9 posts tagged “original fiction”

1.  Steven Hawking is remote controlled.  I am not sure when he died but he did and the scientific community have taken his dead body and are manipulating it.  They use him for promotional stuff and to give credence to any wacked out theories they may have. 

2.  Iraq is actually pretty peaceful, but that is not good for the Haliburton bottom line. So, Haliburton has a stage in Hollywood were they inact terrorist attacks and clan fighting.  They then pay off reporters to narrate and corroborate the story.  Don't get me wrong, there is still fighting being done there, but every time you hear a Soldier say "things are getting better" and they "don't see how only the bad news gets here," now you know.

3.  American Idol is a show where the contestents sell their soul for a recording contract.  The winner is picked by the person that gets the most fans of the show to sell their souls as well.  The rest of us have to live with the Hell that Earth becomes when these people actually sing on the radio. 

4.  Angelina Jolie is a vampire.  She has a insatiable thirst for third world orphans.  Orphans that she created by feasting on the blood of the parents.  Her lips are actually an emergency blood supply implants, should she go to long without feeding.

5.  Vox is actually the FBI and CIA working together to eliminate dissidants.  Have people in your neighborhood stopped posting or closed their accounts?  It is because they are in Guantanamo.

Below is a story that I wrote last year and submitted to two places for publication.  Denied both times.  Let me know what you think.

Rain in the Forecast

Mist flows down from the trees forming a virtual curtain across the landscape.  Dex limps through the woods with purpose and determination driving him forward at more of a controlled fall than a walk.  His foot squishes in and out of his blood soaked shoe.  He is unaware of how long he has been running and is barely aware of the pain that is no longer shooting up his leg.  Dex looks back to see if they are still behind him and immediately loses balance and crashes into the ground.  Luckily for him, there is a large rock that cushions his head as he falls. 

            The hunger is what finally wakes him up.  His stomach is in knots and his head is still spinning.  Be it from the loss of blood or concussion, he isn’t sure.  His first instinct is to run again, but his leg protests with intense pain.  It has been a few hours judging by the darkness and they have not found him yet.  Maybe they have given up; maybe it is just a matter of time.  Either way he has to keep moving.  He can’t think about the pain, hunger, or loss . . . the loss.  He sobs, almost under his breath, as he drags himself to his feet.  For the first time he looks down to check his leg.  A hole, about one inch in diameter, is on either side of his inner thigh.  Fresh blood is now oozing onto the crusted pants leg.  He takes off his shirt, ties it onto the wound, and starts limping away. 

            The sense of urgency from before he fell is gone.  His sense of security and slow pace allow him to think.  They had just wanted to see the planes coming in and out.  It was his idea.  The only reason that Brittany agreed to come at all was the picnic and that it seemed really romantic.  Lizzie and Jake had come too.  It was all his fault and he was the only one left.  Their blood on his hands.  The thought of it makes him want to give up.

            He had been out to the airstrip plenty of times.  He had always dreamed of being a pilot even though he had never taken steps to make that dream come true.  Dex considered himself an airplane enthusiast.  That enthusiasm had cost everyone but him their lives.  When that strange and silent plane had come down, Dex just had to leave the tree line run down the fence to get a closer look.  Brittany had followed and Lizzie and Jake stayed.  By the fence they had come into the light, but all that concerned Dex was that sleek ship in front of him.  It had absolutely no lines and looked like something out of a movie.  He realized he probably shouldn’t be seeing this as a flood light pointed directly towards him.  A split second later some kind of soldiers, they weren’t wearing any uniform he was familiar with, came running towards them.  There were two of them, and Dex did the only logical thing.  He grabbed Brittany’s hand and started running. 

            Lizzie and Jake had been paying more attention to each other than anything going on around them and did not hear Dex and approach.  “Get up,” Dex yelled when they were within sight.  “We got to get out of here now.”  Jake didn’t quite get the urgency until he saw the soldiers too.  He fell in behind Dex and hit the ground before he got under the cover of the tree line.  There was no sound or gunshot, just Jake lying there motionless and the sickening sigh of air escaping his lungs.  Dex got in between the girls and where the soldiers would be coming in to the woods.  Dex pushed the girls on the path towards his car ahead of himself.  The woods provided sufficient cover to keep their pursuers from getting a clear shot.  Dex allowed himself to relax as they broke from the tree line and started cresting the hill where the car was parked.  He stopped and looked back towards the tree line.  As he turned back towards the car, the girls fell back down towards him.  Dex heard the soldiers from the other side of the hill shouting confirmation that he had a hit.  Dex turned back and sprinted towards the woods when he felt the sting in his thigh.

            “My fault,” Dex murmurs as he falls and catches himself against a tree.  He reaches up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and feels his fever.  He is getting dizzier and more disoriented by the moment.  He has to sit down and rest; there is no way around it.  Still, he pushes on.  The ghosts of his friends drive him until not even memories of Brittany's embrace can offer enough strength to keep him on his feet. Dex collapses to the forest floor, sending leaves swirling about his body.  He drags himself to the base of a large oak tree.  As he leans back against the oak he closes his eyes.

“Channel 3 news; news you can count on!”

“Disturbing news tonight as 4 teenagers are robbed and murdered outside of a truck-stop on interstate 4.  The four were apparently parked behind the store when they were accosted.  Police have not released the names of the victims pending notification of their parents.  There were no cameras at the rear of the store and police do not have a suspect.  If you have any information, please contact the Crimestoppers Hotline at 555-1337.  In other news there may be rain in our forecast . . .”

Shirley immediately lowered herself to the girls level and softly asked her name. "It's ok, I don't want to hurt you," she said even softer. The girl made no move to respond in any way.

"boombaboomboomboom." Someone was coming down the stares. Shirley rose back up and then looked down at the girl. It seemed impossible but the child looked even more scared than she had seconds before. Their eyes connected and Shirley felt the irresistible urge to hide. Again, it was as if her body worked independently of her mind. Her feet backed her into the closet. It was no longer full of the comforting warmth. Instead, it was cold, and coupled with the fear of the child, she was chilled to the bone. She pulled the door to and left about an inch where she could look out.

A man burst into the room. Six foot tall and overweight, he was balding and had bags under his eyes. His shoes were crushed down on the outside of his feet. The sour reek of beer mixed with sweat filled the room as the man nearly did himself.

"Why the hell aren't you sleeping." he yelled at the girl as he picked her up and tossed her on the bed. She hit the bed and was scrambling backwards before she had time to bounce twice. She curled up in the corner so tight she pushed the bed away from the wall a little. The man, Shirley knew this was her dad, walked around and kicked the bed back into place with a little laugh.

The girl was staring right at her. Shirley new that the man, her dad, would notice. Was the girl trying to giver her up? If he treated his child this way, how would he treat her? Sure enough, the father noticed his daughters stare and looked at the closet. Through gritted teeth he asked, "What are you looking at?" He started walking toward the closet.

Warmth enveloped Shirley's body. The light blinded her to what was in her closet as she walked forward. It was almost as if she was under a spell. She expected to wake up at any moment. Then, as quickly as she had lost it, she gained full control of her body.

She found herself in a dark room. She could hear the little girl's voice whimpering for help clearly now. She couldn't see any thing except for spots of color in an otherwise dark and cold room. Shirley blinked a few times to jar her eyes into focus.

Slowly, she was able to make out the room. It was very small. There was just enough room for the bed and dresser. The paint on the walls were peeling and the putty on the ceiling was stained. On the floor at the end of the bed, right next to the closet, was a little girl. She was chained to the bed frame with a very thick chain that looked long enough to give her free roam of the room. The girl was still crying and had failed to notice her.

Shirley felt the need to comfort this obviously neglected and abused child. She started towards the little girl. That is when the girl noticed her. With a squeak and a start the girl pushed herself into the corner where the bed met the wall and curled up into the fetal position. Only her eyes and the patch of knotted brown curly hair were visible from behind her legs. Shirley could read the terror in those eyes.

Things were normal for several weeks. Shirley settled into a routine with Sarge in the house. Although she believed her imagination had run away with her, she was glad that it lead her to buying the beautiful German Sheppard. She loved taking him for walks in the evening. This served the purposes of exercise and advertising that she had a big dog protecting her house.

About a month after the initial incident, Shirley awoke to that same glow slipping through the cracks of her closet door. It had woke Sarge as well, and his ears were perked. Shirley swung her feet over the edge of the bed, forgoing the slippers and their treachery. As she did, Sarge hopped of the bed and started sniffing his way toward the closet. He made it as far as where the light reflected off of the floor before backing onto his haunches and growling so low and deep that Shirley almost didn't hear it.

"What's wrong boy," she said as she approached the dog, eyes never leaving the closet door. It was then that she felt it. The floor, where the light was hitting it, was warm. She thought she could hear whispering coming from the closet. Shirley climbed down on her knees and turned an ear to the door. Faintly from behind the door, she could hear a voice pleading, "help me!" This plea reached into Shirley's heart and took control of her body. It was almost like an out of body experience. Shirley could see herself get up off the floor and walk to the door, she could feel the warmth of the wood under her feet when she stepped into the light, and she could hear both the plea for help and Sarge's growl. Shirley didn't want to open the closet door, but her mind just wasn't getting the message through to her body. Her hand touched the knob. Warm, just like the floor. She turned it quickly with purpose and Sarge's growl was a full bark. As she opened the illuminated door, a small hand reached out and pulled her through.

The light went out. Sarge barked for several more minutes, whimpered, and then laid down on the bed. The house was quiet.

Shirley stopped by the pet store to pick up some food and supplies, and by the time she got home it was three thirty. Sarge had been well trained a listened well to all the normal commands. She hoped that he would be able to respond to sic'em as well. Shirley was startled when Sarge started barking at the door at five after four. She was pleasantly surprised to find out that it was because the alarm installation people were on her porch. The dog settled down easily when she said that it was ok.

That evening, Shirley bonded with the dog. She played with him and took him for a nice walk. She was having so much fun playing with the dog, she wondered why she hadn't got one before. That thought brought the reason she had got one back into her head like a train through a railroad crossing, complete with horns and blinking lights. Shirley instantly became more subdued. She sat down to read a little before bed and Sarge curled up at her feet.

Twenty minutes later Shirley caught herself dozing, book closed. She hated that. Now she was going to have to find her place, but she decided to save that for tomorrow night. She was tired, it had been a long day. Shirley got off the couch, turned the living room light out, and called Sarge after her. She bought a dog bed (really just a large pillow) and put it on the floor at the foot of her bed. She walked sarge over to it and told him to lay and he did. She then changed into her PJs and climbed into bed, eyes on the closet door. Suddenly the whole bed shook and something was on her legs. Shirley let out a scream before realizing that Sarge had jumped into bed with her. She laughed a little and allowed herself to relax and sleep.

> The handprint was black and smeared. It looked as though the fingers > traced their way down from about the middle of the door to about > eighteen inches off of the ground, were they pressed into a full hand > print.
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> Shirley backed away from the handprint and grabbed the phone off of > the receiver. The little jingle rang through her head, "For urgency > without emergency dial: 862, 8600, 862, 8600 don't dial 911 when the > dangers done, dial 86, 286 oh, oh." She dialed the forever ingrained > number. Shirley explained the situation to the dispatcher and then > again to the officers that showed up on her door. Nothing else in the > house was missing, only the stuff in her closet. The looked at her > like she was crazy but wrote down what she said anyway. That is all > they did. They wrote down the information and told Shirley to call if > she found anything else gone or saw anything suspicious. >
> The paper was laying in the driveway and Shirley went out and grabbed > it. She checked the classifieds for dogs. She found a lady selling a > 3 year old trained German Sheppard. She called and was scheduled to > pick him up that afternoon. She grabbed the phonebook and called a > security company and schedule an alarm instillation for 4pm.
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> After lunch, Shirley went and picked up the German Sheppard. The > little old lady was selling it for a hundred bucks and its name was > Sarge. It belonged to her late husband and she didn't feel that she > was able to care for it. It also reminded her of her husband and > would cause the poor lady to cry for hours when the dog would sit by > the door waiting for the husband to come walking in at around five > thirty. Shirley gave the little old lady her money and promised to > take care of Sarge. She felt safer already. >
>

> Shirley woke up with a headache. There was a little bit of blood, but > her vitamin k had done its job and clotted her up quickly. She was > still going to have a nasty lump on the back of her head for a few > days. She sat up pressing around the lump trying to gage how much > damage she had done to herself. She decided that she would live and > started to get up. That is when she noticed the closet door open. >
> There was no light coming out of the door like she remembered the > night before. She could see all the way to the back of the closet. > It was empty. Not just empty of the light but of all here clothes and > shoes as well. Slowly, she got up and walked towards the closet. It > really was empty. Maybe she was really robbed and her subconscious > mind made up the light scenario just to protect her. Shirley was just > about to call the cops when she looked at the back of the closet door. > Smudged on the back of the door was a handprint.
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> There was a light shining from under the door. Shirley was sure that > the light in the closet wasn't that bright and was pretty sure that > she had turned the light off before going to sleep. But, here she > was, at two in the morning, staring across the room at her closet > door.
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> Shirley quietly pulled the covers from her legs and swung them around > on to the floor. Her toes touched the hard wood for an instant before > she pulled them back up. She lowered them down again, searching the > floor at the edge of her bed for her slippers. Shirley crossed the > room quickly with her arms crossed snuggly across her chest, > protecting her from the night chill, and flipped the light switch. > Nothing.
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> Curiosity battled fear and won. Shirley grasped the cold brass knob > and twisted it quietly and slowly. She paused with the knob turned > before yanking the door open. Light flooded into the room, blinding > Shirley. She stumbled back a few steps, folding one of her slippers > under. She fell backwards as she heard a young girl's voice in a > whisper that sounded digitized say "help me!" As she continued > falling her head strikes the bed frame.
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