Listen and close your eyes
The green orbs bloom within your subconscious
Fragile, morphing, your mood reflected
Reddening and pulsating as the beat quickens
Blood-fueled energy
Scooping emotion from the depths
The soul, limitless, provides
Plasmatic and warm, cooling the cycle
Back to green sleep
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
HAPPILY EVER
He made quick work of it, the digging and all.
It was done with the utmost care, because he still loved her, notwithstanding her state, past, present, or - he shuddered to think - future. Their future, Lorna and himself, was to live the rest of their lives in wedded bliss; nobody could have forseen him having to handcuff her, bind her from head to toe, and throw her into this pit like a deceased pet.
He at least took care of the considerations. He dressed her in her favorite outfit, painted her finger- and toenails, carefully brushed her hair, and chose her most expensive, prized jewelry to bury her in. None of that mattered anymore, only her.
He shoveled scoop after scoop of loose dirt into the hole, working as quickly as possible to expedite the burial. There was no telling how long he had. He knew it was only a matter of time until and one of them stumbled across his acres of land, and there wouldn't be anyone left to bury him afterward.
His conscience was seared. He still couldn't believe he could do that to his soulmate, the love of his life. If it wasn't for that one moment, that lapse in judgment, they would still be able to survive the ordeal together. But fate took hold, and her destiny was forever changed when she opened the door for a breath of night air... and instead found an unwelcome intruder, thirsty for blood and hungry for flesh.
Always hungry, as he soon found out.
He managed to take the intruder down with a single blast of his shotgun. Tore his head clean in two, which stopped him in his tracks. But it was too late... the stranger, far beyond earthly recognition, had grabbed a hold of Lorna's hair and hungrily ripped off her left ear with his teeth. She pulled away, and He got the intruder. But the taint had already permeated her system. It was only a matter of hours before she, too, grew hungry beyond control.
He sat in darkness and silence. The television stations had already gone silent. The moments of confusion that remained over the radio airwaves were sparse but frantic, and he didn't need to hear that right now. He was determined to survive.
He tried to make their last moments memorable as she slipped into her otherworldly psychosis. He held her in his arms, they stayed together for as long as they could sing and talk and remember their fondest moments. He laid her on his lap, brushed her hair back, looked into her eyes, which were already starting to glaze and redden as the minutes passed. Her breath came in rattling heaves; her teeth clacked together as she exhaled. He felt her skin cooling beneath his caressing touch. He knew as she turned ashen before his eyes that it was time. Laying her gently on the sofa, he rummaged through the drawers trying to find whatever he could to make sure she could not loose her binds. He could not bear to destroy her beautiful visage, so the shotgun was out of the question. In a drawer, he managed to find some thick cord. In their bedroom nightstand, a pair of handcuffs that, ironically, were used for more pleasurable endeavors.
Carefully, taking great pains not to speed the proces of decay, he clamped the cuffs around her delicate wrists. The skin underneath was beginning to peel, and came off in wispy flakes as he moved her. He pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it behind her head. He then wound the cord around her, starting at her shoulders and working down until she was completely bound.
He then kissed her on her forehead, whispering, "I'm so sorry, my love. I wish I could have done more."
At two A.M., he finished filling the makeshift grave. Sweat was dribbling in large streams down his forehead, and he was filthy from head to toe. He lifted the shovel over his shoulder and walked back into the house to shower and retire for the night. His sobs of anguish were audible as he went inside, closing the door behind him.
The next day, all seemed quiet. He tried to put the events of the last evening behind him, but he couldn't help from time to time staring at the mound of earth by the toolshed. Most of the day was spent gathering boards and random items to board the windows up to prepare for the impending onslaught. Once one of them had found his property, more were certain to arrive soon. By sundown, he had all of his windows boarded and all doors but the front door secured -- which was a single point of entry, his intention. He looked at his work satisfactorily, gazed one more at his wife's grave, and prepared for his first full night of waiting, alone, for the unknown.
He sat in the livingroom, on his easy chair, alone in the darkness. His shotgun lay on his lap. Where there used to be moonlight, the boards over the windows ensured there was now no such comfort. There was only black stillness, except for the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantle. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He remembered much brighter days, picnicking with Loma in the warm embrace of the midday sun. He remembered the gulls by the shore trying to take bites of their sandwiches, to their dismay and delight. He remembered the slow progression from interest in the food and time together to complete focus on each other. He remembered the carefree drive home, stopping every few miles to take silly pictures....
(tap tap tap)
He arose from his reverie with a start, grabbing his shotgun and standing up. The tapping seemed to be coming from the only weakness in his defenses, the front door. He slowly creeped forward, holding his gun in front of him in case something decided to get violent... he really didn't know enough about the sickness to predict what could happen. Stopping short of opening the door, he looked through the peephole into the moonlit darkness outside. And then something made his heart stop... a whisper.
"Ben?"
Lorna! It was her voice! He peered more intently through the hole, and saw the slight gleam in her eyes... though he couldn't tell if she was completely turned, or even if this was just a dream. He pinched himself on his arm, hard. "Lorna? Baby? Is that you?"
The voice again... soft, ethereal. "Ben? Let me in..... Ben.... I'm ok...."
He gulped, but found it difficult to swallow. Shuddering, his hand paused on the deadbolt knob. Why.. how was she....? This couldn't be real, but those eyes, that beautiful hair... it was unmistakeably her. He twisted the lock open. "Hold on Lorna, just a second..."
"Ben..."
He opened the door very slowly, wrapping his fingers around the edge and pulling it toward him. Her silhouette, hair blowing in the breeze, stood in front of him, slightly hunched, but definitely Lorna. The door swung wider, and her figure slowly stepped forward. Ben took a small flashlight out of his belt and clicked it on, shining it toward her face.... his hands trembling like autumn leaves before him, as he came to a devastating realization.
Her mouth was agape, half of her teeth missing and fragments of the gag that had been placed in her mouth dangling from her lips and chin. She advanced toward him, reaching up with a bloody stump of a wrist that somehow, in the day and a half that she'd been buried, she had managed to chew through in her mindless attempt to escape her bonds. In the other hand, with the handcuff still dangling around the wrist, was the shovel with which he had buried her.
He dropped the flashlight and fell backward. She ambled forward steadily, breathing wet, husky breaths, whispering through her mangled tongue, "Ben... i'm ok... just.... hungry..."
And in the distance, he noticed that after death, she had done what she was best at in life, the beautiful woman he had married, full of social graces, the love of his life.
She had brought dinner guests.
It was done with the utmost care, because he still loved her, notwithstanding her state, past, present, or - he shuddered to think - future. Their future, Lorna and himself, was to live the rest of their lives in wedded bliss; nobody could have forseen him having to handcuff her, bind her from head to toe, and throw her into this pit like a deceased pet.
He at least took care of the considerations. He dressed her in her favorite outfit, painted her finger- and toenails, carefully brushed her hair, and chose her most expensive, prized jewelry to bury her in. None of that mattered anymore, only her.
He shoveled scoop after scoop of loose dirt into the hole, working as quickly as possible to expedite the burial. There was no telling how long he had. He knew it was only a matter of time until and one of them stumbled across his acres of land, and there wouldn't be anyone left to bury him afterward.
His conscience was seared. He still couldn't believe he could do that to his soulmate, the love of his life. If it wasn't for that one moment, that lapse in judgment, they would still be able to survive the ordeal together. But fate took hold, and her destiny was forever changed when she opened the door for a breath of night air... and instead found an unwelcome intruder, thirsty for blood and hungry for flesh.
Always hungry, as he soon found out.
He managed to take the intruder down with a single blast of his shotgun. Tore his head clean in two, which stopped him in his tracks. But it was too late... the stranger, far beyond earthly recognition, had grabbed a hold of Lorna's hair and hungrily ripped off her left ear with his teeth. She pulled away, and He got the intruder. But the taint had already permeated her system. It was only a matter of hours before she, too, grew hungry beyond control.
He sat in darkness and silence. The television stations had already gone silent. The moments of confusion that remained over the radio airwaves were sparse but frantic, and he didn't need to hear that right now. He was determined to survive.
He tried to make their last moments memorable as she slipped into her otherworldly psychosis. He held her in his arms, they stayed together for as long as they could sing and talk and remember their fondest moments. He laid her on his lap, brushed her hair back, looked into her eyes, which were already starting to glaze and redden as the minutes passed. Her breath came in rattling heaves; her teeth clacked together as she exhaled. He felt her skin cooling beneath his caressing touch. He knew as she turned ashen before his eyes that it was time. Laying her gently on the sofa, he rummaged through the drawers trying to find whatever he could to make sure she could not loose her binds. He could not bear to destroy her beautiful visage, so the shotgun was out of the question. In a drawer, he managed to find some thick cord. In their bedroom nightstand, a pair of handcuffs that, ironically, were used for more pleasurable endeavors.
Carefully, taking great pains not to speed the proces of decay, he clamped the cuffs around her delicate wrists. The skin underneath was beginning to peel, and came off in wispy flakes as he moved her. He pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it behind her head. He then wound the cord around her, starting at her shoulders and working down until she was completely bound.
He then kissed her on her forehead, whispering, "I'm so sorry, my love. I wish I could have done more."
At two A.M., he finished filling the makeshift grave. Sweat was dribbling in large streams down his forehead, and he was filthy from head to toe. He lifted the shovel over his shoulder and walked back into the house to shower and retire for the night. His sobs of anguish were audible as he went inside, closing the door behind him.
The next day, all seemed quiet. He tried to put the events of the last evening behind him, but he couldn't help from time to time staring at the mound of earth by the toolshed. Most of the day was spent gathering boards and random items to board the windows up to prepare for the impending onslaught. Once one of them had found his property, more were certain to arrive soon. By sundown, he had all of his windows boarded and all doors but the front door secured -- which was a single point of entry, his intention. He looked at his work satisfactorily, gazed one more at his wife's grave, and prepared for his first full night of waiting, alone, for the unknown.
He sat in the livingroom, on his easy chair, alone in the darkness. His shotgun lay on his lap. Where there used to be moonlight, the boards over the windows ensured there was now no such comfort. There was only black stillness, except for the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantle. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He remembered much brighter days, picnicking with Loma in the warm embrace of the midday sun. He remembered the gulls by the shore trying to take bites of their sandwiches, to their dismay and delight. He remembered the slow progression from interest in the food and time together to complete focus on each other. He remembered the carefree drive home, stopping every few miles to take silly pictures....
(tap tap tap)
He arose from his reverie with a start, grabbing his shotgun and standing up. The tapping seemed to be coming from the only weakness in his defenses, the front door. He slowly creeped forward, holding his gun in front of him in case something decided to get violent... he really didn't know enough about the sickness to predict what could happen. Stopping short of opening the door, he looked through the peephole into the moonlit darkness outside. And then something made his heart stop... a whisper.
"Ben?"
Lorna! It was her voice! He peered more intently through the hole, and saw the slight gleam in her eyes... though he couldn't tell if she was completely turned, or even if this was just a dream. He pinched himself on his arm, hard. "Lorna? Baby? Is that you?"
The voice again... soft, ethereal. "Ben? Let me in..... Ben.... I'm ok...."
He gulped, but found it difficult to swallow. Shuddering, his hand paused on the deadbolt knob. Why.. how was she....? This couldn't be real, but those eyes, that beautiful hair... it was unmistakeably her. He twisted the lock open. "Hold on Lorna, just a second..."
"Ben..."
He opened the door very slowly, wrapping his fingers around the edge and pulling it toward him. Her silhouette, hair blowing in the breeze, stood in front of him, slightly hunched, but definitely Lorna. The door swung wider, and her figure slowly stepped forward. Ben took a small flashlight out of his belt and clicked it on, shining it toward her face.... his hands trembling like autumn leaves before him, as he came to a devastating realization.
Her mouth was agape, half of her teeth missing and fragments of the gag that had been placed in her mouth dangling from her lips and chin. She advanced toward him, reaching up with a bloody stump of a wrist that somehow, in the day and a half that she'd been buried, she had managed to chew through in her mindless attempt to escape her bonds. In the other hand, with the handcuff still dangling around the wrist, was the shovel with which he had buried her.
He dropped the flashlight and fell backward. She ambled forward steadily, breathing wet, husky breaths, whispering through her mangled tongue, "Ben... i'm ok... just.... hungry..."
And in the distance, he noticed that after death, she had done what she was best at in life, the beautiful woman he had married, full of social graces, the love of his life.
She had brought dinner guests.
Monday, December 22, 2008
GIFTWRAPPED
Over the television, perpetually turned on, Harvey heard the doorbell.
"I think I heard the doorbell, " he told Irma, his wife. She nodded.
Sliding on his slippers and tightening his bathrobe, he opened the door. Nobody was there. He scanned left, right, then down. There, lying at his feet, was a small, thin package fancily wrapped in green foil with red ribbon. "Look, Irm, " he said. "Someone's given us a gift."
She looked back at him. "Nobody gives gifts these days," she said.
He shuffled back over to his easy chair, holding the gift delicately.
"Do you think I should open it now?"
"I don't know," Irma replied. "Is it even your gift? Is there a tag with it?"
He poked at the gift, and pulled aside a small yellowish card that read "HARVEY: REMEMBER."
"Yes," he said, "It's for me, looks like."
"Well, I guess whoever sent it wants you to open it."
He tugged at the ribbon holding the wrapping together, slightly at first, but then more firmly until it began to come undone. The wrapping appeared hastily put together, and he didn't have to tug much for it to drop to the ground and reveal its contents: a little black box with a single red button. On the button, two words: "PUSH ME."
He looked up at Irma. "It says, push me."
"What if it's a bomb?"
"Gee, Irm, I dunno. That wouldn't be much of a gift."
"It would be for whoever sent it... did you make enemies, Harvey?"
He made a quizzical face. "Um.. no. I always try to be nice to everyone."
“Aw, Harv… just give it over to me. I’ll throw it away.”
“B-but it’s my gift. It might be something else, you know.”
“How in God’s name would you be able to find that out? Just give it to me.”
His fingers clenched tighter around the strange box. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
“You can’t be serious. It’s a black box with a red button. It might be a bomb. It might be completely useless. Either way, it’s garbage.” She arose from her recliner and approached Harvey with her hands out. “Just hand it over.”
“No.”
Harvey clutched the box and pressed it tightly against him, and Irma made her move. She grabbed whatever little of the box she could and tried to yank against his stubborn fingers. Her face turned red with agitation. “Let…. Go…..”
The commotion almost drowned out the steady stream of monotonous instructions coming from the television, with him holding the box tighter than ever, and her yanking with all of her might, and both gasping for breath and their last fiber of strength.
He wailed, “You… never…. Let me have…. Anything!” - - and with that, the box, finally torn from his hands, flew across the room and hit the far wall, precisely where they weren’t expecting the collision – right square on the button, pressing it. They both stared slack-jawed at the box on the floor, red button now flashing furiously.
“Oh my god. Harry, I tried to save you. Really, Harry, I tried to-“
“Save me from what?” he asked. But already, he knew. More precisely, he remembered. The circuit block in the brain, installed by the High Command should certain circumstances warrant, like this. The subtle hack, engineered by one of the few remaining in the Resistance. The trigger, in the form of the little black box with the red button.
It would only be a matter of time – the sirens, the door crashing down.
At least now, he was prepared.
"I think I heard the doorbell, " he told Irma, his wife. She nodded.
Sliding on his slippers and tightening his bathrobe, he opened the door. Nobody was there. He scanned left, right, then down. There, lying at his feet, was a small, thin package fancily wrapped in green foil with red ribbon. "Look, Irm, " he said. "Someone's given us a gift."
She looked back at him. "Nobody gives gifts these days," she said.
He shuffled back over to his easy chair, holding the gift delicately.
"Do you think I should open it now?"
"I don't know," Irma replied. "Is it even your gift? Is there a tag with it?"
He poked at the gift, and pulled aside a small yellowish card that read "HARVEY: REMEMBER."
"Yes," he said, "It's for me, looks like."
"Well, I guess whoever sent it wants you to open it."
He tugged at the ribbon holding the wrapping together, slightly at first, but then more firmly until it began to come undone. The wrapping appeared hastily put together, and he didn't have to tug much for it to drop to the ground and reveal its contents: a little black box with a single red button. On the button, two words: "PUSH ME."
He looked up at Irma. "It says, push me."
"What if it's a bomb?"
"Gee, Irm, I dunno. That wouldn't be much of a gift."
"It would be for whoever sent it... did you make enemies, Harvey?"
He made a quizzical face. "Um.. no. I always try to be nice to everyone."
“Aw, Harv… just give it over to me. I’ll throw it away.”
“B-but it’s my gift. It might be something else, you know.”
“How in God’s name would you be able to find that out? Just give it to me.”
His fingers clenched tighter around the strange box. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
“You can’t be serious. It’s a black box with a red button. It might be a bomb. It might be completely useless. Either way, it’s garbage.” She arose from her recliner and approached Harvey with her hands out. “Just hand it over.”
“No.”
Harvey clutched the box and pressed it tightly against him, and Irma made her move. She grabbed whatever little of the box she could and tried to yank against his stubborn fingers. Her face turned red with agitation. “Let…. Go…..”
The commotion almost drowned out the steady stream of monotonous instructions coming from the television, with him holding the box tighter than ever, and her yanking with all of her might, and both gasping for breath and their last fiber of strength.
He wailed, “You… never…. Let me have…. Anything!” - - and with that, the box, finally torn from his hands, flew across the room and hit the far wall, precisely where they weren’t expecting the collision – right square on the button, pressing it. They both stared slack-jawed at the box on the floor, red button now flashing furiously.
“Oh my god. Harry, I tried to save you. Really, Harry, I tried to-“
“Save me from what?” he asked. But already, he knew. More precisely, he remembered. The circuit block in the brain, installed by the High Command should certain circumstances warrant, like this. The subtle hack, engineered by one of the few remaining in the Resistance. The trigger, in the form of the little black box with the red button.
It would only be a matter of time – the sirens, the door crashing down.
At least now, he was prepared.
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