide. He’s got two holes in his upper gums too. Why had I not noticed this before? He smiles, and then the fangs come down, over his other teeth. His human teeth. I look around the table. Mom and Dad are doing it too. Everyone laughs- except me.
“But?….”
“Oh, yours are just little things now, blunt and in need of a good work out. They’ll come to a point soon enough. Until then, you might want to stick to a liquid diet.” my mother says, patting me on the hand. “I’ll give you a good recipe for blood and which vitamins to fortify it with. And, of course, which butchers to go to for the freshest supplies.”
“And when you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to hunt.” Scott says. “With Dad’s help.” Both Dad and he look at me like they’ve found a new playmate. And maybe they have. I take a swig of the stuff my mother has concocted for me and while it doesn’t taste great, it does do the trick. I feel better already. But I can’t help but wonder what the real thing, straight from the vein, will taste like once I’m through my ’milk teeth’ and ready for the hunt.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
It’s Just a Nightmare
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
It’s Just a Nightmare
By Plot Roach
“Mommy! Mommy! The bad men are after me.” the boy said, running from his bedroom into the living room where his mother was waiting for him.
“Shhh, now. It’s just a nightmare.” she said, holding him to her and running a hand through his hair. She dried his tears and lifted him off of the ground. Holding him close, she began to sing as she rocked back and forth. Soon his breath became even and she knew he was asleep.
From the fire escape another stood watching them. It was almost like a dance, her rocking and singing. And he smiled at the thought that she loved her boy so much. The smile was short lived as he reminded himself of what he came to do. He reached for the gun, making sure it was loaded and that the silencer was on, though he doubted that he would use it on her. It was for if things got out of hand. He had a different end planned for her tonight. And if all went well, it would feed his own addiction for blood as well as fulfilling the contract.
He waited in the shadows and watched her put the lad back to bed. She kissed him on the forehead and tucked the sheets in around him, as if to protect him for what was to come. He would not hurt the boy. I have standards, he told himself. Just the mother, that was all. Tonight she had to die, and it could not be avoided, no matter if she were a mother or a monster. A contract was signed, money changed hands, and he had his orders.
She sensed him, he knew not how. But she might have been expecting him, or someone like him, for some time now. She turned, eyes shrink wrapped in tears, but she did not yell. She did not reach for a weapon. She merely nodded and walked to the fire escape where he waited.
He stiffened when she reached for her purse. “I just want my ID” she said. “I have the feeling that you won’t be leaving much for the police to identify me with.” He nodded, not trusting her until her hand left her purse with her wallet. She slipped the plastic card out of its holder and let the wallet fall to the floor. “I don’t want to do it here.” she said. “I don’t want my boy to see me this way. I don’t want him to remember me as… it will scar him for life.”
Even in the end, she was still thinking about her child. If only this could be different, he thought. He followed her down the fire escape and into the alley behind their apartment complex. He had a couple of hours to work on her, before the garbage men where scheduled to travel down this alleyway to find what was left of her body. He moved quickly and made sure that she felt little pain, not that he had been paid for that service. But he had had a mother of his own once. He only wished that she had been something like her.
It’s Just a Nightmare
By Plot Roach
“Mommy! Mommy! The bad men are after me.” the boy said, running from his bedroom into the living room where his mother was waiting for him.
“Shhh, now. It’s just a nightmare.” she said, holding him to her and running a hand through his hair. She dried his tears and lifted him off of the ground. Holding him close, she began to sing as she rocked back and forth. Soon his breath became even and she knew he was asleep.
From the fire escape another stood watching them. It was almost like a dance, her rocking and singing. And he smiled at the thought that she loved her boy so much. The smile was short lived as he reminded himself of what he came to do. He reached for the gun, making sure it was loaded and that the silencer was on, though he doubted that he would use it on her. It was for if things got out of hand. He had a different end planned for her tonight. And if all went well, it would feed his own addiction for blood as well as fulfilling the contract.
He waited in the shadows and watched her put the lad back to bed. She kissed him on the forehead and tucked the sheets in around him, as if to protect him for what was to come. He would not hurt the boy. I have standards, he told himself. Just the mother, that was all. Tonight she had to die, and it could not be avoided, no matter if she were a mother or a monster. A contract was signed, money changed hands, and he had his orders.
She sensed him, he knew not how. But she might have been expecting him, or someone like him, for some time now. She turned, eyes shrink wrapped in tears, but she did not yell. She did not reach for a weapon. She merely nodded and walked to the fire escape where he waited.
He stiffened when she reached for her purse. “I just want my ID” she said. “I have the feeling that you won’t be leaving much for the police to identify me with.” He nodded, not trusting her until her hand left her purse with her wallet. She slipped the plastic card out of its holder and let the wallet fall to the floor. “I don’t want to do it here.” she said. “I don’t want my boy to see me this way. I don’t want him to remember me as… it will scar him for life.”
Even in the end, she was still thinking about her child. If only this could be different, he thought. He followed her down the fire escape and into the alley behind their apartment complex. He had a couple of hours to work on her, before the garbage men where scheduled to travel down this alleyway to find what was left of her body. He moved quickly and made sure that she felt little pain, not that he had been paid for that service. But he had had a mother of his own once. He only wished that she had been something like her.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
I Remember
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
I Remember
By Plot Roach
I remember days when the sun seemed like it would shine forever. I remember the color of my house, the smell of fresh laundry and the feel of grass under my bare feet.
That was before.
I made a note, in case I bumped into anyone who survived but didn’t know what was happening. I knew that I would forget, like everyone did.
It says: there was a new drug, it was supposed to make people healthy and immortal. But instead it made people get sick in the head and forget everything. We got it from a plant we found in a buried temple. The writing in the ruins said it was supposed to bring peace to the world.
Where was I? oh, yeah… Something about the broken down buildings and the plant… It made us forget everything.
Did I say that already?
It didn’t happen all at once, but in stages. First we felt better, more healthy. And we lived longer too. The promise was kept, from the writing in the ruins. We were a lot more peaceful, mostly because we weren’t so mad all the time. It’s hard to be mad at someone, be it a terrorist or a nation, if you can’t remember what they did to piss you off.
No, almost everyone got the medicine. That was the problem. We shared it with everyone we could once the tests came out that it was safe for humans to use. What the scientists didn’t know was that it made people forget.
It was a plant that we found in an ancient temple. I said that before? Sorry, I don’t remember. But back to the note…
Not everyone took it, some people didn’t believe in modern medicine and some people lived too far in the rainforests to get the medicine. Their brains are okay. Not like ours. And they ended up taking care of the rest of us.
A lot of people died at first. They just wandered off and forgot that they needed to eat and stuff in order to live. The rest of us learned to leave a lot of notes to keep us going. Some of us were more affected than others.
There is no known cure. We should have left the damned plant alone. You know, the one we found in the temple.
I’m sorry for repeating myself. I’ll make a note about it. See? Here’s my notebook. It reminds me of my house, where it is and what color the paint is. It reminds me of my favorite things. And there’s a picture of a smiling family. I think it’s mine, because I’m in the picture too. I remember the smell of fresh laundry. And the feeling of grass under my bare feet. I remember…
I Remember
By Plot Roach
I remember days when the sun seemed like it would shine forever. I remember the color of my house, the smell of fresh laundry and the feel of grass under my bare feet.
That was before.
I made a note, in case I bumped into anyone who survived but didn’t know what was happening. I knew that I would forget, like everyone did.
It says: there was a new drug, it was supposed to make people healthy and immortal. But instead it made people get sick in the head and forget everything. We got it from a plant we found in a buried temple. The writing in the ruins said it was supposed to bring peace to the world.
Where was I? oh, yeah… Something about the broken down buildings and the plant… It made us forget everything.
Did I say that already?
It didn’t happen all at once, but in stages. First we felt better, more healthy. And we lived longer too. The promise was kept, from the writing in the ruins. We were a lot more peaceful, mostly because we weren’t so mad all the time. It’s hard to be mad at someone, be it a terrorist or a nation, if you can’t remember what they did to piss you off.
No, almost everyone got the medicine. That was the problem. We shared it with everyone we could once the tests came out that it was safe for humans to use. What the scientists didn’t know was that it made people forget.
It was a plant that we found in an ancient temple. I said that before? Sorry, I don’t remember. But back to the note…
Not everyone took it, some people didn’t believe in modern medicine and some people lived too far in the rainforests to get the medicine. Their brains are okay. Not like ours. And they ended up taking care of the rest of us.
A lot of people died at first. They just wandered off and forgot that they needed to eat and stuff in order to live. The rest of us learned to leave a lot of notes to keep us going. Some of us were more affected than others.
There is no known cure. We should have left the damned plant alone. You know, the one we found in the temple.
I’m sorry for repeating myself. I’ll make a note about it. See? Here’s my notebook. It reminds me of my house, where it is and what color the paint is. It reminds me of my favorite things. And there’s a picture of a smiling family. I think it’s mine, because I’m in the picture too. I remember the smell of fresh laundry. And the feeling of grass under my bare feet. I remember…
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Talk
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Talk
By Plot RoachSit down, sweetie. It’s time we had a talk.
No, it’s nothing like that. It’s about where you came from.
Yes, I know we already had THAT talk. But this is about something different. You’re adopted. I know that it’s hard to believe, but your father and I think that it’s time you knew the truth.
No, sweetheart, we love you as much as if you were our own. We love you just as much as your brothers. Maybe more, because we CHOSE you. But don’t tell them that, though. They would never forgive us.
Well, yes, sweetheart. You are different. We thought that you would have figured it out by now. But I guess love makes us blind to reality. I would have thought that being covered from head to foot in blue feathers and having a prehensile tail would have been enough for you to tell that you weren’t one of us.
No, sweetie! Those things only endeared you to us even more. You were so different from the others at the adoption agency. We didn’t think you a freak at all.
No, I’m afraid that I lied to you about our relatives being circus freaks. We thought it would make it easier for others to accept you like we did. There’s not a lot of kids in the neighborhood who can climb a tree as fast as you can. Nor can any of them fly like a bird. We just thought that if we gave you a down to earth story about your past, then others would love you for who you are and not what you are.
Where you came from? Well, you’ll need to sit down for this one. Do you remember the song I used to sing for you when you were little? The one about the green sky, the whales that floated on clouds and about how you would dance by the light of the three moons? That was something your REAL mother used to sing to you.
She’s from another planet.
No, I’m not kidding. She and some of her kind were here on some ort of exchange program. But she got ‘in the family way’ by one of her friends. The pregnancy only lasted a month, but she couldn’t take you home right away because of the laws there. You’d be seen as an illegal alien there. But here on Earth, you have automatic citizenship. So we volunteered to raise you until the paperwork went through. Eventually, we just saw you as our own. But now it’s legal for her to call you home. So you’ll have to be a brave girl and show them what it’s like to be human. Okay?
Now cheer up and put on a bright smile, your other mother will be here in fifteen minutes and you’ll be spending the summer with her in order to learn about your ‘cultural heritage’ or something like that.
Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll love it there. And I’ll send you letters every week. And even include a batch of your favorite butterscotch birdseed oatmeal cookies with every letter. Now dry your tears and settle down or else the neighbors will think that you’re going to eat their dog -again.
The Talk
By Plot RoachSit down, sweetie. It’s time we had a talk.
No, it’s nothing like that. It’s about where you came from.
Yes, I know we already had THAT talk. But this is about something different. You’re adopted. I know that it’s hard to believe, but your father and I think that it’s time you knew the truth.
No, sweetheart, we love you as much as if you were our own. We love you just as much as your brothers. Maybe more, because we CHOSE you. But don’t tell them that, though. They would never forgive us.
Well, yes, sweetheart. You are different. We thought that you would have figured it out by now. But I guess love makes us blind to reality. I would have thought that being covered from head to foot in blue feathers and having a prehensile tail would have been enough for you to tell that you weren’t one of us.
No, sweetie! Those things only endeared you to us even more. You were so different from the others at the adoption agency. We didn’t think you a freak at all.
No, I’m afraid that I lied to you about our relatives being circus freaks. We thought it would make it easier for others to accept you like we did. There’s not a lot of kids in the neighborhood who can climb a tree as fast as you can. Nor can any of them fly like a bird. We just thought that if we gave you a down to earth story about your past, then others would love you for who you are and not what you are.
Where you came from? Well, you’ll need to sit down for this one. Do you remember the song I used to sing for you when you were little? The one about the green sky, the whales that floated on clouds and about how you would dance by the light of the three moons? That was something your REAL mother used to sing to you.
She’s from another planet.
No, I’m not kidding. She and some of her kind were here on some ort of exchange program. But she got ‘in the family way’ by one of her friends. The pregnancy only lasted a month, but she couldn’t take you home right away because of the laws there. You’d be seen as an illegal alien there. But here on Earth, you have automatic citizenship. So we volunteered to raise you until the paperwork went through. Eventually, we just saw you as our own. But now it’s legal for her to call you home. So you’ll have to be a brave girl and show them what it’s like to be human. Okay?
Now cheer up and put on a bright smile, your other mother will be here in fifteen minutes and you’ll be spending the summer with her in order to learn about your ‘cultural heritage’ or something like that.
Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll love it there. And I’ll send you letters every week. And even include a batch of your favorite butterscotch birdseed oatmeal cookies with every letter. Now dry your tears and settle down or else the neighbors will think that you’re going to eat their dog -again.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Dead Babies Creep the Hell Out of Me
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Dead Babies Creep the Hell Out of Me
By Plot Roach“I like horror movies, but some things bug me more than others.” Olivia said, putting a DVD back on the shelf. They had stopped into a rental place to pick up a movie for the night, but could not agree which movies to rent.
“Like what?” asked Larry.
“Like, I’m okay with zombies and ghouls and stuff… But dead babies creep the hell out of me.”
“I think that they would creep the hell out of anyone, really.”
“No, I mean, personally. It’s not just a scary or gross out thing. I really take it to mean like it’s aimed at me or something.”
“Like Hollywood has spies lurking around your life to figure out what freaks you out…”
“They might make better films that way.” Olivia said. “But, no. Those damned dead babies get me every time.”
“Just dead babies?”
“What?” she asked. “Like you don’t have a phobia that pops up in horror films?”
“I do, but it’s not dead babies.”
“Well?”
"Let’s talk about this baby thing that you’ve got going…” he said. “Is it just zombie babies, or any dead babies in general?”
“Well, you know that scene in Zombie Hookers From Mars, where the mom gets bitten by a zombie and turns in the bathroom? Then when they kill her, her stomach starts moving and they cut the baby out, only to discover that it’s a zombie too?”
“That bugs you?”
“Yeah, I mean, who wouldn’t be weirded out by that? If the mom is a zombie, why did they think that the baby would be okay? Why not leave it in her belly to die?”
“Well, maybe it would have just chewed its way out…”
“Okay. That’s gross.”
“And letting the baby die inside of her is any better?”
“But it was a zombie. I mean, what the hell were they thinking? How would you feed something like that? Even if you wanted to keep it.”
“And what did they do in the movie?”
“They shot it in the head.”
“That seems a waste of a good bullet. I mean, it’s not like the baby has a fully formed head, you could have just stepped on it or kicked it in or something…”
“Way too much imagination there. And not something I want to think about.”
“What other dead babies are there that spook you?”
“Like in Darkness Creeps Two, where the shadows devour almost everyone in the town, but leave their clothes behind. And they show the empty baby clothes in all the preemie incubators in the hospital.”
“Empty clothes scared you?”
“It’s the idea of dead children. Like in Apocalypse Death Cloud, where they show the dead mom and toddler mummified in the truck at the opening credits. I can understand using adults, but why kids?”
“To add a realistic touch to it. About the only place you wouldn’t see kids is in a military lab -unless its about cloning, that is.”
“It’s just…” Olivia made a face, unable to put her thought into words.
“What happened with a baby in your real life?” Larry asked.
“My sister’s kid died.”
“Oh, crap. I’m sorry.”
“It happened a while ago. She put her daughter down for a nap and she ended up dying of SIDS. We were right there in the room when she stopped breathing And we never even knew until it was too late.”
“It wasn’t your fault, you know. They still don’t know what causes it.”
“Yeah, I know. But I felt like, hey, I was there, why didn’t I see it happen? Why didn’t I do anything about it?”
“And now dead babies haunt you, both in real life and in movies?”
“Kind of.”
“Two things: one, you couldn’t have done anything to prevent your niece’s death. And two, the babies in the movies aren’t real.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my subconscious. You have issues too, as I recall.”
“Yeah.”
“Spill it.”
“Balloons.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid of balloons. Especially when they end up flying off into the sky.”
“What-why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dead Babies Creep the Hell Out of Me
By Plot Roach“I like horror movies, but some things bug me more than others.” Olivia said, putting a DVD back on the shelf. They had stopped into a rental place to pick up a movie for the night, but could not agree which movies to rent.
“Like what?” asked Larry.
“Like, I’m okay with zombies and ghouls and stuff… But dead babies creep the hell out of me.”
“I think that they would creep the hell out of anyone, really.”
“No, I mean, personally. It’s not just a scary or gross out thing. I really take it to mean like it’s aimed at me or something.”
“Like Hollywood has spies lurking around your life to figure out what freaks you out…”
“They might make better films that way.” Olivia said. “But, no. Those damned dead babies get me every time.”
“Just dead babies?”
“What?” she asked. “Like you don’t have a phobia that pops up in horror films?”
“I do, but it’s not dead babies.”
“Well?”
"Let’s talk about this baby thing that you’ve got going…” he said. “Is it just zombie babies, or any dead babies in general?”
“Well, you know that scene in Zombie Hookers From Mars, where the mom gets bitten by a zombie and turns in the bathroom? Then when they kill her, her stomach starts moving and they cut the baby out, only to discover that it’s a zombie too?”
“That bugs you?”
“Yeah, I mean, who wouldn’t be weirded out by that? If the mom is a zombie, why did they think that the baby would be okay? Why not leave it in her belly to die?”
“Well, maybe it would have just chewed its way out…”
“Okay. That’s gross.”
“And letting the baby die inside of her is any better?”
“But it was a zombie. I mean, what the hell were they thinking? How would you feed something like that? Even if you wanted to keep it.”
“And what did they do in the movie?”
“They shot it in the head.”
“That seems a waste of a good bullet. I mean, it’s not like the baby has a fully formed head, you could have just stepped on it or kicked it in or something…”
“Way too much imagination there. And not something I want to think about.”
“What other dead babies are there that spook you?”
“Like in Darkness Creeps Two, where the shadows devour almost everyone in the town, but leave their clothes behind. And they show the empty baby clothes in all the preemie incubators in the hospital.”
“Empty clothes scared you?”
“It’s the idea of dead children. Like in Apocalypse Death Cloud, where they show the dead mom and toddler mummified in the truck at the opening credits. I can understand using adults, but why kids?”
“To add a realistic touch to it. About the only place you wouldn’t see kids is in a military lab -unless its about cloning, that is.”
“It’s just…” Olivia made a face, unable to put her thought into words.
“What happened with a baby in your real life?” Larry asked.
“My sister’s kid died.”
“Oh, crap. I’m sorry.”
“It happened a while ago. She put her daughter down for a nap and she ended up dying of SIDS. We were right there in the room when she stopped breathing And we never even knew until it was too late.”
“It wasn’t your fault, you know. They still don’t know what causes it.”
“Yeah, I know. But I felt like, hey, I was there, why didn’t I see it happen? Why didn’t I do anything about it?”
“And now dead babies haunt you, both in real life and in movies?”
“Kind of.”
“Two things: one, you couldn’t have done anything to prevent your niece’s death. And two, the babies in the movies aren’t real.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my subconscious. You have issues too, as I recall.”
“Yeah.”
“Spill it.”
“Balloons.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid of balloons. Especially when they end up flying off into the sky.”
“What-why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Experiment
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Experiment
By Plot Roach
The third season of Suburban Survivors was coming to a close. The crew looked to the cameras mounted in the various areas of the complex where they had spent the last six weeks of their lives.
“I’ll be glad for a hot shower.” Azure said. On the outside, she was an attorney who had left behind her three children and a husband in order to prove to herself that she had the skills necessary to survive on her own.
“How about a meal made from meat that I recognize and actually WANT to eat?” laughed Larry. He had been the hunter of the group, providing the food on their plates, even if it was scurrying around in the walls the night before.
“Or a nice, civilized night out on the town. Take in a show, eat at a fancy restaurant, maybe not have to pee in a pit you dug in the ground…” said Warren, wiping the sweat off of his brow with a tattered and greasy bandanna.
These thoughts were echoed in some way by the rest of the twenty members of the troupe that had been sequestered in the abandoned lot for the duration of the show’s filming. Tensions had been high only a few days before. But now, knowing that within minutes they would be met at the edge of the lot by limousines carrying their loved ones, it all seemed to melt away.
They used the last of the clean water that they had been rationing to take baths, dressed in the clothing that had been set aside since they had entered the compound -the clothes that they had left their old lives in. Most sat in groups, comparing stories about their lives back home and what they would do on their first day back in ‘civilization’. The women shared their meager stores of makeup and bemoaned the lack of a good manicure or hairstylist. They devoured what little stores of food that they had set aside for the future of the colony, daydreaming about gourmet meals and barbeques planned for family and friends.
Finally the time came when they were to meet their transportation back to the studio, and back into their former lives. Some cried, looking back at the grimy building that had been their home for six weeks, others sighed as they mentally catalogued the improvements that they had made to make the place livable, to make it their fortress and their sanctuary in a pretend post apocalypse.
“So what are you going to do with the money that the studio promised?” Azure asked one of the other women.
“I’m going to get a boob job.” the woman admitted meekly. “I know it seems like a waste of money, but I’ve always wanted to be bigger, and now I can afford it.”
“I’m going to get a boat of my own.” said one of the men. “If this place has taught me anything, it’s to be better prepared. And I think I can do that better on the water -easier to defend myself, and if I don’t like my neighbors, I pull up anchor and just sail away.”
The group moved en masse to the edge of the Suburban Survivor Colony lot, chatting amongst themselves like schoolchildren while waiting for the first day of summer. Soon they would be released, for better or worse, back into their separate lives. Some would cling together for the rest of their lives while others would drift away on the winds of change like dandelion fluff.
Once at the main gate, they used bolt cutters to snip off the padlock that had kept the compound shut off from the rest of the world. They threw open the gate, in anticipation of what they would find there. There was a strangled silence as the twenty looked out into the world they had left for six weeks. The streets were silent, filled with garbage and the dead.
“What the hell happened?” Warren asked.
“It looks like the world ended without us.” Azure said.
“Wouldn’t they have told us? Wouldn’t they have stopped the experiment and let us be with our families?” Larry asked.
“Unless that wasn’t really what the experiment was about…” Azure said.
Silence stretched across the void, linking their world to the devastation they now witnessed. Larry moved first, grabbing a section of old pipe and hefting it like a baseball bat before entering the ruined city.
“We could stay here.” offered Azure. “We already know how to generate our own electricity and how to clean our water and hunt our own food. We’ll be alright. We made it six weeks, we can make it a bit longer until someone comes for us.”
“Do you really think someone will come for us if they haven’t already?” Warren asked.
“Screw this.” Larry said and stepped over a dried corpse and into the ruined city.
“Where are you going?” Azure asked.
“I’ve waited six weeks for some real food.” Larry yelled. “I’m going to find a cheeseburger!”
The Experiment
By Plot Roach
The third season of Suburban Survivors was coming to a close. The crew looked to the cameras mounted in the various areas of the complex where they had spent the last six weeks of their lives.
“I’ll be glad for a hot shower.” Azure said. On the outside, she was an attorney who had left behind her three children and a husband in order to prove to herself that she had the skills necessary to survive on her own.
“How about a meal made from meat that I recognize and actually WANT to eat?” laughed Larry. He had been the hunter of the group, providing the food on their plates, even if it was scurrying around in the walls the night before.
“Or a nice, civilized night out on the town. Take in a show, eat at a fancy restaurant, maybe not have to pee in a pit you dug in the ground…” said Warren, wiping the sweat off of his brow with a tattered and greasy bandanna.
These thoughts were echoed in some way by the rest of the twenty members of the troupe that had been sequestered in the abandoned lot for the duration of the show’s filming. Tensions had been high only a few days before. But now, knowing that within minutes they would be met at the edge of the lot by limousines carrying their loved ones, it all seemed to melt away.
They used the last of the clean water that they had been rationing to take baths, dressed in the clothing that had been set aside since they had entered the compound -the clothes that they had left their old lives in. Most sat in groups, comparing stories about their lives back home and what they would do on their first day back in ‘civilization’. The women shared their meager stores of makeup and bemoaned the lack of a good manicure or hairstylist. They devoured what little stores of food that they had set aside for the future of the colony, daydreaming about gourmet meals and barbeques planned for family and friends.
Finally the time came when they were to meet their transportation back to the studio, and back into their former lives. Some cried, looking back at the grimy building that had been their home for six weeks, others sighed as they mentally catalogued the improvements that they had made to make the place livable, to make it their fortress and their sanctuary in a pretend post apocalypse.
“So what are you going to do with the money that the studio promised?” Azure asked one of the other women.
“I’m going to get a boob job.” the woman admitted meekly. “I know it seems like a waste of money, but I’ve always wanted to be bigger, and now I can afford it.”
“I’m going to get a boat of my own.” said one of the men. “If this place has taught me anything, it’s to be better prepared. And I think I can do that better on the water -easier to defend myself, and if I don’t like my neighbors, I pull up anchor and just sail away.”
The group moved en masse to the edge of the Suburban Survivor Colony lot, chatting amongst themselves like schoolchildren while waiting for the first day of summer. Soon they would be released, for better or worse, back into their separate lives. Some would cling together for the rest of their lives while others would drift away on the winds of change like dandelion fluff.
Once at the main gate, they used bolt cutters to snip off the padlock that had kept the compound shut off from the rest of the world. They threw open the gate, in anticipation of what they would find there. There was a strangled silence as the twenty looked out into the world they had left for six weeks. The streets were silent, filled with garbage and the dead.
“What the hell happened?” Warren asked.
“It looks like the world ended without us.” Azure said.
“Wouldn’t they have told us? Wouldn’t they have stopped the experiment and let us be with our families?” Larry asked.
“Unless that wasn’t really what the experiment was about…” Azure said.
Silence stretched across the void, linking their world to the devastation they now witnessed. Larry moved first, grabbing a section of old pipe and hefting it like a baseball bat before entering the ruined city.
“We could stay here.” offered Azure. “We already know how to generate our own electricity and how to clean our water and hunt our own food. We’ll be alright. We made it six weeks, we can make it a bit longer until someone comes for us.”
“Do you really think someone will come for us if they haven’t already?” Warren asked.
“Screw this.” Larry said and stepped over a dried corpse and into the ruined city.
“Where are you going?” Azure asked.
“I’ve waited six weeks for some real food.” Larry yelled. “I’m going to find a cheeseburger!”
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Missing Socks and Golden Thoughts
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Missing Socks and Golden Thoughts
By Plot Roach
“Do you ever wonder about the ‘good old days’?” Chelsea asked.
“Like how?” asked John, looking up from his laptop. They were at a combination coffee shop and bookstore, where she was trying to have a polite conversation while he was trying valiantly to ignore her.
“Everyone thinks that the times of the past were so much greater than they are now -but is it really the truth?”
“I very much doubt that Holocaust survivors would want to relive the past…”
“You know what I mean. We’ve heard our parents and grandparents talk about the past like it was some golden moment in the history of the universe. Hell, even I miss high school and I know I hated every minute of it. What is it that makes us miss the past so much that our minds make it better than it really was?”
“Do you want the truth?” John said, looking up from his laptop.
“Why? Do you know it?”
“Yes.” John said, looking over his shoulder at the people sitting in the little café with them, as if there were government spies among them. “But not everyone knows it…”
“Spill it, then.”
“But before I do, you have to promise not to tell anyone. It could change the way we view the universe forever.”
“You make this sound all spooky.”
“It is. It will certainly change the way you view the movement of time.”
“Okay, fine.”
“That’s a promise?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
John moved his chair closer, closing the lid on his laptop and putting it back into his messenger bag. “You see, there are these little trolls that live in between the spaces that atoms dance through. You know how there’s all that empty space that science hasn’t accounted for?”
“Trolls?”
“Keep listening… these trolls pop out of the little spaces and rearrange things when we aren’t looking. They make time go faster when we’re having fun. They make it go slower when we’re at work or in pain or even just plain bored.”
“And why would they do this?”
“They want our socks.”
“Socks?”
“Oh, and other odd bits of things that get lost over the years. But primarily, it’s the socks that they are after.”
“Why socks?”
“Those long odd ears of theirs? They need something to keep them warm at night and socks are just the thing. So whenever you have one sock missing, it went to a troll’s ear.”
“Why only one sock?”
“It’s the fashion to clash colors and styles. It shows that you’re been around in the troll world. That you know how to work the humans for your own benefit.”
“Oh, really?”
“Certainly.” John said. “If you can keep the humans busy thinking about the past, then they don’t notice when you are manipulating the present. So they cast glamour over your mind and keep you all wrapped up in your thoughts while they raid the dryer for ear wear.” John got up from the table and prepared to leave. “That’s that.” he said. “Proof that trolls, warps in the space-time continuum and lazy minds really do exist.”
“Preposterous.” she said as she watched him leave the coffeehouse. She crossed her legs beneath the table, hoping that he had not noticed that her socks did not match.
Missing Socks and Golden Thoughts
By Plot Roach
“Do you ever wonder about the ‘good old days’?” Chelsea asked.
“Like how?” asked John, looking up from his laptop. They were at a combination coffee shop and bookstore, where she was trying to have a polite conversation while he was trying valiantly to ignore her.
“Everyone thinks that the times of the past were so much greater than they are now -but is it really the truth?”
“I very much doubt that Holocaust survivors would want to relive the past…”
“You know what I mean. We’ve heard our parents and grandparents talk about the past like it was some golden moment in the history of the universe. Hell, even I miss high school and I know I hated every minute of it. What is it that makes us miss the past so much that our minds make it better than it really was?”
“Do you want the truth?” John said, looking up from his laptop.
“Why? Do you know it?”
“Yes.” John said, looking over his shoulder at the people sitting in the little café with them, as if there were government spies among them. “But not everyone knows it…”
“Spill it, then.”
“But before I do, you have to promise not to tell anyone. It could change the way we view the universe forever.”
“You make this sound all spooky.”
“It is. It will certainly change the way you view the movement of time.”
“Okay, fine.”
“That’s a promise?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
John moved his chair closer, closing the lid on his laptop and putting it back into his messenger bag. “You see, there are these little trolls that live in between the spaces that atoms dance through. You know how there’s all that empty space that science hasn’t accounted for?”
“Trolls?”
“Keep listening… these trolls pop out of the little spaces and rearrange things when we aren’t looking. They make time go faster when we’re having fun. They make it go slower when we’re at work or in pain or even just plain bored.”
“And why would they do this?”
“They want our socks.”
“Socks?”
“Oh, and other odd bits of things that get lost over the years. But primarily, it’s the socks that they are after.”
“Why socks?”
“Those long odd ears of theirs? They need something to keep them warm at night and socks are just the thing. So whenever you have one sock missing, it went to a troll’s ear.”
“Why only one sock?”
“It’s the fashion to clash colors and styles. It shows that you’re been around in the troll world. That you know how to work the humans for your own benefit.”
“Oh, really?”
“Certainly.” John said. “If you can keep the humans busy thinking about the past, then they don’t notice when you are manipulating the present. So they cast glamour over your mind and keep you all wrapped up in your thoughts while they raid the dryer for ear wear.” John got up from the table and prepared to leave. “That’s that.” he said. “Proof that trolls, warps in the space-time continuum and lazy minds really do exist.”
“Preposterous.” she said as she watched him leave the coffeehouse. She crossed her legs beneath the table, hoping that he had not noticed that her socks did not match.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Fifty Thousand Options
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Fifty Thousand Options
By Plot Roach
Joe pulled the battered dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it across the counter to the woman behind the register. “One quick pick, please.” he said. She eyed his clothing and general appearance, frowning as she slid the ticket back to him. He was dirty, had definitely seen better days. Most of the time he was able to keep himself at least tidy, if not clean. But it was getting harder and harder to keep his life going, to make some effort at staying human, at least in the eyes of those who shared the world with him.
He nodded his head and left the liquor store, shoving the ticket deep into his pocket. Feeling the fool for spending his last dollar on a snowball’s chance in winning, he cursed his decision as the first rumble of hunger spread through his stomach and settled into his bones. Why do I have to be such a fool and chase dreams? He thought. Why didn’t I just spend it on another can of food to get me through the night?
What his mind would not forgive, his stomach chastised for the rest of the night. But in his dreams he had plans. A home of his own, a pantry overflowing with food, a closet full of clean clothes that fit and more than enough room for all of his friends so that no one he knew would have to spend another night in the cold on the streets.
The following morning, he checked with the liquor store. The winning numbers had been posted and he checked his slip with shaking hands. He did not get all the numbers, but did have quite a few. How much did I win? He asked himself. Checking the information on the bottom of the poster, he found he had won fifty thousand dollars. Not millions, he said to himself. But not bad either. Fifty thousand could go a long way if it was spent right. His mind entertained the thought of fifty thousand dollar burritos at his local taco stand. He laughed at the thought, not that he would actually do it.
And what would I do with fifty thousand dollars? A small, greedy voice asked him. The minute you go to deposit it in the bank, the government will eat up the greatest share in taxes. And then there goes all the government assistance you fought so hard to receive. And what little is left, those around you will fight you or guilt trip you for.
Joe shook his head. This was his windfall, his little bit of hope to get him through the hard times and maybe get him back on his feet. But the little voice returned, with an appetite like a shark and little rat teeth that gnawed instead of eviscerated. You’ll still have to wait five weeks, it said. You can’t have the money right away. So you’ll still be stuck on the street until then. Can you really keep it a secret all that time? Do you really think those around you will leave you alone when they know that you’ll be coming into that much money? Everything you know and love will leave you and nothing will ever be the same again. Better to blow it all on booze and drugs and make the end come swiftly, than to try and eek out a meager existence and make death come for you inch by inch.
In his mind he saw himself suffering on the street until the money would be released to him. A few months in a motel, a few good meals, but what would it really add up to? As soon as the money was gone he would be right back where he began. But this would be worse, because now he would know what he was missing. The soft bed, the full belly, and feeling like a human again.
No, he thought, better to not have it at all than to be teased with Heaven and delivered back to Hell. He wandered through the parking lot, twirling the ticket in one hand while he weighted what to do. Along the way he saw a woman holding a baby. The child could not have been more than a week old. Its mother crying into the phone.
“If I had the money, don’t you think I would pay the rent with it?” she said. “At this rate, I’ll have to spend the night in a shelter. And I don’t know what they’ll do about the baby. Can they take him from me if I don’t have a home?”
Joe shuffled forward, waited for the woman to get off of the phone. When she did, he leaned forward and made himself look as small and unassuming as possible so as to not frighten her. “Do you have a dollar, ma’am?” he asked.
She looked at him, rolled her eyes and fished a single bill out of her purse. “Here.” she said. “One dollar isn’t going to make the difference in paying my rent.”
He handed her the lotto ticket. “No, but this will.”
“What?” she asked, looking at the crumpled piece of paper.
“It’s worth fifty thousand dollars and won’t do me a damned bit of good. But you might be able to use it, provided the landlord is willing to wait five weeks for the check to hit your bank account. If not, it’s his loss, because you’ll be able to go anywhere you want once you get the money.”
With that, Joe turned and walked away. A dollar bill in his pocket taking the spot of the winning lotto ticket. He smiled, knowing that he was no better or worse off than he had been the day before, and counting his blessings that he could make a difference in the life of someone else in the meantime.
Fifty Thousand Options
By Plot Roach
Joe pulled the battered dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it across the counter to the woman behind the register. “One quick pick, please.” he said. She eyed his clothing and general appearance, frowning as she slid the ticket back to him. He was dirty, had definitely seen better days. Most of the time he was able to keep himself at least tidy, if not clean. But it was getting harder and harder to keep his life going, to make some effort at staying human, at least in the eyes of those who shared the world with him.
He nodded his head and left the liquor store, shoving the ticket deep into his pocket. Feeling the fool for spending his last dollar on a snowball’s chance in winning, he cursed his decision as the first rumble of hunger spread through his stomach and settled into his bones. Why do I have to be such a fool and chase dreams? He thought. Why didn’t I just spend it on another can of food to get me through the night?
What his mind would not forgive, his stomach chastised for the rest of the night. But in his dreams he had plans. A home of his own, a pantry overflowing with food, a closet full of clean clothes that fit and more than enough room for all of his friends so that no one he knew would have to spend another night in the cold on the streets.
The following morning, he checked with the liquor store. The winning numbers had been posted and he checked his slip with shaking hands. He did not get all the numbers, but did have quite a few. How much did I win? He asked himself. Checking the information on the bottom of the poster, he found he had won fifty thousand dollars. Not millions, he said to himself. But not bad either. Fifty thousand could go a long way if it was spent right. His mind entertained the thought of fifty thousand dollar burritos at his local taco stand. He laughed at the thought, not that he would actually do it.
And what would I do with fifty thousand dollars? A small, greedy voice asked him. The minute you go to deposit it in the bank, the government will eat up the greatest share in taxes. And then there goes all the government assistance you fought so hard to receive. And what little is left, those around you will fight you or guilt trip you for.
Joe shook his head. This was his windfall, his little bit of hope to get him through the hard times and maybe get him back on his feet. But the little voice returned, with an appetite like a shark and little rat teeth that gnawed instead of eviscerated. You’ll still have to wait five weeks, it said. You can’t have the money right away. So you’ll still be stuck on the street until then. Can you really keep it a secret all that time? Do you really think those around you will leave you alone when they know that you’ll be coming into that much money? Everything you know and love will leave you and nothing will ever be the same again. Better to blow it all on booze and drugs and make the end come swiftly, than to try and eek out a meager existence and make death come for you inch by inch.
In his mind he saw himself suffering on the street until the money would be released to him. A few months in a motel, a few good meals, but what would it really add up to? As soon as the money was gone he would be right back where he began. But this would be worse, because now he would know what he was missing. The soft bed, the full belly, and feeling like a human again.
No, he thought, better to not have it at all than to be teased with Heaven and delivered back to Hell. He wandered through the parking lot, twirling the ticket in one hand while he weighted what to do. Along the way he saw a woman holding a baby. The child could not have been more than a week old. Its mother crying into the phone.
“If I had the money, don’t you think I would pay the rent with it?” she said. “At this rate, I’ll have to spend the night in a shelter. And I don’t know what they’ll do about the baby. Can they take him from me if I don’t have a home?”
Joe shuffled forward, waited for the woman to get off of the phone. When she did, he leaned forward and made himself look as small and unassuming as possible so as to not frighten her. “Do you have a dollar, ma’am?” he asked.
She looked at him, rolled her eyes and fished a single bill out of her purse. “Here.” she said. “One dollar isn’t going to make the difference in paying my rent.”
He handed her the lotto ticket. “No, but this will.”
“What?” she asked, looking at the crumpled piece of paper.
“It’s worth fifty thousand dollars and won’t do me a damned bit of good. But you might be able to use it, provided the landlord is willing to wait five weeks for the check to hit your bank account. If not, it’s his loss, because you’ll be able to go anywhere you want once you get the money.”
With that, Joe turned and walked away. A dollar bill in his pocket taking the spot of the winning lotto ticket. He smiled, knowing that he was no better or worse off than he had been the day before, and counting his blessings that he could make a difference in the life of someone else in the meantime.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Stuff of Nightmares
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Stuff of Nightmares
By Plot Roach
Darkness crept in on cockroach feet. And with it came the nightmares. Megan tossed and turned in her sleep, unable to shake herself out of the fantasy world and back into reality. In her dream she was being chased by an unknown terror without form. But it devoured all she held dear, one piece at a time. It chased her from her childhood home, destroying loved ones and friends. It continued to hunt her throughout the different stages of her life until her present. There it had her trapped in her cramped little apartment, devouring her neighbors before it cornered her in the bathroom.
She had locked the door, propping the hamper against the handle. She sat on the toilet lid, trying to pry open the bathroom window in an attempt to escape. But the window would not budge and the creeping terror was oozing through the lock on the door. “I don’t want to die on the toilet!” she screamed as the blackness pooled about her feet. “Wake up!” she yelled. “This isn’t real!” She slammed her hand against the door, feeling it reverberate against her flesh. But it was not enough to shock her awake. She opened the medicine cabinet, the blackness creeping up around her thighs. She pulled out a pair of scissors and plunged them into the flesh of her left hand. The pain lanced through her and she snapped awake.
She turned on the bedside lamp and gripped her left hand to her chest. Once she had calmed down she inspected her hand, knowing that she would not find anything, but felt the pain all the same.
“I hate these damned nightmares.” she muttered and slipped out of bed. She wandered into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of milk and getting a slice of chocolate cake. Not so good for my figure, she said. But I’ve just finished battling the evil unknown, I think I deserve a treat. She let her mind wander over the details of the dream. The thing had gotten closer this time. What would happen if I didn’t wake up before the thing devoured me? She asked herself. That’s silly, it’s just a dream. Nothing can really happen to you in your dreams. It had been a theory, one that she was ready to put to the test.
She finished her midnight snack and returned to bed, leaving the light on to read through a book until she felt sleepy. On a hunch, she pulled out a test tube and set it next to the lamp. She turned off the light and pulled the covers close. Almost as soon as she closed her eyes, she began to dream.
Back in her childhood home, everything swept clean by the darkness of the unknown evil. It would chase her from one world into another if she let it. Night after night it devoured all that she had held dear. It has to stop, she told herself. It has to end here, tonight.
She heard the thing before she saw it, a creak on the wooden stairs announced its presence and she knew it was just playing with her. It has no weight, so how can it make the stairs creak? She asked herself. It slithered and moved forward, taking its time and lapping at the floorboards as if with a large tongue made of shadows.
“That’s just obscene!” she yelled at the thing. “Have you no dignity? I would guess not, since you don’t seem to have a backbone either!” She picked up a vase from the edge of a shelf and threw it at the shadow creature. It disappeared into the blackness like a lake swallows a pebble, it barely made a ripple. I’ll have to try harder, she thought, and retreated to the next room.
Concentrate, she told herself. She summoned another room, one that had never been in this dream before. It was the lab back at her college. Clean linoleum floor gleamed with the overheat florescent lights. Metal tables lined the room and equipment decorated the shelves of the walls. The light of the overhead lights began to dim as soon as the creature poured under the crack of the door. Megan combated this by turning on the Bunsen burners at each of the tables. Come and get me, she thought.
She backed away from the creature, shaking but keeping her mind as calm as possible. It did not seem put off by the new territory it hunted her through. She tripped as she bumped against one of the tables, it sent her to the floor where the shadow hunter lunged at her like a hungry dog.
Now! She thought. She flipped the on switch to a vacuum box, its front door open and jammed it into the shadow creature. The vaporous thing was sucked into the box, where she snapped the door closed and set a test tube into the back. It thumped the sides of the glass box as it thrashed and attempted to escape. “Not this time, you don’t.” she said.
Within minutes it was sucked into the test tube and was trapped by the rubber stopper. A few minutes later she left the lab, and the dream, test tube in hand.
She woke with a start, looking next to her to the test tube she had left on the nightstand. Coiled inside looked to be a worm made of mercury. It will be interesting to see what it tests like in the lab, she told herself. If it’s biological, we might be able to immunize people against it. Or use it for a weapon… Megan closed her eyes for the third time that night. Falling into a deep and peaceful sleep, a longtime personal demon finally vanquished.
The Stuff of Nightmares
By Plot Roach
Darkness crept in on cockroach feet. And with it came the nightmares. Megan tossed and turned in her sleep, unable to shake herself out of the fantasy world and back into reality. In her dream she was being chased by an unknown terror without form. But it devoured all she held dear, one piece at a time. It chased her from her childhood home, destroying loved ones and friends. It continued to hunt her throughout the different stages of her life until her present. There it had her trapped in her cramped little apartment, devouring her neighbors before it cornered her in the bathroom.
She had locked the door, propping the hamper against the handle. She sat on the toilet lid, trying to pry open the bathroom window in an attempt to escape. But the window would not budge and the creeping terror was oozing through the lock on the door. “I don’t want to die on the toilet!” she screamed as the blackness pooled about her feet. “Wake up!” she yelled. “This isn’t real!” She slammed her hand against the door, feeling it reverberate against her flesh. But it was not enough to shock her awake. She opened the medicine cabinet, the blackness creeping up around her thighs. She pulled out a pair of scissors and plunged them into the flesh of her left hand. The pain lanced through her and she snapped awake.
She turned on the bedside lamp and gripped her left hand to her chest. Once she had calmed down she inspected her hand, knowing that she would not find anything, but felt the pain all the same.
“I hate these damned nightmares.” she muttered and slipped out of bed. She wandered into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of milk and getting a slice of chocolate cake. Not so good for my figure, she said. But I’ve just finished battling the evil unknown, I think I deserve a treat. She let her mind wander over the details of the dream. The thing had gotten closer this time. What would happen if I didn’t wake up before the thing devoured me? She asked herself. That’s silly, it’s just a dream. Nothing can really happen to you in your dreams. It had been a theory, one that she was ready to put to the test.
She finished her midnight snack and returned to bed, leaving the light on to read through a book until she felt sleepy. On a hunch, she pulled out a test tube and set it next to the lamp. She turned off the light and pulled the covers close. Almost as soon as she closed her eyes, she began to dream.
Back in her childhood home, everything swept clean by the darkness of the unknown evil. It would chase her from one world into another if she let it. Night after night it devoured all that she had held dear. It has to stop, she told herself. It has to end here, tonight.
She heard the thing before she saw it, a creak on the wooden stairs announced its presence and she knew it was just playing with her. It has no weight, so how can it make the stairs creak? She asked herself. It slithered and moved forward, taking its time and lapping at the floorboards as if with a large tongue made of shadows.
“That’s just obscene!” she yelled at the thing. “Have you no dignity? I would guess not, since you don’t seem to have a backbone either!” She picked up a vase from the edge of a shelf and threw it at the shadow creature. It disappeared into the blackness like a lake swallows a pebble, it barely made a ripple. I’ll have to try harder, she thought, and retreated to the next room.
Concentrate, she told herself. She summoned another room, one that had never been in this dream before. It was the lab back at her college. Clean linoleum floor gleamed with the overheat florescent lights. Metal tables lined the room and equipment decorated the shelves of the walls. The light of the overhead lights began to dim as soon as the creature poured under the crack of the door. Megan combated this by turning on the Bunsen burners at each of the tables. Come and get me, she thought.
She backed away from the creature, shaking but keeping her mind as calm as possible. It did not seem put off by the new territory it hunted her through. She tripped as she bumped against one of the tables, it sent her to the floor where the shadow hunter lunged at her like a hungry dog.
Now! She thought. She flipped the on switch to a vacuum box, its front door open and jammed it into the shadow creature. The vaporous thing was sucked into the box, where she snapped the door closed and set a test tube into the back. It thumped the sides of the glass box as it thrashed and attempted to escape. “Not this time, you don’t.” she said.
Within minutes it was sucked into the test tube and was trapped by the rubber stopper. A few minutes later she left the lab, and the dream, test tube in hand.
She woke with a start, looking next to her to the test tube she had left on the nightstand. Coiled inside looked to be a worm made of mercury. It will be interesting to see what it tests like in the lab, she told herself. If it’s biological, we might be able to immunize people against it. Or use it for a weapon… Megan closed her eyes for the third time that night. Falling into a deep and peaceful sleep, a longtime personal demon finally vanquished.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Privileged Few
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A Privileged Few
By Plot Roach
Deep breath, he told himself. Squeeze the trigger when you exhale. He let his breath out and gently squeezed with his index finger. A shot rang out and a clean hole emerged in the center of his paper target.
“Good job, Mylas.” the instructor said. “At this rate you’ll be in the Squad in no time.”
Mylas nodded, saying nothing. He did not need to, it was written on his face. He wanted this job more than anything in the world. It meant more to him than the cushy desk job he could have gotten, or the position of educational instructor he could have earned with his schooling. None of these jobs held a candle to Recovery Squad, because of the privileges.
As he showered and dressed, word came down the grapevine that a few new bodies were going to be recruited to the Squad, and soon. He slammed his locker door closed, the target practice silhouette taped to the outside, a perfect shot drilled through the head. He felt certain he would be the next to come up in rank and land a spot. He went back to barracks and waited the night in in his bunk, unable to sleep for the excitement of it all.
The following morning, the new recruits for Recovery Squad were listed on the outside of the main office door. Mylas’ name was not among them. “Tough luck there, champ.” one of the men called to him when Mylas’ face fell upon learning the news. “Maybe you just don’t have what it takes.” the man laughed.
When not in training, Mylas spent the rest of the day in a stupor. I’ve trained for this for the last ten years, he told himself. I’ve pulled more hours in the simulator and at the firing range than anyone I know. I’ve passed all the tests at the top of the class. What more do they want from me?
The more he thought about it, the more Mylas knew that he had to do something, and quickly. If they passed him up for promotion once, chances were, that they would do it again. But what could he do to ensure a place with the next group? The new recruits were spending their first day on the job the following morning, the next group would not be picked until a month later.
Mylas sneered at the thought of the man who laughed at him. He deserved this chance as much as anyone else, maybe even more. Why should someone else get ahead while he was kept behind?
Mylas passed through the training barracks, watching the new recruits as they packed up their gear in order to be transferred to the official Recovery Squad Facility. There they would have the best food, the most room and the best amenities short of those in political positions or those independently wealthy.
If only I could go with them, he thought. He watched them pass through the doors, looking like clones of one another. They all look the same, he thought. No one would notice if one of them should be replaced by myself…
Later that night he visited the public drinking house. The new recruits were spending one last night carousing among their inferiors before their new rank would give them new privileges.
Mylas sidled up to the man who had poked fun at him earlier. He bought the man drink after drink, congratulating him on his luck and stroking the man’s ego. When he was certain that the man was inebriated and that no one would be watching, he offered to walk the man to the Recovery Squad base. His arm around the drunk man, Mylas implemented his plan. Along the way to the base, were miles and miles of service tunnels used by both the public and the military. In the earlier part of his life, Mylas had been a tunnel worker in charge of sanitation. He knew where the tunnels were easiest to breach and what waste products were processed where.
When the time came, he simply snapped the neck of the recruit, stripped him of his clothing and switched their clothing. By the time they found the body, the face would no longer be recognizable and the identity would be confirmed only by the uniform. He would officially take the recruit’s place. Mylas found it ironic that it was the training that he had received to become a Recovery Squad scout that allowed him to take the recruit out of action.
The following morning Mylas was in the lineup with the other recruits, a hundred in all from all over the underground facility. The large rover tanks fit them six to a unit. The facility doors opened and the scout tanks filed into the ruined city. The chatter inside the tanks hushed immediately as they passed through what had once been a city that their great grandparents had called civilization.
The tanks took their appointed routes, stopping where enemy activity was heaviest. The doors opened and the recruits stepped out, guns at the ready. The sun crested the ruined buildings of the city and each man looked up, tears in his eyes. They had seen pictures of daylight, even a video during training. But the warmth of the sun on the body was more than each man had been prepared for. Only a privileged few ever saw the outside world.
“Keep your wits about you, men” ordered a senior officer. “They come in with the sunlight. And won’t pause because you want to enjoy the view.”
A few men laughed, but were cut short when the rumbling shook the ground before the noise reached their ears. Their leader was right, they came with the sunlight. Thousands of them. All black and purple bodies, filled with teeth and claws. Sinewy movement unlike anything else on earth. Some said that they were an experiment by the Elders gone wrong. Others said that they had fallen from the sky. In any case, they needed to be cut back with gunfire and grenades on a daily basis if humanity was going to take the earth back. The blood, the machinegun fire, the screams of the dead and dying were music to Mylas’ ears.
Bright sunlight, fresh air and the chance to prove himself. It was just the job that Mylas had always wanted. It was one that he was willing to kill for, time and time again.
A Privileged Few
By Plot Roach
Deep breath, he told himself. Squeeze the trigger when you exhale. He let his breath out and gently squeezed with his index finger. A shot rang out and a clean hole emerged in the center of his paper target.
“Good job, Mylas.” the instructor said. “At this rate you’ll be in the Squad in no time.”
Mylas nodded, saying nothing. He did not need to, it was written on his face. He wanted this job more than anything in the world. It meant more to him than the cushy desk job he could have gotten, or the position of educational instructor he could have earned with his schooling. None of these jobs held a candle to Recovery Squad, because of the privileges.
As he showered and dressed, word came down the grapevine that a few new bodies were going to be recruited to the Squad, and soon. He slammed his locker door closed, the target practice silhouette taped to the outside, a perfect shot drilled through the head. He felt certain he would be the next to come up in rank and land a spot. He went back to barracks and waited the night in in his bunk, unable to sleep for the excitement of it all.
The following morning, the new recruits for Recovery Squad were listed on the outside of the main office door. Mylas’ name was not among them. “Tough luck there, champ.” one of the men called to him when Mylas’ face fell upon learning the news. “Maybe you just don’t have what it takes.” the man laughed.
When not in training, Mylas spent the rest of the day in a stupor. I’ve trained for this for the last ten years, he told himself. I’ve pulled more hours in the simulator and at the firing range than anyone I know. I’ve passed all the tests at the top of the class. What more do they want from me?
The more he thought about it, the more Mylas knew that he had to do something, and quickly. If they passed him up for promotion once, chances were, that they would do it again. But what could he do to ensure a place with the next group? The new recruits were spending their first day on the job the following morning, the next group would not be picked until a month later.
Mylas sneered at the thought of the man who laughed at him. He deserved this chance as much as anyone else, maybe even more. Why should someone else get ahead while he was kept behind?
Mylas passed through the training barracks, watching the new recruits as they packed up their gear in order to be transferred to the official Recovery Squad Facility. There they would have the best food, the most room and the best amenities short of those in political positions or those independently wealthy.
If only I could go with them, he thought. He watched them pass through the doors, looking like clones of one another. They all look the same, he thought. No one would notice if one of them should be replaced by myself…
Later that night he visited the public drinking house. The new recruits were spending one last night carousing among their inferiors before their new rank would give them new privileges.
Mylas sidled up to the man who had poked fun at him earlier. He bought the man drink after drink, congratulating him on his luck and stroking the man’s ego. When he was certain that the man was inebriated and that no one would be watching, he offered to walk the man to the Recovery Squad base. His arm around the drunk man, Mylas implemented his plan. Along the way to the base, were miles and miles of service tunnels used by both the public and the military. In the earlier part of his life, Mylas had been a tunnel worker in charge of sanitation. He knew where the tunnels were easiest to breach and what waste products were processed where.
When the time came, he simply snapped the neck of the recruit, stripped him of his clothing and switched their clothing. By the time they found the body, the face would no longer be recognizable and the identity would be confirmed only by the uniform. He would officially take the recruit’s place. Mylas found it ironic that it was the training that he had received to become a Recovery Squad scout that allowed him to take the recruit out of action.
The following morning Mylas was in the lineup with the other recruits, a hundred in all from all over the underground facility. The large rover tanks fit them six to a unit. The facility doors opened and the scout tanks filed into the ruined city. The chatter inside the tanks hushed immediately as they passed through what had once been a city that their great grandparents had called civilization.
The tanks took their appointed routes, stopping where enemy activity was heaviest. The doors opened and the recruits stepped out, guns at the ready. The sun crested the ruined buildings of the city and each man looked up, tears in his eyes. They had seen pictures of daylight, even a video during training. But the warmth of the sun on the body was more than each man had been prepared for. Only a privileged few ever saw the outside world.
“Keep your wits about you, men” ordered a senior officer. “They come in with the sunlight. And won’t pause because you want to enjoy the view.”
A few men laughed, but were cut short when the rumbling shook the ground before the noise reached their ears. Their leader was right, they came with the sunlight. Thousands of them. All black and purple bodies, filled with teeth and claws. Sinewy movement unlike anything else on earth. Some said that they were an experiment by the Elders gone wrong. Others said that they had fallen from the sky. In any case, they needed to be cut back with gunfire and grenades on a daily basis if humanity was going to take the earth back. The blood, the machinegun fire, the screams of the dead and dying were music to Mylas’ ears.
Bright sunlight, fresh air and the chance to prove himself. It was just the job that Mylas had always wanted. It was one that he was willing to kill for, time and time again.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Sleep With the Fishes
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Sleep With the Fishes
By Plot Roach
I never could keep fish alive, but this was getting ridiculous. I’ve tried everything from fancy tropical creatures to the common goldfish. But my friend, Larry, recommended a new type of ‘miniature tuna’ fish that had been bioengineered to be as hearty as a weed in the water. And if you got tired of it, you could simply gut it and put it on the grill. It had been based off of a much larger creature caught off the shores of Japan. Something that the scientific community had thought was extinct, but was now plentiful enough for the sushi houses and as a pet for lazy Americans.
So I had a small tank, put one mini tuna and several, smaller, bottom feeders in it and waited to see what would happen. It wasn’t even a full day before all the creatures inside sank like rocks to the bottom. “Larry! Why did you talk me into these damned fish!?” I yelled, showing him the corpses.
“It looks like they drowned.” he said, turning one of the fish over in his hands. He was a former biology major turned drop out entrepreneur and made big bucks off of a combination coffee stirrer and temperature gauge.
“How can fish drown?” I asked.
“They need to pull oxygen from the water through their gills in order to survive -that’s why the tank had that air bubble thing in it.”
“’Air bubble thing’?” I teased. He might be smart enough to come up with a gizmo that made him a semi rich man, but he’s still a dork in my book. He only made a face at me and tossed the dead fish back into the tank.
“Sorry. I thought it was something you really wouldn’t be able to kill this time.”
“Let me just flush the smaller ones and I’ll bury the big guy.” I said, taking the tank into the bathroom. When I came back Larry was on the floor, sprawled out and on his back.
“Funny, Larry.” I said. “Imitating my dead fish.” But after waiting a few minutes, he didn’t move.
“Larry?” I called. “This isn’t funny anymore.” I checked his pulse, his heart was still beating -but just barely. I called for an ambulance and rode with him to the hospital. When we got there, I realized that he wasn’t the only comatose patient. There was an epidemic of them, and no one knew why.
The nurse on duty handed me a pile of paperwork and then grilled me about the events that lead up to Larry’s current state. He hadn’t eaten anything weird that I knew about. Wasn’t a drug user. The only thing different was the fish. He had handled the dead fish. I hadn’t. I had only flushed the little ones after scooping them out with a net. I don’t touch living -er, dead- fish, it just feels weird. And maybe my phobia about it saved me.
With Larry admitted, I went back to the apartment with a medical escort. They took the dead fish, the ones not already flushed, and put them into a plastic bag for the lab. In our absence from the apartment, my neighbors were having problems of their own. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had gotten in on the mini tuna craze. More people were comatose, and some of their pets as well. And believe me when I tell you that there is something weird about seeing a twenty pound calico cat passed out on its back, eyes glazed and mouth open in a snarl -and not from catnip.
A few days later the staff found the culprit, it was a small parasite in the intestinal tract of the parent (thought extinct) species used to help create the mini tuna. Not only had the world not seen the fish in a very long time, they had not seen the almost invisible invader it carried. The cold waters that had been the fish’s home had kept the parasite at a manageable level. But once it had been brought ashore and bred in private tanks, it spread like wildfire. Anyone who even touched the fish, whether to process it as a pet or for food, succumbed to the nasty side effects.
Days later, an antidote was perfected and released to the unfortunate sleepers. The rest of the fish were confiscated and destroyed -now making them REALLY extinct. A few animal activists cried foul, until they were found comatose in their own homes with ’rescued’ fish dead in their aquariums. Larry woke soon after being administered the medicine.
“Looks like I owe you some new fish.” he said groggily.
“Naw.” I told him. “At this point I never want to see another fish again. It doesn’t matter if its in a koi pond or minced, breaded and deep fried.”
“Maybe we should try another animal -maybe a turtle?” he suggested.
“What? And have radiation mutate it into Godzilla like proportions?”
“A dog?”
“Have you heard of ‘Cujo’?”
“Maybe a snake?”
“Maybe I should stick to silk plants and online electric pets.”
“Aren’t you afraid the computer will go all ‘A. I.’ on you and try and take over?”
“Well now I am.” I said, and gently socked him in the shoulder. “Besides, what can go wrong with silk plants?”
“Knowing you.” Larry said. “Give it a week.”
Sleep With the Fishes
By Plot Roach
I never could keep fish alive, but this was getting ridiculous. I’ve tried everything from fancy tropical creatures to the common goldfish. But my friend, Larry, recommended a new type of ‘miniature tuna’ fish that had been bioengineered to be as hearty as a weed in the water. And if you got tired of it, you could simply gut it and put it on the grill. It had been based off of a much larger creature caught off the shores of Japan. Something that the scientific community had thought was extinct, but was now plentiful enough for the sushi houses and as a pet for lazy Americans.
So I had a small tank, put one mini tuna and several, smaller, bottom feeders in it and waited to see what would happen. It wasn’t even a full day before all the creatures inside sank like rocks to the bottom. “Larry! Why did you talk me into these damned fish!?” I yelled, showing him the corpses.
“It looks like they drowned.” he said, turning one of the fish over in his hands. He was a former biology major turned drop out entrepreneur and made big bucks off of a combination coffee stirrer and temperature gauge.
“How can fish drown?” I asked.
“They need to pull oxygen from the water through their gills in order to survive -that’s why the tank had that air bubble thing in it.”
“’Air bubble thing’?” I teased. He might be smart enough to come up with a gizmo that made him a semi rich man, but he’s still a dork in my book. He only made a face at me and tossed the dead fish back into the tank.
“Sorry. I thought it was something you really wouldn’t be able to kill this time.”
“Let me just flush the smaller ones and I’ll bury the big guy.” I said, taking the tank into the bathroom. When I came back Larry was on the floor, sprawled out and on his back.
“Funny, Larry.” I said. “Imitating my dead fish.” But after waiting a few minutes, he didn’t move.
“Larry?” I called. “This isn’t funny anymore.” I checked his pulse, his heart was still beating -but just barely. I called for an ambulance and rode with him to the hospital. When we got there, I realized that he wasn’t the only comatose patient. There was an epidemic of them, and no one knew why.
The nurse on duty handed me a pile of paperwork and then grilled me about the events that lead up to Larry’s current state. He hadn’t eaten anything weird that I knew about. Wasn’t a drug user. The only thing different was the fish. He had handled the dead fish. I hadn’t. I had only flushed the little ones after scooping them out with a net. I don’t touch living -er, dead- fish, it just feels weird. And maybe my phobia about it saved me.
With Larry admitted, I went back to the apartment with a medical escort. They took the dead fish, the ones not already flushed, and put them into a plastic bag for the lab. In our absence from the apartment, my neighbors were having problems of their own. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had gotten in on the mini tuna craze. More people were comatose, and some of their pets as well. And believe me when I tell you that there is something weird about seeing a twenty pound calico cat passed out on its back, eyes glazed and mouth open in a snarl -and not from catnip.
A few days later the staff found the culprit, it was a small parasite in the intestinal tract of the parent (thought extinct) species used to help create the mini tuna. Not only had the world not seen the fish in a very long time, they had not seen the almost invisible invader it carried. The cold waters that had been the fish’s home had kept the parasite at a manageable level. But once it had been brought ashore and bred in private tanks, it spread like wildfire. Anyone who even touched the fish, whether to process it as a pet or for food, succumbed to the nasty side effects.
Days later, an antidote was perfected and released to the unfortunate sleepers. The rest of the fish were confiscated and destroyed -now making them REALLY extinct. A few animal activists cried foul, until they were found comatose in their own homes with ’rescued’ fish dead in their aquariums. Larry woke soon after being administered the medicine.
“Looks like I owe you some new fish.” he said groggily.
“Naw.” I told him. “At this point I never want to see another fish again. It doesn’t matter if its in a koi pond or minced, breaded and deep fried.”
“Maybe we should try another animal -maybe a turtle?” he suggested.
“What? And have radiation mutate it into Godzilla like proportions?”
“A dog?”
“Have you heard of ‘Cujo’?”
“Maybe a snake?”
“Maybe I should stick to silk plants and online electric pets.”
“Aren’t you afraid the computer will go all ‘A. I.’ on you and try and take over?”
“Well now I am.” I said, and gently socked him in the shoulder. “Besides, what can go wrong with silk plants?”
“Knowing you.” Larry said. “Give it a week.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A Taste for Things
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A Taste for Things
By Plot Roach
I knew something was up when the cats kept disappearing. You have to understand, we live out in the rural part of the city. A fringe section not so much ’country’ land, as abandoned industrial buildings gone back to nature. Broken walls and sunken roofs sprout up like mushrooms out here. The only reason we have a home out here at all is because we converted it from an old trailer that the wrecking crews had used for an office before even they gave up the ghost and made for greener pastures.
My husband Jacob has tried to get us to move for years now, saying that the land is no good for our family, now that the little one can walk. But I keep an eye on Jacob Jr., making sure he doesn’t fall in any holes or stick himself on any rusted bits of debris while we’re touring the old buildings looking for scrap to sell at the local flea market.
Living like a scavenger isn’t what I had hoped for when I dreamed of my adult life as a child. But it’s kept a roof over our heads when others in this fair city have gone homeless through no fault of their own. I refuse to make my child live life on the road, in a derelict car. And I will not have us traipsing about like gypsies from one shelter to another while government workers look down upon us like human cockroaches.
So I keep and eye on the boy, you better believe I do. He’s the apple of my eye and sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane at night when the wolf of debt and past woes sings at the door for our bones to gnaw upon.
And besides, if we left, who would take care of all the cats? Sometime after we put down stakes out here, the cats came to us. A few at first, mostly feral things with little more to them than a scrap of skin hanging on their bones. But then people started noticing that a cat colony had started, so they dumped their unwanted pets out here for us to feed them. Sometimes a former owner will stop by, see if his ’Fluffy’ is still around and breathing. The best of those who pass through drop off a pound or two of dry cat food so we can keep feeding them. It gets hard just taking care of my family, but I try to take care of the cats, too.
So at one time we had ourselves somewhere around thirty of the furry miscreants, running amok and catching their prey in the abandoned buildings if they weren’t getting a handout from yours truly. And then their number started thinning out. Just a few at first, something I hardly noticed except that a favorite of mine, Latiffah, hadn’t come to her morning feed when I called for her.
And then another one of my favorites, Joxor, showed up with deep furrows scratched out of his sides. I pulled him inside a few days, dosing him with antibiotics I had from when a passerby ‘donated’ them for the kitty cat cause. But even with all of my knowledge of raising animals and looking after them over the years, he passed away. It was a hell of a battle for the little guy, I tell you that. He was running a fever something fierce, and though his wounds healed over nicely -something that happened way faster than it should have, he still gave up the last of his little kitty lives.
But that final night I watched a change come over him, almost like there was another cat fighting to break out of him. Something fierce and not of this world. Like some genetic throwback to a time when big cats roamed these lands instead of greedy industrialists and shattered buildings.
One night I heard a ruckus and thought to myself that whatever got my poor little friends is about to try and have seconds with the survivors. Jacob Sr. was off at work and I was alone that night with only Jacob Jr. to keep me company. And I couldn’t go out into the night and leave the boy by himself. Just my luck, he’d wake up while I was gone and pull himself out of the crib to go exploring by himself. And then next thing you know, he’d be gone the way of the cats.
So I put on his little chest harness. You know, the one that end in a leash. I felt embarrassed about using it, but I decide it’s better than letting the boy run loose beside me while I’m trying to aim a gun at whatever is chewing on the cats.
So with the leash on one wrist, the one holding the flashlight. The other hand holding the gun. Me and the boy went out into the night, heading for the sounds of snarling and yowling. Whatever it was, it had one of the cats wounded and cornered in a tree. I creept up slowly, the boy following on my heels, too tired from being woken up in the night to make much noise just yet. Which is just as well because I want to catch this critter in the act and fill it full of lead.
I turned off the flashlight, and let the noises guide me to where the altercation was happening. I clicked the ‘on’ button of the flashlight and immediately wished that I hadn’t. Standing there -yes, STANDING there! Is the biggest damned dog thing that I have ever seen. It’s got a calico trapped in one of the lower limbs of the tree. Poor thing is missing half of its side and one eye, but it somehow made it into the tree -for all the good it will do it. If it has the same infection Joxor had, it will be dead in less than a month. But all this passed in my brain for only an instant and I can’t be worrying about a cat when the thing facing me looks like it might want to take a bite out of me or Jacob Jr. instead.
It turned, snapping at the hand holding the flashlight. I dropped it to the ground, snatching my hand back -but also dropping Jacob Jr.’s leash in the process. But I still held onto the gun. I unloaded the full clip into the creature’s torso, like my daddy taught me back when I was just a girl of five. But nothing stoped the thing. It just kept advancing on me. I tripped and fell, like one of those damned wimpy girls you see in a horror movie, trying to put my hands over my face like it will save me.
But the killing blow never landed. The creature turned to face my boy, who leaned forward and licked the damned thing on the nose. The nose! The look on that creature’s face when my boy did that was priceless. Like somehow it never thought that there would be something out in the wide world that would have a taste for the hunter like it had a taste for its prey. It made this weird whine and dashed for the bushes, and disappeared into the darkness. I snatched my boy up and locked the trailer door behind us, blocking it with the sofa just to make sure that the thing couldn’t come in after us.
I followed Jacob Sr.’s wishes and we moved out the following day. We lived in a shelter for a week or two. Then moved into my sister’s place for a month until we could afford a place of our own again. I can’t look at a cat without thinking back to that night. And as for Jacob Jr.? He doesn’t seem too shook up from the events of that night, if he even remembers them. But every once in a while I catch him eyeing the neighbor’s snarling dogs and licking his lips.
A Taste for Things
By Plot Roach
I knew something was up when the cats kept disappearing. You have to understand, we live out in the rural part of the city. A fringe section not so much ’country’ land, as abandoned industrial buildings gone back to nature. Broken walls and sunken roofs sprout up like mushrooms out here. The only reason we have a home out here at all is because we converted it from an old trailer that the wrecking crews had used for an office before even they gave up the ghost and made for greener pastures.
My husband Jacob has tried to get us to move for years now, saying that the land is no good for our family, now that the little one can walk. But I keep an eye on Jacob Jr., making sure he doesn’t fall in any holes or stick himself on any rusted bits of debris while we’re touring the old buildings looking for scrap to sell at the local flea market.
Living like a scavenger isn’t what I had hoped for when I dreamed of my adult life as a child. But it’s kept a roof over our heads when others in this fair city have gone homeless through no fault of their own. I refuse to make my child live life on the road, in a derelict car. And I will not have us traipsing about like gypsies from one shelter to another while government workers look down upon us like human cockroaches.
So I keep and eye on the boy, you better believe I do. He’s the apple of my eye and sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane at night when the wolf of debt and past woes sings at the door for our bones to gnaw upon.
And besides, if we left, who would take care of all the cats? Sometime after we put down stakes out here, the cats came to us. A few at first, mostly feral things with little more to them than a scrap of skin hanging on their bones. But then people started noticing that a cat colony had started, so they dumped their unwanted pets out here for us to feed them. Sometimes a former owner will stop by, see if his ’Fluffy’ is still around and breathing. The best of those who pass through drop off a pound or two of dry cat food so we can keep feeding them. It gets hard just taking care of my family, but I try to take care of the cats, too.
So at one time we had ourselves somewhere around thirty of the furry miscreants, running amok and catching their prey in the abandoned buildings if they weren’t getting a handout from yours truly. And then their number started thinning out. Just a few at first, something I hardly noticed except that a favorite of mine, Latiffah, hadn’t come to her morning feed when I called for her.
And then another one of my favorites, Joxor, showed up with deep furrows scratched out of his sides. I pulled him inside a few days, dosing him with antibiotics I had from when a passerby ‘donated’ them for the kitty cat cause. But even with all of my knowledge of raising animals and looking after them over the years, he passed away. It was a hell of a battle for the little guy, I tell you that. He was running a fever something fierce, and though his wounds healed over nicely -something that happened way faster than it should have, he still gave up the last of his little kitty lives.
But that final night I watched a change come over him, almost like there was another cat fighting to break out of him. Something fierce and not of this world. Like some genetic throwback to a time when big cats roamed these lands instead of greedy industrialists and shattered buildings.
One night I heard a ruckus and thought to myself that whatever got my poor little friends is about to try and have seconds with the survivors. Jacob Sr. was off at work and I was alone that night with only Jacob Jr. to keep me company. And I couldn’t go out into the night and leave the boy by himself. Just my luck, he’d wake up while I was gone and pull himself out of the crib to go exploring by himself. And then next thing you know, he’d be gone the way of the cats.
So I put on his little chest harness. You know, the one that end in a leash. I felt embarrassed about using it, but I decide it’s better than letting the boy run loose beside me while I’m trying to aim a gun at whatever is chewing on the cats.
So with the leash on one wrist, the one holding the flashlight. The other hand holding the gun. Me and the boy went out into the night, heading for the sounds of snarling and yowling. Whatever it was, it had one of the cats wounded and cornered in a tree. I creept up slowly, the boy following on my heels, too tired from being woken up in the night to make much noise just yet. Which is just as well because I want to catch this critter in the act and fill it full of lead.
I turned off the flashlight, and let the noises guide me to where the altercation was happening. I clicked the ‘on’ button of the flashlight and immediately wished that I hadn’t. Standing there -yes, STANDING there! Is the biggest damned dog thing that I have ever seen. It’s got a calico trapped in one of the lower limbs of the tree. Poor thing is missing half of its side and one eye, but it somehow made it into the tree -for all the good it will do it. If it has the same infection Joxor had, it will be dead in less than a month. But all this passed in my brain for only an instant and I can’t be worrying about a cat when the thing facing me looks like it might want to take a bite out of me or Jacob Jr. instead.
It turned, snapping at the hand holding the flashlight. I dropped it to the ground, snatching my hand back -but also dropping Jacob Jr.’s leash in the process. But I still held onto the gun. I unloaded the full clip into the creature’s torso, like my daddy taught me back when I was just a girl of five. But nothing stoped the thing. It just kept advancing on me. I tripped and fell, like one of those damned wimpy girls you see in a horror movie, trying to put my hands over my face like it will save me.
But the killing blow never landed. The creature turned to face my boy, who leaned forward and licked the damned thing on the nose. The nose! The look on that creature’s face when my boy did that was priceless. Like somehow it never thought that there would be something out in the wide world that would have a taste for the hunter like it had a taste for its prey. It made this weird whine and dashed for the bushes, and disappeared into the darkness. I snatched my boy up and locked the trailer door behind us, blocking it with the sofa just to make sure that the thing couldn’t come in after us.
I followed Jacob Sr.’s wishes and we moved out the following day. We lived in a shelter for a week or two. Then moved into my sister’s place for a month until we could afford a place of our own again. I can’t look at a cat without thinking back to that night. And as for Jacob Jr.? He doesn’t seem too shook up from the events of that night, if he even remembers them. But every once in a while I catch him eyeing the neighbor’s snarling dogs and licking his lips.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Devil’s Nutsack
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Devil’s Nutsack
By Plot Roach
The last rays of sunlight sent the ashes fleeing into the darkness of the tunnel. There they coalesced into four riders upon horseback. Ash bonded, became bone and upon that network undead flesh began to form. They rode forth from the tunnel, chunks of them scattering on the other side as the sunlight touched upon their cursed flesh.
Yet the sun was setting and the effects not so harsh on this end of the mountain. It allowed them to keep their shape as they searched the land for the parcel belonging to the Dark Lord. The bag that promised power to the one who possessed it. The Artifact.
But they were not the only ones in search of the Artifact. It had been rumored to be in existence before God had banished Lucifer from the heavens, for it had fallen to Earth with him. Then mankind had found it, off and on, creating weapons that rivaled God’s own powers, before being lost again during the war between Heaven and Hell.
In the first throes of the battle, the Devil and God pulled their followers from the face of the planet, lining up their troops in an epic game of chess. Those that had not belonged to either side were left alive and fled to the poles of the planet where the last of the living plants and animals existed in a makeshift rainforest caused by a shift in the Earth’s rotation.
Those that searched the sands that comprised the middle of the planet were no longer counted among the living, for they were made of living ash. Spirits called forth from both sides, given half life in order to find the Artifact and use its power to tip the scale so that one side would have power over the other.
Of those who searched, there were the souls of a man and a woman, so in love and bound together that they had remained with one another even in the confines of Hell. Once Armageddon had begun, and the depths of Hell plundered for soldiers, they had managed to slip away together unseen.
They, like all the others, had heard of the powers of the Artifact. It was said that the one who possessed it could return to life -immortal and powerful. Others said that God would use it to bring harmony back to the charred world and that all souls would be forgiven and given a second chance. It was said that the Devil would give the bearer a position at his side when he used the Artifact to win the war and rule the world.
Maxwell did not care which of the stories were true, he only wished to find it to give himself and his beloved, Annie, a chance to get out of the wasteland that had once been the Earth. To have a new life, together again, seemed like too much to hope for. But then again, they had been trapped in Hell for numerous years with little hope of escape, only for it to come to pass at the best possible time.
Annie found the Artifact first, she had seen it in a dream. And though the dead do not dream, she was a powerful being who in life had been both blessed and cursed with the power of visions.
Maxwell left her in a shaded patch of land and said that he would return for her when he found the Artifact. He dared not expose her to the violence of the other searchers, as they tore one another apart, sending ashes scattering on the hot winds.
He found it where she said he would, in the hollow of an old worn oak, blasted to death by the searing fires that swept the land. He clutched the bag to him, returned to his horse and wondered, not for the first time, why the phantom steeds existed here if animals had no souls as his pastor had lectured when he was once a God fearing boy.
Were there good animals and bad animals like the souls of humans? And if this was the mount for a soul of the damned, what did the angels ride?
A shadow crept upon him and he clutched the bag even harder to himself. It was another searcher, a cowboy. He was newly forming, having been blasted by the sun’s rays. The symbol that spoke of his sin carved into his skull, above his empty eyes. The flesh forming over the sign, he had been a rapist and a murderer. Maxwell backed away, ghostly hands holding the reins of his beast when the cowboy called out to him.
“Do you know what you have there, boy?” he rasped. “It’s the Devil’s Nutsack, or nearly so, to hold so much power.”
Maxwell looked down at the leather bag. He had dared not open it, should it be like Pandora’s box and unleash even further waste and destruction on what was left of the Earth. He closed his eyes to let his imagination tell him what his eyes could not. It felt like it was filled will large steel ball bearings, but somehow welded together as if he was holding a large cluster of metal grapes. But the bag was so heavy and felt as if it had a pulse of its own. Not with any known heartbeat, but with a thrum that reminded him of insect wings.
He felt something brush against his wrist. The cursed cowboy had launched himself at Maxwell’s hand and was attempting to bite it off. He felt the paper thin lips press against the frailty of his own flesh and tried to pull away before the cowboy could sink his teeth in and do any real damage. But try as he might, he could not pull the cowboy off of him as the attacker writhed and circled him almost like a snake. If he manages to do enough damage, I’ll drop the bag and it will be his, Maxwell thought. He’ll reform and be away with it before I can pull myself together.
Annie! He called into the night, fighting the cowboy that was chewing his wrist. He held onto the reigns of his horse, urging it to pull him away from the cowboy. His mind reached out to the shaded oasis where he had left his beloved, wishing with what was left of his immortal life that she could hear and aid him. Annie, help me!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Surviving the Survivalists
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Surviving the Survivalists
By Plot Roach
There are gatherings that one does not advertise openly. For there is no appropriate stationary or proper timeframe for alerting one’s intended members to converge upon the land.
Survivalists may congregate in military surplus stores, wander through flea markets in search of old tools or meet at the edges of abandoned land in order to trade stories and show off skills. But one will never find a poster, an article or a flyer advertising such a meeting of the minds. Such get-togethers are often word of mouth, between already existing members. And often, anyone new, must prove their worth before being introduced to the rest of the group.
So, facing much criticism, Hank notified the rest of the Waiting for the End of the World Rangers that he had a friend he wished to nominate for membership. Word traveled through the group, and a meeting place and time was established. While not their usual spot, it would be good to test the new blood and see if he was worthy of their knowledge and time.
They met at a section of abandoned land that had been purchased for new homes, only to have the market fall through and the houses gather dust. The owner opted to burn the buildings instead of pay taxes on them, collecting the insurance money even as mother nature recovered the land that had been stolen from her.
The first of the vehicles, pulled onto the empty lot. Soon joined by a jeep and a motorcycle. Big John, the unofficial leader of their group pinned Hank down with a pained look when he saw Hank arrive alone.
“Where’s the new blood?” he asked.
“White Bob wanted to get here on his own.”
“’White Bob’?”
“It’s his Fair personae.”
“What?”
“I’ll let him explain when he gets here.”
“He better get here soon.” Complained one of the other men. “I didn’t get out of bed this early just to be left high and dry by some young blood who doesn’t know what’s what.”
“But I am here.” said a voice off and in the ruins of the abandoned houses. A figure emerged, one that had somehow camouflaged himself despite the tie-dye shirt, khaki shorts and sandals he wore. “I’m White Bob.” he announced.
“Huh.” said Big John. “So why do they call you that?” he asked.
“It’s because of my tail.”
“Your what?”
“My tail.” he said, and turned around to show them the fox tail pinned to the butt of his shorts. “At night all you see is the white tip as it bobs up and down in the darkness.”
Several of the men laughed, one cursed an spat into the dust at their feet.
“So you want to be a part of our little group, huh?” asked Big John.
“No, actually Hank asked if I would join and teach you my skills.”
The men laughed even heartier at this. Hank looked at his feet, but said nothing in his defense.
“And just what could you teach us?” Big John asked.
“Let’s begin with your beliefs and go from there. Why do you do this?”
“Because the end is coming!” one of the men yelled. “And we’ve got to be prepared for it.”
“Which end?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which end? Could you be more specific? Will it be death by rapture, radiation, super flu or maybe a zombie apocalypse?”
“Huh?”
“How are you prepared to live -and maybe to die?”
“Let’s say we’re invaded by terrorists…”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know… Pick one.”
“The only ones who could get here easily by land are Mexico and Canada. It seems we’re already teeming with Mexicans and nothing has happened so far-”
“Except all our jobs are gone!”
“Did you really want to pick vegetables in a field all day for pennies per hour instead of collecting social security?” White Bob asked the old timer. “Most Americans have left them the crappy jobs to fill. So they seem to be more of a boon than a threat to the system. And as for the Canadians, I don’t think that they have world domination in them. Anyone else would have to immigrate here in large numbers, and I would think that the government would keep tabs on them should some problems arise. Next issue?”
“Okay, death by radiation.”
“Even if you could get to a bunker and live. You still need enough supplies to survive until the radiation clears. That could take years in some places. By then you’ll be street rat crazy from cabin fever. So why bother surviving?”
“Super flu.” offered another man.
“Well them you really don’t have to worry about having enough supplies, because everyone who would have hoarded them will be dead. Just wander the world with a can opener and you should be fine. You can pick up anything you need as you find that you need it. No need to hoard food because it will be in your dead neighbor’s pantry. No need for all the bullets, because there will be few people left to shoot and more than enough stuff to go around.”
Big John huffed at the thought. “Fine then, Zombies.”
“Ah, yes. That one is really going to happen…" he said sarcastically. "But let’s say that it does. How will you fight them? You’ll have to experiment on a few corpses first to figure out their weaknesses. And heavens help you if you get infected in the meantime. And what will you do if a loved one turns? Can you really kill your wife and kids?”
The men stood beside their vehicles, slack jawed. “All the stockpiles of food, ammunition and secret forest hideouts won’t help you if you don’t have the will to survive. And once the bullets and the medicine run out -how will you get more? Do any of you know how to forge bullets and make black powder from scratch? Do you know what ‘weeds’ are edible and which are medicinal?”
There was silence, as the men thought this through. Some left, then and there, not willing to be a part of the conversation any longer. But a few stayed, willing to listen to what White Bob had to offer.
“If you are really interested in surviving, learn about your world. Ban together, not to swap stories so much as skills you might need to use. And as for the ‘make believe’ of the end of the world -why not just go to the Renaissance Fair or a reenactment society. Plague was one of the biggest killers of man. And honestly…” White Bob said, leaning in and giving everyone a conspiratorial wink before he continued. “The accessories are cheaper and the role-play a hell of a lot more fun.”
“But I already have a ghillie suit.” one man said.
“So add horns,” White Bob suggested. “Encampments can always use a river troll.”
Surviving the Survivalists
By Plot Roach
There are gatherings that one does not advertise openly. For there is no appropriate stationary or proper timeframe for alerting one’s intended members to converge upon the land.
Survivalists may congregate in military surplus stores, wander through flea markets in search of old tools or meet at the edges of abandoned land in order to trade stories and show off skills. But one will never find a poster, an article or a flyer advertising such a meeting of the minds. Such get-togethers are often word of mouth, between already existing members. And often, anyone new, must prove their worth before being introduced to the rest of the group.
So, facing much criticism, Hank notified the rest of the Waiting for the End of the World Rangers that he had a friend he wished to nominate for membership. Word traveled through the group, and a meeting place and time was established. While not their usual spot, it would be good to test the new blood and see if he was worthy of their knowledge and time.
They met at a section of abandoned land that had been purchased for new homes, only to have the market fall through and the houses gather dust. The owner opted to burn the buildings instead of pay taxes on them, collecting the insurance money even as mother nature recovered the land that had been stolen from her.
The first of the vehicles, pulled onto the empty lot. Soon joined by a jeep and a motorcycle. Big John, the unofficial leader of their group pinned Hank down with a pained look when he saw Hank arrive alone.
“Where’s the new blood?” he asked.
“White Bob wanted to get here on his own.”
“’White Bob’?”
“It’s his Fair personae.”
“What?”
“I’ll let him explain when he gets here.”
“He better get here soon.” Complained one of the other men. “I didn’t get out of bed this early just to be left high and dry by some young blood who doesn’t know what’s what.”
“But I am here.” said a voice off and in the ruins of the abandoned houses. A figure emerged, one that had somehow camouflaged himself despite the tie-dye shirt, khaki shorts and sandals he wore. “I’m White Bob.” he announced.
“Huh.” said Big John. “So why do they call you that?” he asked.
“It’s because of my tail.”
“Your what?”
“My tail.” he said, and turned around to show them the fox tail pinned to the butt of his shorts. “At night all you see is the white tip as it bobs up and down in the darkness.”
Several of the men laughed, one cursed an spat into the dust at their feet.
“So you want to be a part of our little group, huh?” asked Big John.
“No, actually Hank asked if I would join and teach you my skills.”
The men laughed even heartier at this. Hank looked at his feet, but said nothing in his defense.
“And just what could you teach us?” Big John asked.
“Let’s begin with your beliefs and go from there. Why do you do this?”
“Because the end is coming!” one of the men yelled. “And we’ve got to be prepared for it.”
“Which end?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which end? Could you be more specific? Will it be death by rapture, radiation, super flu or maybe a zombie apocalypse?”
“Huh?”
“How are you prepared to live -and maybe to die?”
“Let’s say we’re invaded by terrorists…”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know… Pick one.”
“The only ones who could get here easily by land are Mexico and Canada. It seems we’re already teeming with Mexicans and nothing has happened so far-”
“Except all our jobs are gone!”
“Did you really want to pick vegetables in a field all day for pennies per hour instead of collecting social security?” White Bob asked the old timer. “Most Americans have left them the crappy jobs to fill. So they seem to be more of a boon than a threat to the system. And as for the Canadians, I don’t think that they have world domination in them. Anyone else would have to immigrate here in large numbers, and I would think that the government would keep tabs on them should some problems arise. Next issue?”
“Okay, death by radiation.”
“Even if you could get to a bunker and live. You still need enough supplies to survive until the radiation clears. That could take years in some places. By then you’ll be street rat crazy from cabin fever. So why bother surviving?”
“Super flu.” offered another man.
“Well them you really don’t have to worry about having enough supplies, because everyone who would have hoarded them will be dead. Just wander the world with a can opener and you should be fine. You can pick up anything you need as you find that you need it. No need to hoard food because it will be in your dead neighbor’s pantry. No need for all the bullets, because there will be few people left to shoot and more than enough stuff to go around.”
Big John huffed at the thought. “Fine then, Zombies.”
“Ah, yes. That one is really going to happen…" he said sarcastically. "But let’s say that it does. How will you fight them? You’ll have to experiment on a few corpses first to figure out their weaknesses. And heavens help you if you get infected in the meantime. And what will you do if a loved one turns? Can you really kill your wife and kids?”
The men stood beside their vehicles, slack jawed. “All the stockpiles of food, ammunition and secret forest hideouts won’t help you if you don’t have the will to survive. And once the bullets and the medicine run out -how will you get more? Do any of you know how to forge bullets and make black powder from scratch? Do you know what ‘weeds’ are edible and which are medicinal?”
There was silence, as the men thought this through. Some left, then and there, not willing to be a part of the conversation any longer. But a few stayed, willing to listen to what White Bob had to offer.
“If you are really interested in surviving, learn about your world. Ban together, not to swap stories so much as skills you might need to use. And as for the ‘make believe’ of the end of the world -why not just go to the Renaissance Fair or a reenactment society. Plague was one of the biggest killers of man. And honestly…” White Bob said, leaning in and giving everyone a conspiratorial wink before he continued. “The accessories are cheaper and the role-play a hell of a lot more fun.”
“But I already have a ghillie suit.” one man said.
“So add horns,” White Bob suggested. “Encampments can always use a river troll.”
Monday, June 6, 2011
Toys
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Toys
By Plot Roach
Alice saw the truck a second before it streaked across the street in front of her. She had just enough time to slam on the breaks to avoid colliding with it, though the driver of the other vehicle never stopped. The truck simply sped through the intersection on its hell-bent path to God knew where.
She breathed deep in an effort to control her fear, white knuckles clenching the steering wheel, shaking and weak. It had been a close call. And the meager armor of her little car would not have stood up against the mammoth truck that looked like it had been built back in a time when rednecks considered their means of transportation as semi mobile armored transport.
When she was sure that she had her emotions under check, she eased the car back onto the street and headed for the nearest motel. She had thought to drive all night in order to make it back home by dawn the following morning, but the brush with redneck death made her doubt both her plans and her ability to drive for that stretch of time. A few minutes later she came to a little lodge that sported a small service station as well as a restaurant and mini market all in the same strip of street. She pulled into the parking lot, turned off the engine and pulled out her overnight bag, opting to lug only the most necessary equipment to her room. A few hours here and I should be right as rain, she told herself, as she walked into the main office of the little motel. The humming of florescent lights almost drowned out the sound from a small black and white television set that mumbled the news in the corner of the office. She rang the main bell and waited for the staff to show themselves, anxious to put her head to a pillow and forget the events of the night.
“Can I help you?” drawled a man as thin as a lamppost with watery blue eyes that reminded her of a robin’s egg.
“I’m looking for a room for the night.” she said.
“You’ll be glad we got one then, huh?”
“Uh… Yes, I guess.”
“Room forty five on the corner there. No smoking unless you do it outside though.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t smoke.”
“That’s what they all say. But then the mattress and rug smell like ash for months afterward anyway.”
“I said that I don’t-” but she was cut off as he slammed the keys for the room down onto the front desk and held his hand out. “That’ll be fifty two for the night. Phone calls and cable are extra.”
“I won’t be needing the cable or the phone.” she said. “I just need a place to rest for a while.”
“Yeah, and you don’t smoke, neither.”
Alice handed over the money and trudged to the room, hauling her overnight bag behind her, its wheels almost useless in the dirt of the road. This place is so far away from civilization it doesn’t even have a paved road, she thought. Or decent help for that matter.
She had to twist the key in the door several times for the antiquated lock to click and allow her entry. Once inside she smelled the stale smoke of tobacco and old sweat. She opened the windows and turned down the bedspread, hoping that she would be the only current occupant of the room as she searched for signs of rats and roaches.
Once satisfied that the place was survivable for the night, she luxuriated in a hot shower, the only amenity that seemed to work in this squalid little hideaway. She dressed for bed and no sooner had she put her head upon the pillow as was about to drift off into sleep, then she woke to a startling noise.
A thunderous roar followed by the sound of dragging chains. The beast that projected such a hideous display of aural violence moved across the yard of the motel and came to rest nearest her door, headlights flooding the room in between the little slats of the window blinds.
Alice sat up and looked out at the intruder. It was the truck, the same one that had nearly ended her life on the road mere hours earlier. The driver shut off the engine and headed for the room next to hers. Ignore him, she thought. It’s not worth it.
But then the sound of the television poured through the thin walls, followed by yelling and the sound of breaking glass.
Alice closed her eyes, pulled the pillow over her head and tried everything she could to ignore the brute. She called the front desk thirty minutes into the fracas, and was met with silence. Evidently the desk clerk was right, she thought, even the basic phone service was not included with the room.
She pulled on her coat and headed out the door, determined to give the man a piece of her mind, not only for the noise, but also for the accident he had nearly caused earlier.
She slammed her hand on the door, hoping to be heard, mouth open to begin her lecture as soon as she saw him.
The door slammed open, nearly falling off its hinges from the reverberation. He grinned down at her, a monster of a man dressed in dirty clothes that were stained rust colored in some places, bright red in others. Behind him, on the bed lay a prone form, more blood and ruined flesh than an actual human being.
“Well lookie here,” He said. “I got me another toy for the night.” He reached out and knocked her over the head with what looked to her like a small Billy club. She was in and out of consciousness as he dragged her to his truck, dumped her in the bed amongst empty cans of beer and lengths of chain. She felt the rumbled of the engine come to life and was spirited away into the night. When the truck stopped, she snapped awake, but found herself unable to move, still too weak from the blow she had received from at the motel room. He dragged her into a shed, and though she tried to look about her for any recognizable signs of civilization, she found none. All she saw besides desert scrub and rocks were the morbid displays of crudely malformed toys that stood guard over his desert shack, as if some demonic army set on patrol.
Once inside he flipped on a generator and the overhead lights hummed to life. The walls of the shack were littered with bits of unidentified debris that Alice could tell from the smell had once been alive. More chains, ending in manacles hung from every possible corner, most stained an awful rust color.
He took her to one of the far corners, chained her against the wall and left the building, locking the door closed as he left. Time oozed by like pus, and she was aware of the passing days only by the feeling of hunger and thirst as they clamored within her as well as the path of the sunlight that filtered through the cracks of the shed as they crept across the dirt floor.
She heard the engine of his mechanical best and knew that the truck had returned to the shack. He laughed and she heard barking in the distance. The door swung open, and the bloodied madman strode forward. Alice had been caught off guard back at the motel, but vowed not to again. She stretched out her legs and spread them wide, waiting for him to make a wrong move. He walked over to her, unhooking her manacles from the wall without unchaining her. Once done, he grunted and looked down at her, as if weighing his options.
Quickly she pulled her legs back against he body, pulling one of the man’s legs out from under him and sending him sprawling into the dirt next to her. She rolled on top of him, and locked a manacle around his wrist even as he fought. She kicked and threw dirt into his face, crawling away from him as he sputtered obscenities and tried to wipe the grit from his eyes. She kicked the thick ring of keys from his belt across the room, out of his reach. But in her effort, they slid down a makeshift drainage tunnel and out of her reach.
She left the shack, locking the door behind her with a simple padlock he had left hanging on its hinge. She looked at the truck, loaded in the back with a mongrel dog that looked like a German Sheppard, chocolate Labrador mix more teeth and bones than canine, as it gnawed on a body. Another broken doll for the madman’s collection.
He was trapped, for the moment in the killing shed, his keys were gone -so how would she drive the truck? He has to have a backup somewhere, she thought. Even she had taped an extra key to the underside of her car. So where would this man hide his spare?
She saw the doll’s head on the trailer hitch and smiled, though it hurt her cracked lips. She pulled the plastic head off and fished around the inside for the key, almost missing it in her eagerness to be free of the place. The dog began snapping at her, forgetting its meal, and she heard the man yelling from the shed. “I’m not done with you yet, little doll. And when I get out of here…”
She crawled into the driver’s side of the truck, dragging her chains with her and started the engine. It backfired, scaring her more than the barking dog, but she got it working and followed the trail of tire marks in the sand to find her way back to the main road. She heard the screaming from behind her, thinking the man had somehow broken free and followed her. But it was the body in the back, reacting to the movement of the truck. The door to the bed had been left open and his next victim tumbled through and onto the ground, the dog snapping at the chain which had them tethered together. A small link welded to the side of the truck kept the line hooked to the back of the truck. But under the strain of the now screaming body, the link snapped sending the hound after its intended meal. Now the truck trailed two bodies that banged and screamed in the wake of the truck.
Alice panicked and still did not slow the vehicle, sure that somehow the madman had caught up to her and was about to reach through the back of the vehicle to finish the job he had started back at the motel. The screams of human and canine victims faded as flesh was stripped of bone and spirit fled the body, but the chattering chains haunted every inch of the truck’s escape. Her only companion in the exodus the phantom of the madman that screamed “I’m not done with you yet”, and a doll’s head bobbing by the rearview mirror, its empty eye sockets the only witness to her crazed flight through the desert.
Toys
By Plot Roach
Alice saw the truck a second before it streaked across the street in front of her. She had just enough time to slam on the breaks to avoid colliding with it, though the driver of the other vehicle never stopped. The truck simply sped through the intersection on its hell-bent path to God knew where.
She breathed deep in an effort to control her fear, white knuckles clenching the steering wheel, shaking and weak. It had been a close call. And the meager armor of her little car would not have stood up against the mammoth truck that looked like it had been built back in a time when rednecks considered their means of transportation as semi mobile armored transport.
When she was sure that she had her emotions under check, she eased the car back onto the street and headed for the nearest motel. She had thought to drive all night in order to make it back home by dawn the following morning, but the brush with redneck death made her doubt both her plans and her ability to drive for that stretch of time. A few minutes later she came to a little lodge that sported a small service station as well as a restaurant and mini market all in the same strip of street. She pulled into the parking lot, turned off the engine and pulled out her overnight bag, opting to lug only the most necessary equipment to her room. A few hours here and I should be right as rain, she told herself, as she walked into the main office of the little motel. The humming of florescent lights almost drowned out the sound from a small black and white television set that mumbled the news in the corner of the office. She rang the main bell and waited for the staff to show themselves, anxious to put her head to a pillow and forget the events of the night.
“Can I help you?” drawled a man as thin as a lamppost with watery blue eyes that reminded her of a robin’s egg.
“I’m looking for a room for the night.” she said.
“You’ll be glad we got one then, huh?”
“Uh… Yes, I guess.”
“Room forty five on the corner there. No smoking unless you do it outside though.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t smoke.”
“That’s what they all say. But then the mattress and rug smell like ash for months afterward anyway.”
“I said that I don’t-” but she was cut off as he slammed the keys for the room down onto the front desk and held his hand out. “That’ll be fifty two for the night. Phone calls and cable are extra.”
“I won’t be needing the cable or the phone.” she said. “I just need a place to rest for a while.”
“Yeah, and you don’t smoke, neither.”
Alice handed over the money and trudged to the room, hauling her overnight bag behind her, its wheels almost useless in the dirt of the road. This place is so far away from civilization it doesn’t even have a paved road, she thought. Or decent help for that matter.
She had to twist the key in the door several times for the antiquated lock to click and allow her entry. Once inside she smelled the stale smoke of tobacco and old sweat. She opened the windows and turned down the bedspread, hoping that she would be the only current occupant of the room as she searched for signs of rats and roaches.
Once satisfied that the place was survivable for the night, she luxuriated in a hot shower, the only amenity that seemed to work in this squalid little hideaway. She dressed for bed and no sooner had she put her head upon the pillow as was about to drift off into sleep, then she woke to a startling noise.
A thunderous roar followed by the sound of dragging chains. The beast that projected such a hideous display of aural violence moved across the yard of the motel and came to rest nearest her door, headlights flooding the room in between the little slats of the window blinds.
Alice sat up and looked out at the intruder. It was the truck, the same one that had nearly ended her life on the road mere hours earlier. The driver shut off the engine and headed for the room next to hers. Ignore him, she thought. It’s not worth it.
But then the sound of the television poured through the thin walls, followed by yelling and the sound of breaking glass.
Alice closed her eyes, pulled the pillow over her head and tried everything she could to ignore the brute. She called the front desk thirty minutes into the fracas, and was met with silence. Evidently the desk clerk was right, she thought, even the basic phone service was not included with the room.
She pulled on her coat and headed out the door, determined to give the man a piece of her mind, not only for the noise, but also for the accident he had nearly caused earlier.
She slammed her hand on the door, hoping to be heard, mouth open to begin her lecture as soon as she saw him.
The door slammed open, nearly falling off its hinges from the reverberation. He grinned down at her, a monster of a man dressed in dirty clothes that were stained rust colored in some places, bright red in others. Behind him, on the bed lay a prone form, more blood and ruined flesh than an actual human being.
“Well lookie here,” He said. “I got me another toy for the night.” He reached out and knocked her over the head with what looked to her like a small Billy club. She was in and out of consciousness as he dragged her to his truck, dumped her in the bed amongst empty cans of beer and lengths of chain. She felt the rumbled of the engine come to life and was spirited away into the night. When the truck stopped, she snapped awake, but found herself unable to move, still too weak from the blow she had received from at the motel room. He dragged her into a shed, and though she tried to look about her for any recognizable signs of civilization, she found none. All she saw besides desert scrub and rocks were the morbid displays of crudely malformed toys that stood guard over his desert shack, as if some demonic army set on patrol.
Once inside he flipped on a generator and the overhead lights hummed to life. The walls of the shack were littered with bits of unidentified debris that Alice could tell from the smell had once been alive. More chains, ending in manacles hung from every possible corner, most stained an awful rust color.
He took her to one of the far corners, chained her against the wall and left the building, locking the door closed as he left. Time oozed by like pus, and she was aware of the passing days only by the feeling of hunger and thirst as they clamored within her as well as the path of the sunlight that filtered through the cracks of the shed as they crept across the dirt floor.
She heard the engine of his mechanical best and knew that the truck had returned to the shack. He laughed and she heard barking in the distance. The door swung open, and the bloodied madman strode forward. Alice had been caught off guard back at the motel, but vowed not to again. She stretched out her legs and spread them wide, waiting for him to make a wrong move. He walked over to her, unhooking her manacles from the wall without unchaining her. Once done, he grunted and looked down at her, as if weighing his options.
Quickly she pulled her legs back against he body, pulling one of the man’s legs out from under him and sending him sprawling into the dirt next to her. She rolled on top of him, and locked a manacle around his wrist even as he fought. She kicked and threw dirt into his face, crawling away from him as he sputtered obscenities and tried to wipe the grit from his eyes. She kicked the thick ring of keys from his belt across the room, out of his reach. But in her effort, they slid down a makeshift drainage tunnel and out of her reach.
She left the shack, locking the door behind her with a simple padlock he had left hanging on its hinge. She looked at the truck, loaded in the back with a mongrel dog that looked like a German Sheppard, chocolate Labrador mix more teeth and bones than canine, as it gnawed on a body. Another broken doll for the madman’s collection.
He was trapped, for the moment in the killing shed, his keys were gone -so how would she drive the truck? He has to have a backup somewhere, she thought. Even she had taped an extra key to the underside of her car. So where would this man hide his spare?
She saw the doll’s head on the trailer hitch and smiled, though it hurt her cracked lips. She pulled the plastic head off and fished around the inside for the key, almost missing it in her eagerness to be free of the place. The dog began snapping at her, forgetting its meal, and she heard the man yelling from the shed. “I’m not done with you yet, little doll. And when I get out of here…”
She crawled into the driver’s side of the truck, dragging her chains with her and started the engine. It backfired, scaring her more than the barking dog, but she got it working and followed the trail of tire marks in the sand to find her way back to the main road. She heard the screaming from behind her, thinking the man had somehow broken free and followed her. But it was the body in the back, reacting to the movement of the truck. The door to the bed had been left open and his next victim tumbled through and onto the ground, the dog snapping at the chain which had them tethered together. A small link welded to the side of the truck kept the line hooked to the back of the truck. But under the strain of the now screaming body, the link snapped sending the hound after its intended meal. Now the truck trailed two bodies that banged and screamed in the wake of the truck.
Alice panicked and still did not slow the vehicle, sure that somehow the madman had caught up to her and was about to reach through the back of the vehicle to finish the job he had started back at the motel. The screams of human and canine victims faded as flesh was stripped of bone and spirit fled the body, but the chattering chains haunted every inch of the truck’s escape. Her only companion in the exodus the phantom of the madman that screamed “I’m not done with you yet”, and a doll’s head bobbing by the rearview mirror, its empty eye sockets the only witness to her crazed flight through the desert.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Price of Love
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Price of Love
By Plot Roach
In a small village at the edge of the world where time has stood still since it began to creep like a turtle, but before it could run like a rabbit, there was a woman who walked with a wobble and a limp. She was the most loved woman in her tribe, though she had had to pay a terrible price for it.
Years before, while not a young woman full of bloom, she was still a prize for any man to call his own. She was, in fact, the wife of the patriarch. She ruled beside him, offering her wisdom when called upon, and often her opinion even when it was not. And though the village knew from years of experience that she was by far a fair and generous individual, one day there came allegations against her.
A young warrior, wishing to be the leader himself through force and trickery, claimed that she was a witch. She had crept into his tent in the night and stolen his essence, making his hunts no longer successful and his body fall ill. Now while everyone in the village knew this man was nothing but a fraud and a failure, ready to blame others for his shortcomings, his allegations were still valid under the law of the tribe. The village matriarch would have to be punished, and if found to be a witch, killed.
The false warrior had chosen his target well, knowing that only two men in the village could punish her: the one who accused her or the village leader. In any case, if the punishment were severe enough, it could kill her. And if it was too lenient, she would be stoned to death by the whole village. She would be permanently wounded physically, and the village elder would suffer along with her. The warrior knew that this would break the man’s spirit, and then the leadership of the village would be his for the taking.
She was placed under trial and found guilty by the spirits under village law, none having any proof of her innocence to defend her. The warrior stood ready to mete out her punishment, thinking that the village leader would not dare beat his own wife.
But much to his surprise, the leader chose to punish his wife in front of the whole village. As he beat her, his hand did not sway from its target nor lessen in its intensity. If anything, the love that he had for his wife made his blows land even harder. For if he deviated in even the slightest in his punishment, she would be killed outright. The old man’s heart wept, though he showed not outward signs of it. The punishment concluded, his wife was taken to the healer’s hut where she battled the spirits of the dead for many days until she was healed enough to return to her husband’s side. That she had survived was proof of her innocence. That she stood by her husband rather than leave the village, was proof of her love, patience and generosity to those who had judged her in the village.
Not long after, the false warrior was killed in a hunting accident. And though his wife cried foul, no one dared to accuse the matriarch. She stood by her husband’s side in all things. And stayed in the people’s hearts above everything else.
She walked beside him until the spirits called her home. A wobble and a limp that spoke of a price paid, of love earned, and of innocence redeemed, in a small village at the edge of the world where time has stood still since it began to creep like a turtle, but before it could run like a rabbit.
The Price of Love
By Plot Roach
In a small village at the edge of the world where time has stood still since it began to creep like a turtle, but before it could run like a rabbit, there was a woman who walked with a wobble and a limp. She was the most loved woman in her tribe, though she had had to pay a terrible price for it.
Years before, while not a young woman full of bloom, she was still a prize for any man to call his own. She was, in fact, the wife of the patriarch. She ruled beside him, offering her wisdom when called upon, and often her opinion even when it was not. And though the village knew from years of experience that she was by far a fair and generous individual, one day there came allegations against her.
A young warrior, wishing to be the leader himself through force and trickery, claimed that she was a witch. She had crept into his tent in the night and stolen his essence, making his hunts no longer successful and his body fall ill. Now while everyone in the village knew this man was nothing but a fraud and a failure, ready to blame others for his shortcomings, his allegations were still valid under the law of the tribe. The village matriarch would have to be punished, and if found to be a witch, killed.
The false warrior had chosen his target well, knowing that only two men in the village could punish her: the one who accused her or the village leader. In any case, if the punishment were severe enough, it could kill her. And if it was too lenient, she would be stoned to death by the whole village. She would be permanently wounded physically, and the village elder would suffer along with her. The warrior knew that this would break the man’s spirit, and then the leadership of the village would be his for the taking.
She was placed under trial and found guilty by the spirits under village law, none having any proof of her innocence to defend her. The warrior stood ready to mete out her punishment, thinking that the village leader would not dare beat his own wife.
But much to his surprise, the leader chose to punish his wife in front of the whole village. As he beat her, his hand did not sway from its target nor lessen in its intensity. If anything, the love that he had for his wife made his blows land even harder. For if he deviated in even the slightest in his punishment, she would be killed outright. The old man’s heart wept, though he showed not outward signs of it. The punishment concluded, his wife was taken to the healer’s hut where she battled the spirits of the dead for many days until she was healed enough to return to her husband’s side. That she had survived was proof of her innocence. That she stood by her husband rather than leave the village, was proof of her love, patience and generosity to those who had judged her in the village.
Not long after, the false warrior was killed in a hunting accident. And though his wife cried foul, no one dared to accuse the matriarch. She stood by her husband’s side in all things. And stayed in the people’s hearts above everything else.
She walked beside him until the spirits called her home. A wobble and a limp that spoke of a price paid, of love earned, and of innocence redeemed, in a small village at the edge of the world where time has stood still since it began to creep like a turtle, but before it could run like a rabbit.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Immortality and Arrogance
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Immortality and Arrogance
By Plot Roach
Max stood at the Unknown Warrior’s shrine, fixing a few details on her latest sketch when she saw the dark cloaked figure approach one of the stone warriors. It knelt beside the stone form and with a quick movement, pulled a dagger from the robe’s dark recesses and quickly slashed a line across its palm, dripping the blood at the foot of the frozen warrior before moving off into the night. Max watched, frozen as the statue she had been drawing as the figure disappeared into the night.
“It seems like an odd offering to the old ones, I know. But it beats the price of wine and roses these days.” said a voice from behind her. Max turned and saw a man standing in the doorway of the balcony which overlooked the shrine. The same balcony she stood upon in order to better sketch the warriors. He stepped into the light, dressed in modern clothing befitting the residents of this small city, yet it did nothing to hide the sense of regalness with which he carried himself. In a quick estimation of his looks, Max found that he almost looked like he could be related to the warrior statures themselves. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to explain the… odd thing which you witnessed.”
“Why would someone do that?” she asked, putting away her sketchbook and pencils.
“There is a story about this old place. It’s rather odd, like the offering which you witnessed. But it is definitely worth repeating, if you have the time.”
“Oh, sure. Go ahead.” Max said, blushing when she realized that he was in a way asking permission to educate her.
He leaned forward against the balcony, motioning to the thirteen stone warriors. “There was once a race of powerful, but greedy, warlords who sought to live forever and keep the world under their thumbs. They had all but slaughtered the world with their thirst for absolute power. Only the power of immortality would stop their hunger, and they battled themselves as well as any who dared oppose them in their goal.”
Max leaned forward, taking a closer look at each of the faces of the warriors, seeing with fresh eyes that the lines and fractures she had assumed were signs of weathering now in fact looked like battle scars.
“In their arrogance, they cast a few of the ‘unfaithful’ or weaker ones among them out before the final immortality ritual. But while the ritual promised eternal life, it did not tell them that it would encase them in stone. Those who had been cast out, received the immortality of their trapped brothers and used it to try and undo the cruelty and greed that the bloodthirsty warriors had wrought upon the world. All this in an attempt to curry favor with Death so that they would not have to wander the earth for the rest of their immortal lives.”
“So they are forever doomed to walk the world?” Max asked. “Even though they didn’t do anything?”
“But they did do something.” the man responded. “They stood idly by while their brothers ravaged the world and threatened to kill off everything decent and innocent in their urge for power.”
“That seems a little harsh, though.” Max said. “They weren’t as bad as the ones who did the killing.”
“Really?” asked the man. “There are those who still argue which was worse: Those who were greedy and open about their intentions from the first? Or those who made reparations to the victims in order to bribe Death into taking them?”
“Well when you put it like that..” Max said. “And how do you know so much about all this?” she asked.
He smiled, holding the door to the balcony open for her as she turned to leave the shrine. She saw thick lines of scars running across his palms as he pushed his sleeves back. “I’ve been here a while. And picked up a few things over the years.”
Immortality and Arrogance
By Plot Roach
Max stood at the Unknown Warrior’s shrine, fixing a few details on her latest sketch when she saw the dark cloaked figure approach one of the stone warriors. It knelt beside the stone form and with a quick movement, pulled a dagger from the robe’s dark recesses and quickly slashed a line across its palm, dripping the blood at the foot of the frozen warrior before moving off into the night. Max watched, frozen as the statue she had been drawing as the figure disappeared into the night.
“It seems like an odd offering to the old ones, I know. But it beats the price of wine and roses these days.” said a voice from behind her. Max turned and saw a man standing in the doorway of the balcony which overlooked the shrine. The same balcony she stood upon in order to better sketch the warriors. He stepped into the light, dressed in modern clothing befitting the residents of this small city, yet it did nothing to hide the sense of regalness with which he carried himself. In a quick estimation of his looks, Max found that he almost looked like he could be related to the warrior statures themselves. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to explain the… odd thing which you witnessed.”
“Why would someone do that?” she asked, putting away her sketchbook and pencils.
“There is a story about this old place. It’s rather odd, like the offering which you witnessed. But it is definitely worth repeating, if you have the time.”
“Oh, sure. Go ahead.” Max said, blushing when she realized that he was in a way asking permission to educate her.
He leaned forward against the balcony, motioning to the thirteen stone warriors. “There was once a race of powerful, but greedy, warlords who sought to live forever and keep the world under their thumbs. They had all but slaughtered the world with their thirst for absolute power. Only the power of immortality would stop their hunger, and they battled themselves as well as any who dared oppose them in their goal.”
Max leaned forward, taking a closer look at each of the faces of the warriors, seeing with fresh eyes that the lines and fractures she had assumed were signs of weathering now in fact looked like battle scars.
“In their arrogance, they cast a few of the ‘unfaithful’ or weaker ones among them out before the final immortality ritual. But while the ritual promised eternal life, it did not tell them that it would encase them in stone. Those who had been cast out, received the immortality of their trapped brothers and used it to try and undo the cruelty and greed that the bloodthirsty warriors had wrought upon the world. All this in an attempt to curry favor with Death so that they would not have to wander the earth for the rest of their immortal lives.”
“So they are forever doomed to walk the world?” Max asked. “Even though they didn’t do anything?”
“But they did do something.” the man responded. “They stood idly by while their brothers ravaged the world and threatened to kill off everything decent and innocent in their urge for power.”
“That seems a little harsh, though.” Max said. “They weren’t as bad as the ones who did the killing.”
“Really?” asked the man. “There are those who still argue which was worse: Those who were greedy and open about their intentions from the first? Or those who made reparations to the victims in order to bribe Death into taking them?”
“Well when you put it like that..” Max said. “And how do you know so much about all this?” she asked.
He smiled, holding the door to the balcony open for her as she turned to leave the shrine. She saw thick lines of scars running across his palms as he pushed his sleeves back. “I’ve been here a while. And picked up a few things over the years.”
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Boundaries of Reality
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Boundaries of Reality
By Plot Roach
Eyes closed, she smelled the steaks cooking on the grill, caramelized onion heaped generously atop them. She got up from her regular table and advanced down the aisle of booths until she could see Scott, the barkeep in his position of power. She heard music from the corner jukebox and the rowdy calls of men as they betted on the game blaring over the television set mounted above the bar. Cigarette smoke wafted through the room, sometimes obscuring the faces of those she passed. But she knew them well enough to identify them by their voices, if not by the smell of the alcohol that they consumed.
She leaned up onto the bar, threatening to push it over if it had not been nailed down to the ground. Scott looked up at her and grinned his devilish smile. “Been a while, Marie.” he said, sliding her a cold beer. “I thought you said that you’d be back soon.”
“I came as soon as I could, Honey.” she apologized, fluttering her eyelashes at him in the way she knew drove him crazy. “But I can’t always control how ’soon’ I can get the time to get here.”
“It’s a shame that you can never stay… I could make it worth your while.”
She leaned closer to him, almost straddling the bar. She could smell his aftershave and all but count the stubble hairs of his chin. A magnetism pulled them closer together, threatening to send them crashing together in a passionate embrace. A hair’s breadth of space, a craving that needed satisfying.
“Time's Up, 742.” the guard announced.
Anita, once Marie, groaned and opened her eyes. She got up from the hard ground of the exercise yard, dusted off her pants and walked back to the holding cage until the security officer could attach her handcuffs to transport her back to her room. The smoke filled, hormone drenched fantasy drained away like an ice cube dropped on a blacktop parking lot. She trudged back to her cell, deflated and in an ill mood. Once the cell door closed behind her, she was back into the real world, the hell she had made for herself by loving the wrong man, and ending it the wrong way when he had left her for another woman.
She received two life sentences for their murder, and though she had hated him enough to kill him slowly, she loved him enough to keep him in her fantasies.
The first few times, she meditated on their early days. A time when they were still innocent to each other’s flaws. When they lied to one another and ended up believing in their own deception. Then came a time when she had made it end differently than it had, where he left the other woman twisting in the wind to be back by her side again. Where they made up as they made love and vowed to never let their hearts roam again. Then, when these paltry copies began to thin from overuse, she dreamed up new places, new situations, where they could be together. Where the past never happened, and indiscretion and murder were never an option.
Anita was walled in on all sides by the ticking hearts and minds of the other inmates. All their emotions running so high, she could barely think straight, much less conjure the peace necessary to enter her other world and see Scott again. She had tried, a few times in the library, in a stolen moment in the night when the lights were out and the others were sleeping, and even once when she had landed in administrative segregation (known as solitary confinement to those who had never been in the system). But she never found the peace and quiet necessary to summon her will and the strength need to go into that other world like she did in the exercise yard.
Perhaps it was the warm sun on her back, the smell of fresh cut grass or the feel of the wind on her skin that allowed her to lie to herself and pretend that she was free of both the confines of her body as well as her jail cell. She had learned how to escape from one world into another from another inmate who had taught her meditation, proving to her that the world of reality was not the only world open to her. “Just because you are here” she said, pointing to the walls of the compound. “Doesn’t mean that they can control where you go in here” she said, pointing to her head and then her heart. That inmate, Lucy, had shown her places with words that she never could have seen on her own in the ‘real world’. And when Lucy died, her knowledge to go further into those places left with her.
She kept her head down, she did as she was told. In another twenty three hours she would be back in his arms again. Back with the one she loved and lost almost thirteen years prior. Back to the place where reality might control the time that she spent in that other world, but never who she spent it with.
The Boundaries of Reality
By Plot Roach
Eyes closed, she smelled the steaks cooking on the grill, caramelized onion heaped generously atop them. She got up from her regular table and advanced down the aisle of booths until she could see Scott, the barkeep in his position of power. She heard music from the corner jukebox and the rowdy calls of men as they betted on the game blaring over the television set mounted above the bar. Cigarette smoke wafted through the room, sometimes obscuring the faces of those she passed. But she knew them well enough to identify them by their voices, if not by the smell of the alcohol that they consumed.
She leaned up onto the bar, threatening to push it over if it had not been nailed down to the ground. Scott looked up at her and grinned his devilish smile. “Been a while, Marie.” he said, sliding her a cold beer. “I thought you said that you’d be back soon.”
“I came as soon as I could, Honey.” she apologized, fluttering her eyelashes at him in the way she knew drove him crazy. “But I can’t always control how ’soon’ I can get the time to get here.”
“It’s a shame that you can never stay… I could make it worth your while.”
She leaned closer to him, almost straddling the bar. She could smell his aftershave and all but count the stubble hairs of his chin. A magnetism pulled them closer together, threatening to send them crashing together in a passionate embrace. A hair’s breadth of space, a craving that needed satisfying.
“Time's Up, 742.” the guard announced.
Anita, once Marie, groaned and opened her eyes. She got up from the hard ground of the exercise yard, dusted off her pants and walked back to the holding cage until the security officer could attach her handcuffs to transport her back to her room. The smoke filled, hormone drenched fantasy drained away like an ice cube dropped on a blacktop parking lot. She trudged back to her cell, deflated and in an ill mood. Once the cell door closed behind her, she was back into the real world, the hell she had made for herself by loving the wrong man, and ending it the wrong way when he had left her for another woman.
She received two life sentences for their murder, and though she had hated him enough to kill him slowly, she loved him enough to keep him in her fantasies.
The first few times, she meditated on their early days. A time when they were still innocent to each other’s flaws. When they lied to one another and ended up believing in their own deception. Then came a time when she had made it end differently than it had, where he left the other woman twisting in the wind to be back by her side again. Where they made up as they made love and vowed to never let their hearts roam again. Then, when these paltry copies began to thin from overuse, she dreamed up new places, new situations, where they could be together. Where the past never happened, and indiscretion and murder were never an option.
Anita was walled in on all sides by the ticking hearts and minds of the other inmates. All their emotions running so high, she could barely think straight, much less conjure the peace necessary to enter her other world and see Scott again. She had tried, a few times in the library, in a stolen moment in the night when the lights were out and the others were sleeping, and even once when she had landed in administrative segregation (known as solitary confinement to those who had never been in the system). But she never found the peace and quiet necessary to summon her will and the strength need to go into that other world like she did in the exercise yard.
Perhaps it was the warm sun on her back, the smell of fresh cut grass or the feel of the wind on her skin that allowed her to lie to herself and pretend that she was free of both the confines of her body as well as her jail cell. She had learned how to escape from one world into another from another inmate who had taught her meditation, proving to her that the world of reality was not the only world open to her. “Just because you are here” she said, pointing to the walls of the compound. “Doesn’t mean that they can control where you go in here” she said, pointing to her head and then her heart. That inmate, Lucy, had shown her places with words that she never could have seen on her own in the ‘real world’. And when Lucy died, her knowledge to go further into those places left with her.
She kept her head down, she did as she was told. In another twenty three hours she would be back in his arms again. Back with the one she loved and lost almost thirteen years prior. Back to the place where reality might control the time that she spent in that other world, but never who she spent it with.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
So Much More
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
So Much More
By Plot Roach
Newborns were always his favorite. They were so fresh and new, so untouched by what would happen to them later in life. A brand new slate reminding him that anything was possible, given the right splice of genetics, that is.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Dr. Portlafoy asked.
“I’m on break, visiting the newborns.”
“They’re hatchlings” she corrected. They were never ‘born’, that’s a mammal thing. And you really need to stop anthropomorphizing them. They’re just animals.”
“Correction, they are an alien form of life we have perverted for our own cause. Who knows what they could have become had they not been manipulated by human labs for profit?”
“They’re animals, nothing more, Dr. Marea.”
She walked off in a huff, leaving him smiling at the latest batch of Kingeds. “But they could be so much more.” he whispered.
Back at the lab, he was ordered to examine the latest brood, manipulated to work the mines of Cirrus 7. They could breathe the methane of the small moon and had a separate set of lungs to breath the oxygen of their home barracks, so as to not trouble their human handlers with little things like gas masks and oxygen tanks.
Dr. Marea stunned one with the electro probe, binding its feet, wings and legs to keep it from escaping during the examination. Its eyes gazed off into space, but quickly recovered, studying the man who held it. “Sorry, little guy. But I have to make sure that you are healthy before sending you out.” he patted the creature on the head, sending its ruff of feathers erect along its spine. It was a defensive posture. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”
He checked the heartbeat, the two sets of lungs and its body temperature before clipping the bands off of its limbs and setting it into the cargo cage. In a few short hours, it would be leaving the labs of its ‘birth’ and would begin its training on Cirrus 7, never to see the lab or the doctor again.
Dr. Marea examined a dozen more specimens before finding them all hale and hearty enough to join their sibling in the cargo cages. Once done, the doctor sighed, removed his medical gear and uniform and exited the labs of Biodex for his shift.
He stopped by the newborn section and watched the next generation through the glass, wondering what new and wonderful creatures would be emerging from the lab. More workers, no doubt, he told himself. Wouldn’t it be nice to make something beautiful just for the joy of it? Or something that could accompany us as the cats and dogs did of Earth long ago?
His mind raced with the possibilities, and the list inside his mind of what would be needed came almost at once. But I dare not do it, he thought. The company would condemn me to grunt work cleaning up labs if they ever found out that I used company time and money to create something just for the thrill of it. But he remembered the creatures that he had examined earlier that day, though they had been built for utility, they were still beautiful.
Maybe if I fake a requisition? He asked himself. But no, he thought, I might get caught. He looked down at the creatures, in assorted body types and colors. Would it be worth trying? Even if he got caught? Even if his creations were destroyed due to their creator’s poor plan?
He stayed up all night, the list of materials needed danced in his head like a Jupiter moon showgirl. By the time his morning shift came, he was determined to see just how far he could go with his little plan. The list of genes and equipment, the funds and lab time needed. Everything down to the incubators was accounted for. He filed the paperwork, stating that a mining colony needed the beasts as a type of companion animal to help ease the suffering of the old and damaged miners and to help them return to a semi functional level by using the animals as types of servants. Which meant that they had to be mobile, intelligent and able to communicate with their human masters. And if they should be beautiful as well? It would only add to their attractiveness to the miners.
His plan in motion, three weeks passed before he examined the first of his ‘companion helpers’. They were bold, intelligent and beautiful just as he made them to be.
He pulled the first from the incubator, stunning it to examine its progress. Once done, he set it aside to examine the others of its kind. Each watched him with iridescent eyes, a spark of intelligence present at even this early stage.
A month later, he began their training. What tasks that would be expected of them. He named each of them, and knew their personalities by heart. Finally the day came when they were to be crated and sent to their respective homes. But he had faked the destination orders and Biodex would be sending them to another location, a small moon base that he had rented to continue with his research.
As he began examining the first of the brood, a security officer halted him in his work. He was found out by the company, probably snitched out by the woman, Dr. Portlafoy, his co worker in the labs.
As they dragged him off from the lab, one of the creatures released itmself. It had, after all, been altered for intelligence as well as loyalty. It released the others and soon the lab was swarmed with the creatures, defending their ‘father’ against the rest of the humans in the lab colony.
Dr. Marea smiled as he watched their beautiful feathered forms streak across the complex, defending him at each section of the lab from his attackers. If only he could get them, and himself, to the shuttle before security rounded them all up and had them destroyed…
This, he thought, is proof of their potential. Bred to be domestic servants, yet they proved that they were so much more.
So Much More
By Plot Roach
Newborns were always his favorite. They were so fresh and new, so untouched by what would happen to them later in life. A brand new slate reminding him that anything was possible, given the right splice of genetics, that is.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Dr. Portlafoy asked.
“I’m on break, visiting the newborns.”
“They’re hatchlings” she corrected. They were never ‘born’, that’s a mammal thing. And you really need to stop anthropomorphizing them. They’re just animals.”
“Correction, they are an alien form of life we have perverted for our own cause. Who knows what they could have become had they not been manipulated by human labs for profit?”
“They’re animals, nothing more, Dr. Marea.”
She walked off in a huff, leaving him smiling at the latest batch of Kingeds. “But they could be so much more.” he whispered.
Back at the lab, he was ordered to examine the latest brood, manipulated to work the mines of Cirrus 7. They could breathe the methane of the small moon and had a separate set of lungs to breath the oxygen of their home barracks, so as to not trouble their human handlers with little things like gas masks and oxygen tanks.
Dr. Marea stunned one with the electro probe, binding its feet, wings and legs to keep it from escaping during the examination. Its eyes gazed off into space, but quickly recovered, studying the man who held it. “Sorry, little guy. But I have to make sure that you are healthy before sending you out.” he patted the creature on the head, sending its ruff of feathers erect along its spine. It was a defensive posture. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”
He checked the heartbeat, the two sets of lungs and its body temperature before clipping the bands off of its limbs and setting it into the cargo cage. In a few short hours, it would be leaving the labs of its ‘birth’ and would begin its training on Cirrus 7, never to see the lab or the doctor again.
Dr. Marea examined a dozen more specimens before finding them all hale and hearty enough to join their sibling in the cargo cages. Once done, the doctor sighed, removed his medical gear and uniform and exited the labs of Biodex for his shift.
He stopped by the newborn section and watched the next generation through the glass, wondering what new and wonderful creatures would be emerging from the lab. More workers, no doubt, he told himself. Wouldn’t it be nice to make something beautiful just for the joy of it? Or something that could accompany us as the cats and dogs did of Earth long ago?
His mind raced with the possibilities, and the list inside his mind of what would be needed came almost at once. But I dare not do it, he thought. The company would condemn me to grunt work cleaning up labs if they ever found out that I used company time and money to create something just for the thrill of it. But he remembered the creatures that he had examined earlier that day, though they had been built for utility, they were still beautiful.
Maybe if I fake a requisition? He asked himself. But no, he thought, I might get caught. He looked down at the creatures, in assorted body types and colors. Would it be worth trying? Even if he got caught? Even if his creations were destroyed due to their creator’s poor plan?
He stayed up all night, the list of materials needed danced in his head like a Jupiter moon showgirl. By the time his morning shift came, he was determined to see just how far he could go with his little plan. The list of genes and equipment, the funds and lab time needed. Everything down to the incubators was accounted for. He filed the paperwork, stating that a mining colony needed the beasts as a type of companion animal to help ease the suffering of the old and damaged miners and to help them return to a semi functional level by using the animals as types of servants. Which meant that they had to be mobile, intelligent and able to communicate with their human masters. And if they should be beautiful as well? It would only add to their attractiveness to the miners.
His plan in motion, three weeks passed before he examined the first of his ‘companion helpers’. They were bold, intelligent and beautiful just as he made them to be.
He pulled the first from the incubator, stunning it to examine its progress. Once done, he set it aside to examine the others of its kind. Each watched him with iridescent eyes, a spark of intelligence present at even this early stage.
A month later, he began their training. What tasks that would be expected of them. He named each of them, and knew their personalities by heart. Finally the day came when they were to be crated and sent to their respective homes. But he had faked the destination orders and Biodex would be sending them to another location, a small moon base that he had rented to continue with his research.
As he began examining the first of the brood, a security officer halted him in his work. He was found out by the company, probably snitched out by the woman, Dr. Portlafoy, his co worker in the labs.
As they dragged him off from the lab, one of the creatures released itmself. It had, after all, been altered for intelligence as well as loyalty. It released the others and soon the lab was swarmed with the creatures, defending their ‘father’ against the rest of the humans in the lab colony.
Dr. Marea smiled as he watched their beautiful feathered forms streak across the complex, defending him at each section of the lab from his attackers. If only he could get them, and himself, to the shuttle before security rounded them all up and had them destroyed…
This, he thought, is proof of their potential. Bred to be domestic servants, yet they proved that they were so much more.
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