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Draft: Romero.exe

Guys, I have been working on this story for probably two years. It sat on the back burner for a long time, but I always came back to it, adding a little here and there. I really dove back into it about a month ago, and I am finally somewhat happy with it. It is an early draft, so I almost certainly will be making edits to it. I plan to submit it in this open period of creepypasta.com (I have two other pieces already submitted, and those will be posted here when I find out if they were accepted or not.), but it will probably be a later draft. I’m also planning a post  that shows my editing process, just because I have that information for this and it is a kind of cool process. But, this is the overall plot and flavor of the story, with the likely edits focusing on making the ending smoother. As this is a living document, I really appreciate any feedback you may have. Happy reading!


The implants had ostensibly started as a medical breakthrough. Injectable nanobots that could control brain functioning? The implications for modern medicine were endless, and quickly surged. Of course, with most things, the money was not to be made in life saving and life altering medical interventions, but in mass market appeal. And the market was certainly there.

David was an early adopted. He had leapt at the opportunity to be on the front lines of this new era of human communication, entertainment, and exploration, riding the wave into the future. Now, fifteen years later, they were ubiquitous. Sure, there were still luddites who refused to enter the modern era, as there always were, but he took pride knowing he had ushered in a new era with the implants

They were an integrated biomatrix of nanounits that tapped into the brain. Careful procedures and controlled biotech growths spread contact points through the sensory, auditory, and verbal processing centers of the brain to interpret and respond to neural signals instantly. It put the world at your fingertips—better, at your synapses—and David had been desperate to submerge himself in the pseudo-world the implants created.

David loved his implant. He loved the freedom it gave him to go anywhere and do anything within the comfort of his own home. He loved the instant access to knowledge, and even more so the instant gratification of pop culture. David loved to be connected, because when the whole world was nothing more than a thought away, an empty apartment was simply an empty palette for whatever he could imagine.

And tonight, well tonight he was imagining a redhead.

The implant made it easy. He didn’t have to speak, just merely think and allow the biomatrix to tap into the speaking part of his brain. It took those thoughts that could have slipped through his lips as words and turned it into data. That data sprinted to the internet and dug up a very highly rated program. Now, David had plenty of redhead’s on file, but something this highly rated might be worth it. Besides, variety is the spice of life.

As it launched, he was impressed by the full and curving figure before him, perfected in the way only a computer could mold. She was aggressive, which wasn’t necessarily David’s style, but he could handle that. She strode over to him, her stiletto’s leaving tiny knifepoints in his plush carpet. Her hands wrapped around him, dragging him closer and ensnaring him in her arms. He was captured, completely at the mercy of the technological goddess. Her passion was infectious; he let it wash over him and take control, burying his lips into the soft skin of her neck before moving towards the full breasts as they drifted towards the bed.

David actively ignored the little voice whispering in his mind that the flesh his hands explored so eagerly was nothing more than a few stray electrical impulses. He pushed aside the notion that his own rising arousal was just a brain mediated process that triggered the right muscles at the right time. If he could hear, feel, see, and taste her just like she was real, who could argue against the reality of it? Who decided where the line between reality and fiction was when his brain registered every simple motion and touch as real?

David had his fill and rolled onto the sheets beside the woman. He wasn’t desperate and lonely enough yet to waste his time cuddling in the afterglow with zeroes and ones. He thought to close it, but was surprised when he could still feel her weight fluctuate slowly with her breath in his bed. Close, he thought again, but nothing happened. David looked over at the naked program lying in his bed, beginning to wonder if he had so blur the lines between the implant created reality and external reality that he had forgotten seducing such a vixen. That was impossible…but….

Her back was to him, and he felt his eyes wander down the soft S of her spine, but he snapped them back up to reach towards her shoulder. He felt warm flesh between his fingers as he tugged at her, urging her to roll towards him.

She did, but the face was different. There was no more beautiful young woman, but now a wrinkled hag wearing an ill-fitting red wig. She cackled before springing towards him. Her legs wrapped around his torso as her rotted mouth pressed against his lips again and again, her decaying teeth pulling and tearing at his lips until they bled.

David began desperately pushing her away, feeling old flesh tear at his advances. He clawed at her, screaming for the program to close in thought and word, but nothing happened. She continued pulling at him, smothering him as her teeth tore into his skin. Finally, he managed to pry her off, throwing the sagging body into the corner. Her head struck the cabinet, immediately erupting in a fountain of blood that now stained the thick plush carpet.

David didn’t know what was happening. He felt like he was coming apart. Had he just killed her? Was she even real? He rushed towards the bathroom to gather a towel. Maybe he could stop the bleeding and get her to a hospital. Maybe he could get himself checked out as well. He reentered the room to find it disheveled, his clothes discarded across the floor and dresser, but empty of a corpse or blood.

It had been a trick. He had been trolled at a masterful level. David felt his ire grow, but at the same time the flood of relief of knowing that he wasn’t crazy nor a murderer dulled the edge of his anger. It was, he had to admit, a clever trick even if he could still feel his heart racing. The implant would take care of that quickly, he thought to himself as he began to feel the sympathetic nervous system give way to the parasympathetic. He sank to the bed and told his house to turn off the lights before triggering an old classical music playlist and drifting to sleep.

_

He was drowsy upon waking, something he was not used to. Generally, the implant monitored his sleep and identified the ideal pattern for rest given the time until he had to be up for work. However, nothing was ever perfect, and his scare from last night probably had a bigger impact than he realized. It took time for hormones to fade, even with the implant. David groaned as he rolled off the bed. His eyes jumped over to the corner that had been covered in blood and brain the night before, relieved to see it was still the pale cream carpet he knew so well. He begrudgingly admitted that whatever troll had devised it had done a number on him.

Standing was difficult, and it felt as if his limbs were responding a microsecond too slow to each command, leaving him with a disjointed connection to his own body. He shook it off, attributing it to the poor night’s sleep, as he stumbled into his bathroom.

Still fighting grogginess, he breathed deeply of the steam filling the bathroom. He stared at the bathroom mirror and sought for something. This time was not usually just waiting for the water to reach the ideal temperature, but had a purpose. Only now, staring at the mirror, he felt a gap.

Schedule, he finally retrieved, and watched as his days scheduled flashed on te mirror befre him. Meetings, but mostly free time. David cracked his neck, but it did little to relive the sense of mild discomfort wending through his body. There was a soft tone from the shower, alerting him it was ready. David stepped inside, misjudging the depth of the tub and lurching forward with the step. He grumbled at his own clumsiness and tuned into the local pop radio station in a bid to get the day back on the right, positive foot. Perhaps his neurotransmitters needed a little readjusting.

Shower. Closet. Kitchen. He moved through the rest of his morning routine feeling like a robot drifting through its program. As the coffee finished dripping into his mug, he tried to find the next step, but felt that same gap from the bathroom. Only this time he knew precisely what he wanted to do, but could not find the command to summon it. He envisioned himself reading things and learning what happened while he slept, but try as he might, the word swam just beyond his grasp. It was on the tip of his tongue—the tip of his neurons. But try as he might it would not come. Show me the—

Entertainment? No, that was not right. It might work, but it was not what he wanted. Not the tv or radio.

Show me the…

“News.” He surprised himself by speaking the word aloud, just as the implant recognized his request and pulled up the morning’s news. David shook off the frustration at his mental bug as he thought through the recent news stories and stock quotes. News. He turned the word around in his head. An easy word, but something that had been trying. He sighed.

Maybe this was old age? Aches and pains, fatigue, and forgetting the names of basic things. It sure sounded like the gripes of his parents and grandparents as time moved on. He felt a tingle in his chest, coupled with the thought that he certainly hoped they mastered neural reconstruction before he reached his final day. Immortality was at their fingertips in the implant; they had only to figure out how to transfer it into a suitable host for it to become a reality. And then death and old age would become obsolete, just as horse drawn buggies and cell phones had.

His stomach growled, not appeased by the coffee. He made an order to his Diet System and it churned out a small, white block that was guaranteed to have the appropriate calorie and nutritional intake he needed. The implant constantly monitored his blood chemistry in order to develop the perfect mix of vitamins, minerals, and nutrients to keep him fit and healthy. Of course, that meant it was basically a flavorless brick of health. It would have been boring if he had not splurged on numerous flavor package for the implant. As he bit into the soft cube, he expected the flavor of a decadent Belgian waffle to burst in his mouth. It was, after all, just synapses.

Instead, however, he tasted meat and iron, rot. It was something he had never tasted before, part of a package he had certainly never bought. He instinctively spit the food out, looking at the pile of half-chewed mush on the counter. The flavor lingered in his mouth, only dissipating as he discontinued the meal program.

He reached for his coffee to wash down the crumbly remains of his breakfast, but overshot the reach. Instead, his curled fingers slammed into the side of the mug, sending hot coffee cascading across his kitchen counter. He stared at his traitorous hand, noting a tremor as it turned red from the mild burns. Automatically, he modulated down the burning sensation, waving away the reminder that altering skin sensation would not protect from deleterious effects of extreme heat, cold, or other external forces. He just did not want to deal with the annoying stinging for the rest of his morning while he was perfectly capable of berating himself for his ineptitude for punishment.

Towels. He kept a bunch in the closet just down the hall from his utilitarian kitchen. David marched there, but felt the room spin and sway around him. His steps were uncoordinated—his joints at once too stiff and too loose. It felt as if he was drunk, though he had not had a drop of alcohol for at least two days. Bracing himself against the wall, he began creating a memo to his boss.

“Hey Nate,” he thought, his head swimming, “I felt not good. Think I’ll take a tan to sort the files. Get the implant specced for next year. Thanks.” He paused, mentally reviewing the message. Only then did the nonsense sink in. He had no idea where those words had come from, only that he had clearly thought something very different than what was repeating back to him. There was clearly something wrong. Frustrated, he deleted the first message and started again.

“Nate, Out sick. Thanks.” If he kept it simple, perhaps it would work. It was terse, but accurate, he conceded as he sent it off. The coffee would have to wait, because there were bigger issues at play.

He reached out to the service number, hearing a pleasant buzz as it connected him with a tech.

“NanoNeuro Inc, this is Jeff. How can I help you?”

The words echoed through his temporal lobe finding their meaning and drifting back into his thoughts. David held onto them, momentarily afraid they would be just as jumbled. He tried to keep his thoughts and words brief.

“Implant trouble. Help?” Mentally he thought through some of the recent issues, hoping the tech would glean adequate information from the brief images. David did not trust himself to try and explain them all.  A brief whistle from the tech. “Wow, that is a rough morning. How old is your system, sir?”

David felt a familiar wave of irritation.

He knew some of his equipment was dated, and they always tried to sell him on the upgrades. He carefully separated those thoughts from the ones for the tech. “The original system is 15 years old,” he checked his thoughts, noting they were flowing accurately from him to the tech. This was good. Perhaps just a glitch. “But I’ve gotten routine upgrades, last one about six months ago.”

“Have you completed the most recent updates?”

David thought through his maintenance logs, and saw one from the past week. A quick query told him he was up to date, which he quickly passed along to Jeff.

“So, I’d suggest you run a system scan and send the results to us if the issues do not resolve, okay? Things like this aren’t uncommon with our older models.”

Irritation flared brightly. He was being mocked, David thought with absolute certainty. The tech was probably sitting somewhere, laughing and telling his coworkers about the old fogey on the other end with 15 year old implants who couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t working. He was probably even recording it to pass along later. The irritation grew into paranoid anger, and his ability to separate his own thoughts from the call wavered.

“Sir, I will terminate our connection if you continue to threaten me.”

“…Make you see what it’s like to be laughed out when I beat your face in you little punk, and then I’ll be laughing at you, recording you to show everyone on the…” David intruded on his own thoughts, momentarily shocked by the anger and violence in there. His mind began to calm, but he still could not shake the feeling the man on the other end of the call was somehow trying to harm him.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, both mentally and aloud. However the line had already been cutoff in response to the aggression. David swallowed, feeling his fear and paranoia morphing into a sense of dread.

“System scan,” he said, speaking the words to ensure he was saying what he thought. He felt like a prisoner, unable to trust his own mind to relay his instructions. A friendly chime sounded inside his head. “Scan initiating. Verifying neural access pattern…”

The paused seemed to stretch infinitely. Perhaps there were network issues? Could that be causing some of his problems?

Then there came another, lower, more negative (angry? Dangerous?) tone. “Access denied. Neural network not recognized.”

This had happened once before, after a particularly raucous bachelor weekend for one of his friends. Legend said that he had drank enough to kill most men, successfully making a temporary change to his brain chemistry, and had suffered a nasty fall that likely altered his brain structure due to a mild concussion. A quick stop at his local hospital had gotten him sorted again.

Only this time—

David pushed the thought away, feeling that fear and anxiety creeping back in. He wanted to run and hide, but the thought marched mercilessly on.

Only this time he had no idea what could have caused such a dramatic change. He had fallen asleep and woken up with a new brain?

His heart was pounding, his breaths coming more and more quickly. “System scan,” he tried again, his voice quieter than the last time. The same cheery beep, and then the dull tone.

“Neural network not recognized.”

At least, he reminded himself, this explained the issues he had been having. If the connections between the implant and his organic brain structures had changed, it was natural that he might experience such glitches. At least, it made sense he would.

His hand was numb as he reached for his keys. Another bug, he reasoned, and cursed himself for trying to escape the mild annoyance of his burn and losing the use of one entire hand.

Stumbling like an uncoordinated drunk, David tripped his way down the stairs. He needed to get to the train station and the hospital. He’d be right as punch after, he told himself.

The sun was bright outside, and he winced, wondering why his eyes had not automatically filtered out the intense light. Another glitch to add to the list. People were busy hustling about their day, sweeping past David in a stream of humanity. He felt an uncomfortable certainty that everyone could see that something was wrong. Somehow, he knew they were eyeing him. Like a lion picking the weakling from the herd. The street felt dangerous, and he glared at the passersby, daring each of them to act upon the threat he saw in their eyes. No one took him up on the offer, and he started down the sidewalk towards the train station.

At least, he thought it was toward the train station. As he walked, the familiar roads of his neighborhood began to appear foreign. Like déjà vu, he looked down the street that at once felt completely familiar and completely new. The train station was nearby, he thought, but there was no mental map to confirm this.

Now people were certainly looking at him. Circling him. Ready to pounce if he ever turned his back. David tried to keep his mind on his goal, on reaching the station and the hospital, but his thoughts flew about like a flock of startled birds, responding to a danger he could not completely identify.

So he walked, hoping one road would lead him to the correct location. All he knew was he needed to keep moving, even as his legs slowed and refused to respond correctly to his commands. He was shuffling along the sidewalk, eyes wide. Every corner was some new risk, and he remained on high alert.

Road signs, he remembered. They would show him the way. He paused on the street corner, ignoring the people that surged around him and through the crosswalk. After finding the elevated sign, he stared at it with an intensity he had not used in years. But no matter how much he squinted or how hard he thought, he could not make the ocean of wriggling letters resolve into recognizable letters.

Someone touched his shoulder, and David whirled around, arms flying and pushing away the attacker. It was a woman who looked shocked. Looked. He knew it was a clever ploy.

“Are you okay?” she stammered, drawing away from him with slow, measured steps. His posturing appeared to work, he noted.

“Fine,” he barked, the words more growl than language. But she appeared to understand, backing even farther away.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” she attempted again.

She was going to have him locked up, he thought. Like an animal in a cage so they could all come and watch him. Throw things. Prod and poke at him. He would be on display. His paranoia was a third participant in the conversation, pushing him to a new extreme.

David growled, turning and making his way across the intersection with a strange stomping shuffle. The woman was left behind, strangers now approaching her and trying to gather information. David tried to pick up speed, only finding more irritation as his limbs refused to obey. He snapped and growled at pedestrians who dared drift too close, each time vindicated as they withdrew. He would not be an easy target, he resolved.

Hunger. That was the next reality. Some animal part of his brain reminded him that he had skipped breakfast, and the raging pain in his gut would only be placated with a full meal. All around him were restaurants now, but they smelled of death. Poison. Was that the new ploy? Try to lure him into one of these places and stuff his gullet with poison?

David was smarter than that. He pushed forward, certain the train station had to be nearby. And he needed to get to the train station so that he could….

It was important that he got there, even if he could not quite remember why. Certainly being there would clear things up. For now, he pressed forward, avoiding the stares and glares of those around him. Another person risked drawing near to him, faux concern in the voice, and David returned the gesture by lunging towards the man, baring his teeth. The man stumbled backward and then continued his frantic retreat. David knew their plans.

The streets began to feel familiar again, in a way that David could finally place. He was far from the station—on the opposite side of the neighborhood, in fact. At this point, he was better heading to the next stop down. Like fog lifting, the map resolved itself. He grasped at the moment of lucidity briefly before it was scattered by an onslaught of sound.

Wailing and whistling, the sound echoed around him. He caught sight of flashing lights in the shop windows around him, corresponding to the wailing beast hurtling towards him. Doctors, his mind supplied as he searched for the term. But he had not called them, so why were they here?

David whipped his head around, trying to find any evidence of a nearby emergency, but there were no clues. Only those same, dangerous people now circling him. All looking at him. He was surrounded.

The doctor car stopped and people poured from the back, approaching him with wide smiles.

“Hey there,” said one of them, holding his hands up. “Are you okay? We got a call that said you were having some problems.”

The man in the uniform came closer slowly. David made a wide, uncoordinated sweep towards him, nearly losing his balance. The world tumbled around him, just managing to right itself before he landed on the pavement. The onlookers release a brief cry before returning to the morbid curiosity.

“Would you mind having a seat and letting us take a look? You’ve got a lot of people worried.”

Now there were more cars with their lights and sounds. More people, standing behind the cars, eyeing him, talking to one another. There were weapons. He was surrounded, came the thought again. He was injured, hungry, and surrounded. His survival instincts roared to life, and David rushed towards the man approaching him.

The paramedic let out a short cry and then David was on him. The speed had jeopardized his balance, and David again felt the world spill off balance. This time he went down, taking his attacker to the ground with him. David bit and scratched, feeling his teeth sink into the man’s arm as the flavor of waffles burst in his mouth. He could even feel the syrup dribbling down his chin.

Suddenly, there was another sensation. Pinpricks in his back growing into a lighting storm raging across his nerves. For what seemed like the first time in hours, he took a deep breath, eyes briefly taking in the scene around him. There was fear. Blood. What had he done?

And then, the storm swelled until there was only darkness.

_

David woke in a hospital bed. There were bright lights and beeping machines. In one breath he achieved consciousness. The second brought all his fear and anger roaring back. He had been captured. They would pay.

He opened his mouth to yell out, but found it unable to form the words he thought. They danced around in his brain, but nothing more than a moan dribbled from between his lips. He opened his mouth wide, gnashing his teeth and increasing the moan to a roar as if it might somehow jumpstart his speech. They must have done something, he thought. It was the only reasonable conclusion.

If he could not call out, then he was on his own. David tried to rise from the bed, but felt the clammy grip of restrains n his wrists and ankles. They held strong, pulling him tight against the bed. Trapped, echoed the words again.

A terrifying certainty settled over him. It was too late. They would torture and kill him, he knew, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing besides get his story out there.

Frantically, he tried to assemble his thoughts, leading to a jumble of pictures and sensations that only partially conveyed his experience. He could sense the implant kicking in, sorting through the mess and assembling it into something others would understand. It had not abandoned him, he thought. Even if it had not been working earlier, now it was his savior.

Reviewing the information, David only felt a vague familiarity with it. It reminded him more of a game of some sort, but it would have to do. Already he felt his thoughts growing more and more scattered. He growled in pain and rage before sending the file to everyone he knew. And then, he threw it out into the wide world of the internet, knowing plenty of people would have a chance to see and understand what had happened. He would have justice.

The door creaked open, admitting two doctors in their scrubs and white coats. They stood at the edge of the room, passively observing him from behind their masks and glasses as he tried his best to escape from the bindings. This was it. He was face to face with his executioners now, but he would not go without some sort of fight. The room echoed with his growls and the snap of leather. Soon, the scent of iron joined in as his wrists bled raw. The hunger returned.

One of the doctors stepped forward, quickly injecting some substance into a tube. Almost instantly, David felt a warm cloud settle over him. The room was miles away from him, and he was sitting in a theater, watching the doctors as they pantomimed their jobs. He watched as they pointed at something in the air, discussed X-rays. Mutations, she said. He nodded. Uncontrolled proliferation. The words floated around the room, mingling with their fear.

“What could do this?” asked the slender male, staring at David as if he was a monster on display. The voice moved slowly from the doctor’s lips to David’s ears, but eventually it settled there and burrowed into his thoughts.

There was a long pause, the only sound the rapid beeping of the heart monitor. After a moment, the woman spoke up. “A virus,” she said, matter-of-factly. Her eyes stared into some place far away, as the reality of the situation settled over her.

“Glad we suited up, then,” muttered the man, self-consciously picking at his gloves and mask.

She shook her head. “Not that kind of virus. His implant has one. We need to quarantine him before he can send it to anyone else.”

Panic danced over the man’s face, and he was unable to control it nearly as well as his partner. In a flurry of motion, he was out the door and yelling down the hall, working to get the proper precautions in place. She remained in the room, her eyes a mixture of pity and despair.

David smiled from his drug-induced haze. He would have justice.


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This work by Katherine C is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

First Draft: Not Only the Wind Howls

So, I’ve got a few things in the works, including one kind of neat project I had hoped to post this week. But, it is (as always) taking longer than I anticipated. So, it should be coming along before too long. In the meantime, I wanted to write something shorter. I’ve been writing really long things recently, which is good, but it can be a crutch for me. So here is something shorter to try and tell a story well, but briefly. As always, first draft. Let me know your thoughts!


It was a fool’s errand to be out in the cold, but Dana felt she had no other choice. The car was stopped and getting colder by the second, her phone did not work, and she was sure she had seen a town just a few miles back. So a walk in this weather, bundled as she was, shouldn’t be a problem. Only it was quickly becoming one.

Her mittens were more than adequate for the usual walk from her car, down the couple of blocks to work, and into the aggressively heated building. But the fabric was soaked after one or two unfortunate tumbles into the snow, and her fingers were chilled to the bone. They had passed the point of obnoxious ache and entered into an almost pleasant numbness. Her feet, in contrast, pounded with the ache of walking and increasing cold. The beaten up pair of boots she dutifully dragged with her did an admirable job protecting her, but with drifts above her knees, snow was quickly slipping in and turning her socks into soggy, icy cages.

Dana blinked and felt her eyelashes stick to one another for a moment. Her scarf was wrapped tight around her mouth, nose, and ears, leaving a humid and increasingly odorous environment as she stomped along. The town had to be close. She imagined a warm cup of hot chocolate in her hands, enlivening her numb fingers once again. The image was real enough that she could almost taste the rich chocolate favor. But then reality intruded yet again.

The wind howled around her, muted by her dutiful scarf, but it ripped and tore across the ground. Occasionally, a tree branch would sway and dump a generous serving of snow onto her stockinged head. She tried to block out the sound of creaking branches, her nerves already on edge.

And then there was something different. This was not the random groan of branches, nor was it the constant rumble of the wind snapping through the trees and kicking up clouds of snow. No, this was a strange, rhythmic sound. It was the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow, breaking through the icy top layer and sinking into the soft drifts below. They mimicked Dana’s own steps, but slower. Whoever was out here with her was clearly not in the hurry she was.

Which meant, she reasoned, that they must know where they are and be close to shelter. It could be her saving grace.

She pulled the scarf from her mouth, looking around in hopes of catching sight of her companion between the trees. The steps sounded close. “Hello? I’m lost.”

She listened, but the steps continued on, just as slow and steady as before. She looked, but everything was the same palette of grey, white, and green pine needles. She glanced behind her, down the arc of snowy asphalt stretching behind her. It would be easy to see someone walking along the side of the road—part of the reason she had chosen her path—but whoever was out here remained hidden.

Dana peered into the branches on the other side of the road. The weak sunlight was quickly fading, and she could not make out much more than a mass of shadows.

“Hello?” she tried again. “My car broke down and I need to get to town,” she offered, hoping it might convince the stranger that she was no threat.

The steps paused, and she was almost angry at the sudden silence. Now she did not even have the sound cues to help her find the person she was now sure would be her savior. But, she reminded herself, it meant they may have heard her.

“Do you know of anywhere I can go to get warmed up?”

Slow, steady steps resumed, now at a slightly quicker pace. She continued to scan the trees, hoping to see her rescuer. There was a flurry of movement to her left, and she spun quickly. Something was moving between the trees, but it blended with the grey and white all around her. Whoever it was, they were large, knocking aside tall branches and leaving them swaying. Was it a hunter wearing some sort of snow camo? She tried to estimate the height from the branches, but the answer kept coming back impossible. Her eyes promised the branches were at least 10 feet high, but she knew that was impossible.

Looking through the increasing shadows, she tried to discern the outline coming towards her. The steps were quicker now, increasing as it moved. But try as she might, it continued to deflect, the light diffusing across the white snow and white clothing of whatever hurtled towards her. And then it was closer, free from the maze of grey branches and tree trunks.

And it was not a person, Dana realized quickly. It walked on two legs, but towered beneath the canopy. Its face was of some indistinguishable animal. A flattened snout, low angled ears, dark eyes, and rows of teeth. It watched her closely, sniffing the air.

“Elo?” it mimicked, tilting its head to the side and staring at her. “Elo,” it said again.

Dana wondered for an instant if her brief pause had been enough to freeze her boots to the ground, but then life returned to them. She was able to ignore the pain and she ran down the roadway, trying to put distance between her and whatever creature she had disturbed.

Now she could hear its steps crashing behind her, covering the icy ground in broad, gangly bounds. It spoke with a mishmash of her words, coming out half-spoken.

“Car own. I go arm lost.”

And then there was ice swelling up to meet Dana. Her feet had betrayed her, flying back behind her as she plummeted to the ground. She heard those words echoing in the darkness as the smell of musk and decay overtook her.


Dana woke up warm. There was a blanket covering her body, soft and scratchy all at once. She pushed herself deeper into it, reveling in the encompassing warmth. There was the smell of smoke and the crackle of a fire in the air. Her mind slowly put the pieces together and informed her that she had no idea where she might be, wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire. With that, her eyes flew open.

It was a cave, lit only by the glow of the fire in the middle of the room. There was a smattering of bones, camping equipment, and branches littering the floor. Dana’s boots sat to the side, just beyond the fire but close enough to dry.

And then there was the hulking behemoth, sitting on its haunches and looking into the fire. It made a few muffled noises, half grunts, and adjusted its position. Then, in what seemed to be slow motion, it turned to look at Dana. There was recognition—perhaps excitement—in its eyes as it noticed she had awoken. With shuffling steps, it moved over to her. Dana tried to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Behind her was a stone wall and in front of her a monster. Her arms and legs tangled in the pelt thrown over her, further impeding her hopes of escape. And then it was beside her, its large paw reaching towards her face with outstretched claws. She screamed.

It softly touched her cheek, the rough skin of its hand running across her cheek. It opened its mouth in what almost resembled a smile, tongue lolling out like a pleased dog. The scream faltered as confusion took over.

“What are you?” she asked, eyes locked onto its large face.

“Warm,” it said, gesturing broadly to the fire roaring.

“You brought me here to get warm?”

It did not provide a response, but moved over to the fireside, settling down into a crouch and watching her. When she did not move, it gave a quick hop and slapped the ground with one massive hand. Dana slid forward slowly, feeling the increasing heat as she inched her way along the floor. Once beside the creature, it turned back to the fire, watching it as if hypnotized. Dana herself watched the fire, noticing the way the tongues of flame licked at the wood and danced wildly. The shadows skirted around the room, creating monstrous hallucinations from clumps of rock and hair. She tried not to look at the bones.

And exhaustion took over, her eyes growing heavy. She fell asleep leaning against one firm, furry arm.


“We’ve got her here!”

Someone was yelling and Dana was slowing waking up. There was a commotion, the sound of someone crashing through snow and branches. And then a police officer was in front of her, reaching down and checking her pulse.

“What are you—“ She felt dazed and confused, half awake and uncertain how she came to be there.

“Dana Morrison? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. Where am I?”

“Are you injured?” he asked, visually scanning her and she pushed herself off the frozen ground and into a seated position.

“I don’t—I don’t think so.”

He clicked his radio. “Paramedics to my position. We need to get her out of here.”

The next few moments were a flurry of activity. He kept asking questions, providing only brief answers. She had been missing for almost two days. They had found her car down the road. It was a miracle she was alive.

The paramedics arrived and checked her briefly before loading her up for a trip to the hospital. But as they strapped her into the gurney, one approached her.

“This blanket probably saved your life. No sense leaving it behind,” she smiled, smoothing the fabric over Dana’s legs. Dana glanced down to see a rough pelt draped over her legs. She tried not to think about the impossible familiarity, because she knew that cave couldn’t exist. It had to be a hallucination brought on by hypothermia.

Right?


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This work by Katherine C is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

WIP: Recovery Pt 1

Hello there! I’ve been gone for a while again. That’s for a couple of reasons. One was finishing my dissertation, traveling for graduation, and wrapping up the loose ends of grad school. I’m actually now Dr. Katherine C, which is a pretty cool ting I’m trying to get used to. I’ve also been writing quite a bit, but not actually finishing anything. So I have a lot of starts and middles, but not many things that are completed. I was going to try and finish this piece before posting, but I got this far and felt like it was a pretty complete section for Part 1. Expect to see more of it coming in the next few weeks. I also have a few pieces I plan to finish and polish, so those will be here as well.

I’ve also just been doing other creative things. Since this time last year, my husband and I have built a patio table, a side table, a desk, two end tables, two bookcases, a cat climbing structure, a planter box, two serving trays, a large wall hanging/picture frame collage, and an outdoor work cart. We also made a 3D plastic Catan set (that needs some final paint touches). I’m learning how to use a sewing machine as well.

So, due to graduation date and government requirements, I am out of work until early October. Which means I don’t have a lot to do. It’s a great time for you to get in touch if you’d like some beta reading done. I’ve got nothing but time! Well, there’s your update. Now, onto this story. It’s early yet and I will almost certainly change the title, because I hate what I have now. If you have recommendations, feel free to drop them in the comments. It will be at least two parts, maybe three depending on how much of a slow burn I want to make it. I’ve never been known for being brief when writing. I had started this a while back and picked up with my first completed page to write the next few scenes. the original is in italics and the new writing picks up about a quarter of the way through. As always, thoughts and comments are appreciated!


“Your husband died four times on the table, Ms. Watkins.”

Ana sunk a bit deeper into the water, feeling the warmth lap against her skin and try futilely to dissolve the knots of tension.

“But we were able to get him stabilized.”

The dark of the bathroom was comforting, as was the silence. All Ana could hear was the drip of water plinking from the faucet to the bath, the slow ripple as it swam around her body. The hospital was so noisy. The hum of people, of machines beeping, of nurses talking and updating one another, of doors squealing open, of carts rumbling down the hall. It was a constant assault of noise. This was peace.

“The worst should be over, but it will be a long recovery.”

Her ears slid below the water this time, and now she could hear a steady thrum of her body vibrating with unresolved tension. Through that, she heard her heartbeat pound slow and steady. It had raced so fast this afternoon that it had no energy left. It plod it way within her chest, resolute and tired.

“We are going to keep a close eye on him tonight, but you should go home. Get some rest.”

Ana’s face broke from beneath the surface of the water and she took a deep gulp of air. The silence was momentarily shattered by her sudden breath, by the sound of water crashing off of her body and back into the bath. Then quiet. Ripple. Steady breaths.

“He’ll need you here tomorrow.”

Her eyes were dry and raw having spent their supply of tears in the hours previous. The water trickling down her face—cooled quickly by the sharp bathroom air—felt soothing as it wiped away the patches worn rough by cheap hospital tissues. She could just see the clock from her bedroom reflected in the bathroom mirror, the bright red eyes reminding her it was well past her bed time and on towards morning. She was mentally and physically exhausted, but felt utterly unable to sleep. How had things gone so wrong so suddenly?

There had been a building sense of dread since she got home. Usually Howie called while she was on her way home, letting her know he had left and would be home shortly as well. Only, today, there had been no call. It was not anything to get too dramatic over, she reminded herself as she started dinner. He probably had something come up and keep him late at the office.  It was not unheard of.

After an hour had passed and she was running out of ways to keep dinner from getting icy, she tried his cell. Nothing. In fact, it jumped straight to voicemail, Howie’s cheery voice asking her to leave a message. She put on a smile over her frustration and building worry long enough to ask him to call her, and then took to pacing the kitchen.

Forty-five minutes and six phone calls later, a path practically worn through the hardwood of the kitchen, Ana’s phone rang. Only it wasn’t Howie’s number. It was a local number, and on the other end was a calm voiced woman telling her about the accident. Giving her directions and urging her to come to the hospital.

Al of that was a lifetime away now. Howie had been in an auto accident, one that by all rights should have killed him. Based on what she had been told, it had killed him. Ana felt as if someone had shattered the thin, delicate film that had been her happy reality, leaving nothing but fine and wickedly sharp pieces. His face in the hospital bed, tubes and wires surrounding him. She had held his hand, but he had not responded. The doctor was reassuring, stating her husband was resting with the aid of strong painkillers. Strong enough that he did not stir at her tearful reunion. But he was stable.

And now she was doing everything she could to try and pull herself together for what would be a long road to recovery. That had also been a carefully spoken promise in her briefing. There were to be no misunderstandings; this event was life altering in a dramatic way.

The water was cooling, already dipping to an uncomfortable temperature that left goosebumps on her skin. She had spent too long reflecting and wallowing in pity. That was the point, however. She stepped out, opening the drain and letting the self-pity and paralysis circle the drain


She was at the hospital the next morning, sleep deprived and mind still reeling. But for all outward appearances, she looked the part of the strong, dutiful wife. She had put n clean clothes, brushed her hair, done her makeup. Howie was in recovery, and she would do anything to show how confident she was in his ability to persevere through this. Even as she felt her own grip on things was quickly slipping.

The nurses glanced up at her, looking with perhaps shock or pity. It was hard to read their faces, and Ana wondered if she were perhaps projecting some of her own concerns. Was she shocked at this person who could walk without a tear or second glance into a hospital? Did she pity her? She was not sure what she felt, but it seemed to be on the faces of everyone she passed.

The room was brightly lit, but empty. There was the steady rhythm of the instruments, blinking and whirring with things she did not understand. It took her the span of a heartbeat to freeze upon entering. Howie was sitting up in his bed, a tray of hospital food in front of him, looking somewhat bored and irritated.

“Howie?” it was just over a whisper, but someone had sucked all the air from the room. Surely it was enough that she had managed that.

He glanced over at her, smiling distantly. “Good morning.”

“You’re awake? You’re sitting up? I thought that—“

He shrugged, grimacing slightly with the motion. “Not one hundred percent, but working my way there. Sounds like I’m a lucky guy.”

She was at his side, holding his hand and gingerly touching his face to avoid the swollen bruises. Even those looked improved from the night before. He still smiled, eyes somewhat glassy. It must be the meds, she reasoned. He was probably still being pumped full of the good stuff. She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He was real. He was alive. Despite the assurances from the night before, she had questioned that it could be.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” he responded with a toothy grin. Ana felt herself recoil slightly, the comment hitting nerves that were still too raw.

“I’m just—how? They told me it would be days or weeks before you—“

“Don’t ask me. I’m not the doctor. Besides, it’s best not to question things like this, right? Our own little miracle.” He lifted his hand to brush her cheek. “I’m just glad I’m here now. With you.”

“Me too.”


The doctors had no more answers that Howie or Ana. They shrugged and pointed to his resiliency and fighting spirit. Some called it a miracle in recovery. Others assured them that quick intervention and expert surgical hands were the cause. Whatever it was, it was only a week later that the two left the hospital for home, Howie mended far beyond what anyone could have expected. Even the deep gashes ad surgical scars were nearly healed. One resident asked to use the story as part of a case study, to identify possible immunological and surgical features which attributed to the swift improvement. Howie gracefully declined. “You might not like what you find,” he quipped.

Ana was glad to have him home. She had been granted additional sick leave to care for him, but after only a few days, it simply became time to spend together again. And Ana was in love all over again with the revitalized Howie. It was not that she was happy about the accident, but the change was certainly a pleasant one. He was a man given a new lease on life, and he seemed to take in every moment with a newfound joy. Looking at him, she sometimes felt he was like a child again, discovering all the wonders of the world. He spent time sitting and soaking up the sun on their porch, whistling from time to time. He had never really whistled before, but now he was often caught up in some tune. He read voraciously, devouring the untouched books that had lined their home library. Ana enjoyed the chance to relive her favorite stories with him all over again. Gone were the petty squabbles about loading the dishwasher or scheduling a date night. They had managed to recapture the exhilaration and newness of their early relationship all over again.

The nightmares were unexpected, though the doctors had warned they might come in time, along with other symptoms. After a couple weeks of recovery, the nightmares were the only blip on an otherwise spotless recovery.

Ana was asleep, her head resting on his shoulder as they laid side-by-side. Since the accident, she had found every opportunity to be near him, as if afraid the wind would turn and he would vanish from her life. Sleeping was no different. His tossing woke her up.

There was a low, almost growl coming from his throat. Even in the dark, she could see the tension in his jaw and neck as he clenched his teeth together. The growl turned into a rumbling groan, growing louder as he body stiffened. Finally his jaw snapped open with the force of that groan, dumping it into the room where it seemed to echo around her.

“Howie,” she whispered, half-remember myths about waking sleep walkers. Did that go for people only talking? Was it dangerous?

The groan faded, but he began whispered quickly, the words coming out between half-sobs and whimpers, as if he were in pain. Memories of the accident, of his treatment, might return the doctors had said. She listened to the frantic whispering, hoping to find a clue.

“help me help me get me out it’s so dark so dark so cold and there’s nothing but it hurts the cold it hurts it’s all empty it’s all gone everything is blank and I’m alone and on fire and it’s so cold when it burns and you have to help me I have to get out”

Another groan, this one a mix of rage and powerlessness. Ana carefully touched his shoulder, barely shaking him. “Howie,” she risked again.

His eyes snapped open, seeming to burn in the dark room. For a moment, she saw hate and rage and pain in those eyes before they smoldered down to the cool detachment she was used to in them. He offered her a tired, impersonal smile. “You okay?”

“You were having a nightmare,” she offered weakly. It seemed as if she were the more shaken of the two after the experience. “About the accident. Just talking and asking for help. Are you okay?”

He reached over and put his arm around her, drawing her close. “Yeah, I’m fine. Some things you try to lock up, but they just try and find a way out, you know?”

“But you’re okay?”

He laughed sleepily, rolling to his side and laying his head in the crook of her neck. “I don’t even remember what I was dreaming.”

She nodded, closing her eyes but feeling sleep drifting far off into the distance. It had hurt to hear that much desperation and pain in his voice, bringing back those hours where she feared she would lose him forever. To know he was in such agony during that time…tears stung at the back of her eyes.

He kissed her softly on the cheek, pulling her even closer. “Sh,” he whispered, “don’t you worry about me. I’ll take care of it. I’ve already been to hell and back, so a few little nightmares aren’t going to bother me.”

He snored softly. It was a sleepless night for Ana, the first of many.


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This work by Katherine C is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

WIP: The Bench

Hello! I’ve been dealing with some winter blues recently, not really writing too much. But I’ve been getting back into it. This is not the first compete piece I’ve written, but it is one I’d like to post. I’m hoping to submit the other to some sites, so you’re likely to see it soon. I also just started a sci-fi story that I would like to work on, but it is likely to be much longer than what I usually post, so I wanted to get a bit farther in to get a sense of where it is going, then I’ll decide about posting.

Is this piece great? Certainly not. It has a lot of problems. But sometimes the solution to a writing slump is to just write something and put it out there. So that’s what I’m doing. i will probably come back and make some revision later, but this is a pretty straightforward story with a minor twist to the expected plot. As always, thoughts and comments about how to improve are greatly appreciated!


Jack enjoyed hiking. It was a good excuse to get away from everything and everyone. He knew the trails well enough to get well away from civilization on a Sunday morning, only to begrudgingly trek back Sunday afternoon. This Sunday was no different. The sun was up early, a thin fog still lingering from rains the night before, and Jack was on the trail with his backpack. It was his life line. A trail map, ample supply of water, snacks and food that would keep if he got stuck in any too tight spots. Rope, first aid kit sun screen, mosquito repellant, fresh socks, and an emergency radio if things got dire. He had never used the radio and certainly hoped today would not be the day.

The forecast promised very warm weather today, one of the first official days of summer. For Jack that meant abnormally large crowds in the National Park, including irritable teenagers being forced on a family vacation, well-meaning adventurers just starting out for the season, and way more people than he cared to deal with. So he started early, on one of the more challenging trails. His route would take him long, require a brief bit of trekking through the woods on unmarked paths, and then back down and around an old ranger’s station that had not been used for the last four summers, at least. Jack knew because he had hiked this very trail many times before. It was an old favorite.

The din of vacationers was muted in the early morning hours, and soon even it faded from his ears. He passed a couple of other hikers—wearing absurdly large sun hats and straining on ornately carved walking sticks for sale in the park gift shop—early on, but they were already too out of breath to do much more than offer a friendly wave. Jack pressed on.

It was late in the morning when he finally reached the end of the first leg and prepared to set out across the forested landscape to meet up with the second trail. Such creativity was discouraged, but Jack did not particularly care. He knew there would be more than enough visitors to keep the park staff busy, and a respectful, skilled hiker was the least of their concerns.

This far in the only real sounds were the crunch of last year’s leaves under his feet, the trill of songbirds, and the rustle of the wind through the trees. He felt his stress melting away the further in he went, falling off him like scales of mud. This part of the hike always felt the easiest. He could shed all the burdens he had been carrying and march confidently between the trees. Once he started on the second path, there was the undeniable realization that he was hiking back to the real world. He always dutifully picked up his abandoned stresses, reattaching them to his weary body.

It was around noon when he found the bench. Jack knew this trail well, and he knew there was no bench. It also was out of place that it was not on any park recognized trail. He stopped in front of it, staring blankly at this unusual intruder. It rankled him, this sign of humanity out here among nothingness. Approaching it, he scanned it for any plaque or notice explaining why it was here, squeezed between two old oak trees. There was just enough room to sit down, but not much else. It also did not appear to lok at anything in particular, but was positioned staring out across the woods Jack was soon to traverse.

After allowing his irritation to subside, he reasoned it was a good enough place to sit and eat his lunch. Someone probably died and donated money to the park, but asked that the bench be placed here for some reason. Maybe it used to be a trail—his map showed the park as it was five years ago, so maybe something had overgrown here. Or maybe whoever donated the money had really pissed off someone on the board, who agreed to put in the commemorative bench but made sure to place it where no one would see. That possibility made Jack smile as he sat down and opened up his lunch.

He was only halfway through his apple when the sound of someone else crunching through the leaves made him turn to look. A man in a dusty, sweat-caked business suit was dragging his feet through the underbrush, face downcast. He offered a weak smile as he drew closer, then sat on the opposite end of the bench. Jack made a point to ignore him, turning his face to the side and continuing with his lunch.

“Bit out of the way, aren’t we?”

Jack ignored the man, taking a loud bite of his apple and shifting further down the bench. He had come all this way to be alone, not engage in idle chitchat with some stranger.

“So you’re not much of a talker, eh? I can understand that. I never was much of one myself.”

Jack quickly looked at the man, gave a curt nod and joyless smile. Perhaps that small sign would make it clear.

“Well, I mean, I guess it’s rude of me to assume. Can you even talk?”

Jack sighed. “Can I just eat my lunch in peace?”

The man laughed broadly, the sound seeming to carry for miles in the relative quiet. “I assure you, I am a peaceful man. You can have as peaceful a lunch as you want.”

“Thank you.” Jack finished munching through the core of his apple, leaving nothing but the stem. A good traveler left no sign behind.

“I always liked coming up here. A good chance to get away, you know?”

Jack sighed, but didn’t respond. He pulled out a slightly squashed sandwich and took a long swig of his water.

“I’m guessing that’s why you’re here, too. Just a chance to get away.” No matter the amount of silence it only seemed to encourage the stranger. “I came up here all the time. Never wanted to leave, wished I could just sit here forever. That’s how I got this here bench. But it’s not quite as enjoyable as you might think. Your butt gets awfully sore sitting on this hard wood day in and day out. Had to get up and stretch a bit, you know?” He laughed, though this time there was a sad, cynical quality to it.

Jack half listened to the man’s babbling, more focused on finishing his meal and getting on with his trip. If he hadn’t been hungry, he would have moved on already. That and he still hoped the man would somehow get the picture and take his rambling elsewhere.

“So, what do you want, son? What brings you up here.”

“I don’t want anything,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I just want to be left alone.”

“Ah, see, you do want something. What do you mean, to be left alone?”

Jack stopped chewing, barely catching himself before his mouth hung open in awe. How could anyone be so thick, he found himself wondering. “Listen, I come up here to get away. Form work, from noise, but most importantly from people. So I don’t really want to talk to anyone up here.”

“Oh, so that’s what you want? To be alone?”

“Yes, finally, yes. I want to be left alone. No people. This is my chance to get away from everyone, and that means you.” Jack felt a slight smile spread over his face.

The man beamed from his seat. “Well, why didn’t you say so? And you are right, this certainly is your chance! I’ll be on my way, and I guarantee you that you will get exactly what you want, Jack. You’ll be all alone, here on out.”

The man stood, gave a slight nod of his head to signify his departure, and walked back the way Jack had come. Jack reached down to uncap his water bottle and discovered the man had already disappeared from sight behind the leafy trees, the sound of his steps having faded back into birdsong. Finally alone, Jack felt at peace.

After finishing the sandwich and a handful of nuts, he rose to his feet. The rest of the trek would be hopefully uneventful, he thought as he shouldered his pack. He made off along the path he knew by heart, enjoying the feeling of the dappled sun on his skin. Here there were no deadlines or micromanagers looming over his shoulders. It was just him and the birds, but that was just fine by him.

When he found the next trail, he felt that heavy weight settle back on his shoulders. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was heavy in the sky. Despite his comfort on the trails, even he did not want to risk trying to navigate it by moonlight and flashlight. So that meant the inevitable trek back to the noise. Back to his car sitting in the parking lot. Back to his too small apartment. And, eventually, back to an uncomfortable office chair in the middle of a cubicle farm. He sighed as it all came crashing back down, but pressed own with a dour expression etched into his face.

He expected to run into exhausted families dragging along pouting children as he neared, but it was surprisingly quiet. Even as he passed by the river, he could not hear the usual ruckus of people playing in the water, squealing as they slipped in and discovered just how cold a natural water source could be. Even once back in the parking lot, there were no groups of hikers, kayakers, or weekend warriors loading up their sunburned bodies into cars with a look of pleased exhaustion etched on their faces. The parking lot was full, but silent.

Jack couldn’t help but feel as if he may have missed some major emergency. There were alert towers spread throughout the park, but he had heard no warning sirens of any sort. Falling into his car, he turned on the radio and searched for a news report, but the signal appeared to be out. Static on all the stations.

He sighed. Just his luck that the radio would go out. It was not that he used it often, but it was, at least, supposed to function in a car. What would he do if Dave needed a ride? Usually, he turned the radio up and appeared to listen intently, even to the commercials. Visons of idle chatter and small talk filled his mind as he moved the car into reverse, and then drove out of the park.

The ranger was not at the gate with his usual cheerful wave goodbye. Perhaps some tragedy had occurred in the park. A kid got lost of something. Maybe everyone was searching for little Tommy or Julie. Jack spared a thought, hoping they would be found, but did not let that slow his drive out of the park.

The rad was empty. No headlights flared into view along the winding road. He lived close to the park, but was still used to passing a good number of people. It was nice though, he thought. The lights usually hurt his eyes.

The smokers were not in front of his apartment tonight, nor were the college kids out at the grills like they had been the past two weekends. He didn’t even hear the baby in 3E crying for what had to be the first time in weeks. Jack had ben seriously beginning to wonder how the child even ate with the crying going on day in and day out. He stomped into his apartment, dropped his pack, and made his way to the bathroom for a nice, hot shower. It did little to wash away the tension that had built up as he thought about work the next day, but he at least smelled cleaner.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, he made a quick dinner and settled in on the couch. Jack ran through his calendar for the next day, noting the meetings and project deadlines. He was fairly certain he had finished everything on Friday that was due, but there always lingered the fear that something would come up and surprise him, Or, worse and far more common, he would get in tomorrow to realize one of his coworkers had not completed their portion, meaning his entire day would be spent making up for their failure. He shook his head and tried to put the thoughts out of his mind, leaning back against the couch.

In the surprising quiet of his apartment, he soon fell asleep.

The world was just as quiet as he woke, got dressed, and trudged out the door to work. Just as quiet as he drove in on deserted streets. Just as quiet as he approached the empty office building and walked the stairs, staring into each floor in turn. It was quiet as he headed home with a broad grin on his face, quiet as he jogged up the stairs to his apartment, and quiet as he grabbed his pack to head back to the woods.

Jack needed no more evidence to realize his wish had come true. He was alone. And while movies and television had always told him he would regret what he had wished for, Jack felt nothing but absolute joy.


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This work by Katherine C is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Quick Note About Beta Reading

Hello!

As usual, not dead. Furiously working on completing the first draft of my dissertation before a December 15 deadline. Expect to see me around here after that. Lots of ideas.

My main point in posting is someone recently sent me a request to beta read, but the listed email seems to have an error. It keeps getting bounced back. If that was you, you can resend the info via the contact form, or email me directly at atticussattic@gmail.com

Thanks. Hope to be posting again soon!

First Draft: Autumn

Here is something I threw together in honor of fall. Just an idea that I wanted to play with. As always, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


Michael had no reason to fear. True, it was certainly a situation where one might consider fear an appropriate response, but there was absolutely no reason for him to fear.

It had been a peaceful evening up until that point. The day had been dreary, rain trickling down window panes and pattering on the sidewalk. He had watched it, gloomily, from his office window. It was hard to stay focused and productive with the grey and slithering weather slipping past his window. The morning felt like early evening, the afternoon like dusk. His body was already prepared to crash when he got home, convinced it was 7:00 by the time he made it out of the grey structure.

Somehow, however, the cloud cover had broken on the drive home. There were only a few hours of sunlight left, but Michael eagerly soaked it in from behind his car windows. After getting home, he resolutely set out for an early evening walk to take in the clean, warm air. It was a perfect walk, the scent of fall in the air, still slightly damp from the day’s rain. The sun was warm and beaming.

His neighborhood was nice, and it seemed others had a similar idea. Families and children seemed to be soaking up the lovely weather, certain that rain would trundle back by the next day. It was the unofficial rainy season, the tail end of summer as it shifted to the chilly fall weather. There was some magic to the changing season, and it seemed everyone wanted to witness to it.

Michael had eventually drifted into the park, making his way into the wooded paths. The sun filtered through the leaves, highlighting the subtly shifting shades of the leaves. A nice breeze picked up, and he tugged his jacket closer. The leaves whispered around him. It was peaceful.

But, as is common with fall evenings, the darkness seemed to settle in at a surprisingly rapid pace. The sun eventually sunk beneath the hills on the horizon, casting long golden fingers around the newly approaching clouds. Shadows grew long, eventually melding into one another, casting a heavy blanket of darkness over the park. Michael sighed as the lamps flicked on, sodium yellow now filtering through the trees. If not for a growing hunger in his gut—that slice of pizza from lunch had not lasted as long as he would have liked—he might have spent a little longer meandering along the path. The air was getting a bitter edge to it, and he almost thought he could hear rain whispering in the top of the leafy canopy. It was for the best to return home.

Only, as is so often the case, the best laid plans most certainly went awry. He found himself standing at a fork in the road, completely unsure of which path he had come from. He had been lost in thought, barely paying attention to where his feet wandered. Still, the park was not that big, and there was no harm in taking a wrong turn. The worst case, he reasoned, would be he ended up on a street a couple blacks over instead of next to his house. The weather was still nice enough to make it adventure, not an inconvenience.

The leaves rustled around him as he arrived yet again at a fork I n the path. He had not passed this many, surely. Still, he was certain that the paths would eventually lead it. They were all pretty much interlinked circles, after all. He tried to remember the map at the edge of the park with its brightly highlighted trails, but it was simply a mess of tangled lines crossing over and under one another.

It was not until he came upon yet another path with no memory of the choice that he began to feel a slight prickle of unease. The park was not that big.

His pace was faster, and he zipped up his jacket His hands were actually getting a bit chilled, even though he had not thought the temperature was supposed to drop that drastically tonight. Around and around he wandered, hidden under the leaves and following one stout lamp post to another.

And then, the path ended.

For a moment, Michael stood and stared at the path that simply thinned and then disappeared into a pile of leaves. There were no sounds—not even the sound of cars zipping past on the nearby roads—besides the whispering of leaves rustling overhead. The wind must have kicked up, he reasoned, as the sound rose to a crescendo.

He did not remember dead ends in all of his trips to the park. Then again, he did not remember forks upon forks leading him deeper and deeper into the woods. It was obvious he must not have been paying much attention. Shrugging his shoulder, he turned around.

It was then Michael began to fear, even if there was no reason to. Standing before him was a pile of leaves, which certainly does not sound terrifying. However, if you were walking along the woods, slightly lost, and suddenly came upon a human shaped collection of fall leaves, you might startle as well. You certainly would as it opened big, golden, owl-like eyes and stared at you with predatory eagerness.

Fear tends to produce one of three responses in a human. They will choose to either fight, flee, or freeze. In this moment, Michael chose to freeze. His mouth fell open as if someone had unhinged his jaw, and his eyes seemed to fall back into the cavern of his skull. For a moment, he simply took in the image of some impossible creature before him.

It opened its mouth—though it did not quite have a mouth. He only understood it as a mouth because of the sounds that began when a chasm opened up just below the eyes. It was leaves whispering in the wind, hissing and slithering in a language he could not comprehend. It was then that he noticed the jagged points of red and orange ringing that opening, the undulating vine that writhed within the expanse. Teeth, his mind labeled. Tongue.

Suddenly, they looked sharp. Michael felt his fear—as useless as it was—enter a new stage, call upon a new tactic. Flee, it said. He turned and began to rush through the underbrush, damp leaves slick with rain and threatening his minutest progress. Still, despite the treacherous footing, he made his way through the woods, hands batting away grasping branches. Behind him, he heard the leaves laughing at him, their bodies sliding one over another, laughing in a frozen breeze.

Michael did what you most certainly should not and chanced a glance behind him. He could see the strange creature cut from foliage rising among the tree, clambering over the branches like water pooling over stones. For a moment, he was struck by the memory of his chemistry teacher rolling mercury in a glass bottle. It seemed to glide over the surface the same way this creature wove between the branches.

Of course, his attention torn away, he was quick to slip. And that thing was quick to pounce, diving from the trees in a flurry of movement. Michael was pinned to the ground, and he called upon his very last resource. He started to fight. Michael’s legs flew towards the creature, ripping into its leafy form, only to be swallowed up in the mass. He tried to pull his arms away, to scrtch nad punch at what he assumed was the things face. But instead, his arms seemed ot sink into the loamy soil beneath him. The woodland detritus beneath his back seemed to come alive, wrapping around him and pulling him into an impossible embrace.

The creature almost seemed to smile, that gap of a mouth stretching wider with that same sibilant laugh. Now he could see the teeth clearly, sharp and dangerous despite their innocent appearance. It smelled of rot and decay in there, eons of autumns cast into an inky pit of some living horror.

In that moment, Michael gave up on fear. As the teeth grew closer, wrapping around his yes, he finally saw the error of his ways.

And so, Michael had no reason to fear. Fear should do something, give a creature some hope of surviving an ordeal. But, for Michael, it had no purpose. He could freeze, flee, or fight all he wanted. But there was no good reason to fear. After all, he was dead the moment he laid eyes upon those hungry eyes.


First Draft: Hope Springs Eternal

Hey, here;s a little something I whipped up tonight. The first line was pretty much the information, a quote adapted from something one of my supervisor’s said during training. Just a idea, bit of a thought experiment with some mild twists thrown in. As always, feedback heartily welcomed. I hope you enjoy, and happy reading!


Hope is the knowledge that the next moment can be better. It is about potential and the inexorable march of time. I used to think my next moment could be better, but eternity has dissuaded me from that foolishness. I live without hope.

At least, I think I live. I have been trying to remember those qualities I learned in grade school to determine if something was alive. Living things move, but I have not twitched an inch in so long, I know longer know which direction my libs would customarily travel. Living things reproduce and grow, neither of which I have done any of recently. I know that energy is a part of being alive, and I suppose I have enough energy for thought. Then again, so would a computer, and it certainly is not alive. Unless the world has changed more than I realize.

I remember my teacher—Mrs. Hasemblat—writing the signs of life on the board. She started with simple things, like dogs and rocks, and then got more and more tricky. Were trees alive? What about fungi? Bacteria? Viruses?

Living things had to be organized, and I suppose I am still organized. I know that I have two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes. My lips are dry and cracked, a constant source of dull irritation. I assume my eyes sits right where they always have, crushed too deeply into my face and set just too far apart to make me conventionally attractive. Knowing no one can see you makes you surprisingly honest about physical appearance.

The one that seems to fit me best, however, is that complicated process of homeostasis. Mrs. Hasemblat talked about air conditioning and hunger to help us understand. She brought in a set of scales and showed us how things can be balanced. I am perfectly balanced. Never one bit out of sync, always exactly as I should be.

And perhaps that is it. I finally hit the perfect human balance point, and now my body refuses to disrupt that delicate homeostasis. I’d love to say I’ve spent days, weeks, or years here in limbo, but without another moment to come along, that time really has no meaning. It’s hard to describe how something can feel so long when time has absolutely no reign in some strange purgatory.

I’d wonder if others noticed that I was gone—or I used to before that thought experiment became too boring. I ran through every permutation, and none of them were promising. More importantly, none of them broke this curse. I assume they did not, because they are still sitting in front of me, their faces lit with smiles. Jason has a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, eyes bright with the first half of a joke. I never got to hear the end of that joke. I think I figured out what it would be, because I have had plenty of time to contemplate how “a man called the electrician about his washing machine,” can end. At least I can find solace in the fact that the joke was likely terrible.

Claudia’s hand is on mine. Her skin is still warm, a comfortable weight atop my fingers. She was mid-laugh when it all stopped. At least I can be close to her, even though I cannot see or hear her.

Yes, the lack of sound is concerning. Well, lack of sound is incorrect. There is sound, but it is just a single moment of sound, playing endlessly. A dull thrum of a single syllable from every mouth. It just becomes useless white noise, or at least it did after a while.

I wonder if I have died. Or if the world ended. Or if someone unplugged me and left me in some strange limbo, forever caught between one page of my life and the next. Good things were going to happen, I am certain of it. Only those moments will never come. The next moment certainly would be better, but I am convinced now that it cannot. It cannot be better because it cannot be. I am forever in this single instant, a frozen memory forgotten by someone.

I wish I were dead, because nothingness would be better than the intolerableness of being and having no agency. I cannot move or speak or cry or sleep or read or die. And that must be the ultimate injustice. I cannot even choose to cease to be, to escape this hell of emptiness. I must continue on, a solitary sentry on this instant time forgot.

Jason’s eyes watch me, and I find myself sinking deeper into despair. That is the only thing I can change about my state. I can despair and mourn and bitterly embrace my cruel fate. And so I despair a bit more, and let myself think again that they all may be trapped with me. Perhaps Claudia is just as frozen at my side, our child half-knit in her belly and destined to never be born. Is Jason frozen, the words of his stupid joke forever pasted to his lips? Has the whole world stopped on its violent course through the universe and held onto this microsecond of existence?

Perhaps the universe collapsed. Or maybe the Earth did stand still, sending us plummeting into a void where physics, time, and human consciousness have no meaning.

I have thought of a million and one possible scenarios, but none of them help to set me free. If hope is knowing the next moment can be better, than I of all people am certainly hopeless. I cannot even hope to die any longer.

_

Maggie dragged her arm under her bed, scraping up years’ worth of detritus from underneath. It was hard to imagine actually leaving the old house, but her burgeoning family certainly needed more room to grow. It was hard to say goodbye to such a good home.

She sat up and surveyed the assortment of trash, papers, and forgotten treasures. There were more candy wrappers than she wanted to admit, a handful of cat toys, two letters Alvin had written her, a framed picture from her senior prom, and a dog-eared old book. She sorted the trash from the keepsakes, and then turned her attention to the book. Donation or library, she pondered?

The cover was dusty, and she did not immediately remember the title. Her bookmark was still wedged halfway between the covers, so she guessed she must have dedicated some time to it. Still, flipping to the back cover offered no further illumination. Claudia, Jason, Cory, and Luanne were high school friends reconnecting when they were caught up in a supernatural thriller of sorts. It was definitely the kind of cheap, cliché, fast-paced book she liked to read, but it had been sorely neglected.

She flipped it open, sneezing as it gave up a hearty serving of dust for her efforts. She scanned the page where her bookmark sat, reading briefly about the dinner where they finally put aside the years of difference and began to reconnect. As she read it, she felt tingles of memory. It seemed like things were about to take a terrible turn—the lights would probably go out soon, she thought with a smirk.

Jason leaned forward, his dinner halfway between table and snapping teeth. It was spared for the briefest of moments by a joke. ‘So, a man called the electrician about his washing machine…’ he began, looking around the table to be certain he had everyone’s attention.

Cory was rapt with attention, barely noticing Claudia’s manicured hand finding its resting place on his, giving him a light squeeze. They waited with bated breath for the rest of the joke. Jason had always been the class clown, ready with a quick wit and hilarious story. For once, the four felt young again. They felt alive. Invincible.”

Maggie shook her head and closed the book, tucking it under her arm. It certainly was not highbrow literature, nor was it likely to win any awards. But, she hated to leave a book unfinished. It seemed disrespectful to simply abandon the characters midway through, to not at least give them the benefit of finishing their story.

Besides, it could not be that bad of a story. Or, so she hoped.


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This work by Katherine C is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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