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Archive for September, 2015

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.


First Draft: What You Forgot

Hello! Sorry for disappearing again. I’ve been settling into a new routine, and recently developed annoying daily headaches. By the time I get home from work, I’m fending off one, and that makes me unlikely to do much writing. For those I generally email back and forth with, this is why I may have been relatively silent. Computer screens tend to exacerbate the symptoms. I’m trying some environmental changes, like using lamps and natural light more than the obnoxious fluorescents at work, drinking water, sleeping more, and other things. Hopefully I get them managed soon, because it’s really frustrating to deal with them daily. They aren’t bad, but having them every day is really getting old.

And then there’s the age-old problem where I currently hate everything I’m writing. That’s always good. Which means I have a handful of half-finished things, and nothing ready to be posted. That is good in that I will have lots to post at some point, but bad in that I do not currently have a multitude of pieces to choose and post from. Well, except for this piece. It’s a shorter one, and I more like the idea than the piece. It was an attempt to write something in second person that I would not absolutely hate, and I think it sort of does that. You’ll just have to judge for yourselves the merit of this one! Happy reading!


You do not remember what happened back then. Whatever it was, it is lost in a haze that only briefly resurfaces in your deepest nightmares or that flash of anxiety deep in your gut. You were too young to remember it then, and youth may be precisely what saved you. Only you are not so young now, and your youth can no longer be your shield.

You know something happened, try as you might to ignore it. You caught hints of it in those stilted dinner time conversations when your parents would smile and swiftly change the subject, obviously dancing around something sinister. There was a fear and panic in their smiles, so you knew it must mean something. Even if you consciously brushed it aside, it burrowed into your subconscious. You remembered the half-known dreams with abstract feelings of guilt and pleasure that woke you with the power of the mood, even if the specifics grew fuzzy. You knew that there were certain words and phrases that sent an unnatural shiver down your spine, even though they seemed so benign. There was something buried in your life so deep, no conscious thought could uncover it.

You were so small when it happened, you must have been innocent. That was what they said at the time, at least. You do not remember the babysitter with her short, dark hair and innocent, trusting eyes. She had just been certified for babysitting, or so she said, whatever that meant. She was responsible and organized, if perhaps a little strict. Dutifully and impersonally, she prepared your dinner, put you in pajamas, and tucked you into bed. No matter you were not ready for bed. Once she thought you were asleep—though you certainly were not at such an unreasonable hour—she tuned out the house with that music she was so enamored with. It all sounded angry and violent to your unaccustomed ears. You could hear it surrounding you as she made you dinner, heard the sounds drip from her lips as she hummed and half-sang along from somewhere in the house as you fought not to sleep.

You were angry, and he was there to help. You certainly do not remember your imaginary friend. Trauma at such a young age has a way of wiping away those details. Or so they say. He was there to soothe you, and he promised to make sure she understood. You do not remember his smile, with those fine, sharp teeth. You may remember his breath, a warm and sticky mixture that sometimes catches you on a hot summer’s day, making you feel at once uneasy and overwhelmed. You might remember his eyes, those dimly sparkling spheres that you sometimes think you see in the shadows of your room, even if you do not know what you are looking for. But, then., he smiled so wide and it soothed you.

What happened next is anybody’s guess. The police report said that someone broke into the house and attacked her, using a kitchen knife to slice her stomach into thin ribbons. Of course, it also said there was no sign of forced entry; the attacker was someone she knew. It said you were spared as you slept soundly in your room, somehow immune from the deranged attacker’s violent hate. You must have woke later and found her there. Not knowing any better, you tried to wake her, brought yourself close to her. You must have move the knife, since your fingerprints were on it. Surely that must be it, because you were so little and it was so violent. There was no other explanation.

Her boyfriend was questioned. A lover’s spat? No, it was determined, and he left the station in tears, scarred by the images they had plastered before his eyes. Luckily you do not remember what you saw that night, otherwise you would have to be very damaged, now wouldn’t you? They questioned your parents, suspecting some deviant scheme to harm young women in the neighborhood, but that was quickly dismissed. Their alibi was airtight; it was date night after all.  Her parents were brought in and left an inconsolable mess of human that eventually drifted away and fell apart. Whatever happened that night tore apart so many families.

Yours was spared, it seemed, and you were spared, it’s true. You appeared to be blissfully unaware of anything that had happened, able to continue your childhood as a happy child, grinning and laughing even as the detectives asked you about the events. You listened to your imaginary friend as he told you what to say, and you played with him as they sat beside you and begged for any sort of clue. Not that you spoke well at that age, but they were desperate for any sort of lead.

You would giggle talking about the knife and blood. When you mentioned the games you played with her, the rushed you along and asked you again and again about anyone who hurt her. They simply could not understand why it was so important they understand the game. At some point, you told them she screamed and they eagerly began to write. You told them she screamed because you had a knife and were angry at being sent to bed. They sighed, chalking it up to the egocentricity of a child. Maybe the event had rubbed off on you in some way, but certainly not in a way that would help them. So they thought.

But, you do not remember any of this. It was not long after that your imaginary friend disappeared, and you quickly forgot all the jokes about knives and blood that had been such a staple. You stopped trying to play the same game with your parents where you could hide the kitchen knives under your bed. Your parents were relieved, fearing you had would grow into some sociopath after such an early witnessing. Soon, you were just like every other kid. And so no one mentioned it any more. Your recovery was deemed fragile by your parents, afraid they would accidentally remind you of that night or somehow blame you for what happened. And so it became a silent truth, buried under years of need-to-know.

And now, you need to know. Because he is back. He was smiling at you just the other day, that time you thought someone was sitting behind you. You turned, he smiled at you with that wide smile, and you saw no one there. You laughed, shrugged it off, and moved on with your day. If it stopped there, you would still be safe. But it hasn’t. Before, you at least knew when he was ordering you around, even if it had tragic consequences. Now, though, you seem unaware. The other day, he told you to look out the window, and you did, your head swiveling sharply. You told yourself you must have seen something moving outside, but now you might know the truth.

Or not too long ago when you became so angry. It came on so quickly, and swelled to such a level, it surprised you. It seemed such a trivial matter, but it spurred you to such an unusual level of rage. Just tired, irritated, worn out, you reasoned as you calmed yourself back down. If only you could have seen the rage in his eyes or heard his violent whispers. Though the truth is you did hear and see, after all, you just do not remember.

Earlier this week, he whispered to you to scratch your head, and you did without a thought. Such a simple thing, you did not give it a second thought. Maybe it could have been just a coincidence if he had not been there, watching gleefully as you danced on his puppet strings.

And just a bit ago, he urged you sit down and read a bit. Click that link, go there. He pointed you to this page here, to these words. And he smiled.

He is testing you, making sure you will obey his orders just as you did those years ago. You complied then, and he thinks you will comply again. You need to know now if you are to stand a chance. Otherwise, you will comply. People will die. Only this time, they will know it was you.

And he will smile.


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