Short Story – RESURRECTING THE PAST
The enormous, seven-foot-long egg cracked slightly, a single eye, its slit pupil surrounded by flaming red, peering through. Jameson was sure he glimpsed a shimmer of malicious satisfaction reflected in that unflinching gaze, though such a thing was surely impossible.
Created in a lab, spliced from the unknown genetic material found by happenstance at the site of a recent volcanic eruption, ‘Baby’, as Jameson liked to jokingly call it, had been deliberately left bereft of any aggressive tendencies. Such a thing had not been easy, and a hundred years ago when genetic splicing was in its infancy it would have been impossible, but things had changed a lot since then.
For starters, the world had died.
To say such a thing was a phenomenally simplistic version of what had happened, and the geologists always went into an apoplectic fit whenever Jameson said it around them, which he often did just to lighten the mood. Basically, though, the entire planet had tilted on its axis and almost everyone died as the oceans covered the land.
It had all been due to humans, of course. The bad crap always was. Stupidity combined with selfishness combined with short-sightedness amounted to little bits of damage, like tiny paper cuts on the world which, on their own, did very little harm, but when combined together for over a century these small cuts began to seriously injure the planet. Finally the Earth fought back. It rolled over and killed everyone, just like a dog killing fleas… but much more effectively. Only a few had survived, and rebuilding had taken almost a century, creating a society from the dust of the old one, picking scraps of knowledge from places which had survived, such as the one they currently stood in.
‘Baby’ had been their first attempt to resurrect something from a time before humans. They had successfully cloned people, animals and plants, repopulating the world and feeding the new civilization for many decades, but this new DNA had held within it possibilities previously undreamed of by mankind.
It wasn’t a dinosaur, they had been certain of that within seconds, but it was similar. Its blood wasn’t cold, rather it ran hotter than that of a mammal, yet for all intents and purposes it had the stalwart proponents of a reptile. Armor-like skin, incredible eyesight, hearing and smell were just the beginning; this creature also contained within its makeup something which made Jameson think it had some kind of sixth sense, some mental ability beyond any creature ever known to man.
And yet it had still died. How could such a powerful creature become extinct?
Jameson didn’t know, but he thought they might be able to find out. From his estimates, such a massive amount of mind power, using almost one hundred percent of the brain, might also be able to retain memory from its former life, memories which had been trapped within its DNA. To tap into such a font of knowledge might explain so much that mankind had never understood; the pyramids, Stonehenge… perhaps even UFOs, sightings of which were becoming more and more prevalent as each year passed. If nothing else, they would be able to dissect Baby and determine its amazing ability to heal and grow at such an incredible rate. Such a thing might mean the end of disease on Earth forever.
The crack widened, the eye blinked – a wink, seemingly to Jameson alone. Perhaps Baby knew he was its creator, maybe it knew everything. A hand appeared, its opposable-thumb strangely humanoid, but contrasted by the thickly-scaled skin, the motley coloring of dark-green and burgundy like nothing he’d ever seen.
For a moment only he felt dread, but forced the thought away. The hatching chamber was impregnable – both from outside and within. Nothing was going to escape. He was certain of it.
The emerging arm was similarly human-like, and with one massive sweep it cracked the egg even further, thrusting aside the top, three-inch-thick half of the shell. Jameson had chosen this birthing case as opposed to an artificial one to make the creation more natural, but the shell which had grown around the embryo had blocked all scans, making this their first viewing of Baby. It had also grown along with the embryo, going from something which was only several inches-long into an egg which weighed well over a ton.
But now Baby was finally exposed, and Jameson feared he had been wrong to play God.
Every other scientist in the room gasped as Baby stood for the first time, its long legs, back-bent at the knees, balancing without issue – almost like it had just risen from bed, not birth. Unlike the hands, the feet were not humanoid, though they did have toes… two of them. Each one ended in a sharp, claw-like black nail.
What was this thing?
The body held far too much musculature for something deemed only in its infancy, and the mottled black and burgundy covered its entire body, as did the armor-like scaling. It had no tail, which surprised Jameson, who had always imagined Baby to be monkey-like in its appearance, but it seemed much more like an ape than anything.
His eyes finally gazed at Baby’s head and he silently grimaced. It was like nothing he had ever seen, with a four-way jaw which, when closed, left a lipless X. The eyes burned at him maliciously and it had neither ears nor nose, merely slits where they should have been.
“Hello Doctor.”
Jameson jumped backwards, stumbling into a medical trolley and sending instruments flying, but he didn’t care. His heart threatened to tear through his ribs with its ferocious beating and he was having trouble breathing.
Baby had talked. But it couldn’t talk, there was no way. The voice had been smooth and without accent, completely opposed to the creature’s appearance. Glancing at the other scientists, he saw his own disbelief mirrored in their faces. What had they done?
It approached the seven-inch-thick reinforced glass and tapped it with its forefinger. The entire pane instantly exploded outward, showering everyone with shards, slicing flesh to ribbons. Jameson barely managed to grab the medical trolley and shielding himself with it, dropping to his knees at the same time, saving his life. Bodies dropped all around him and Jameson cowered on the floor as their twitching slowed, and then the crunching of footsteps upon shattered glass threatened to stop his heart once more.
“Thank you for reviving me, Doctor Jameson. My imprisonment was always somewhat… annoying. Now I am free to do what I was always destined for.”
Jameson pushed aside the trolley with shaking hands and stared up at Baby, who was gazing down at him, an expression upon its face much like that of a child right before it steps on a bug.
“How can you speak English?” Jameson gasped.
“I have scanned your brain and absorbed every speck of information it contains, although it was hardly enough to quench my thirst for knowledge. Perhaps I should have kept some of your companions alive for longer.”
“What are you?”
“I am many things, and have gone by many names. Searching through your pitiful mind I am somewhat surprised that stories of me have survived through the many cataclysms this planet has seen and somehow made their way to your wretched species. Although, I suppose such a thing should not be so amazing; I am a god, after all.”
“A god?”
“Of course. What else could survive as I have? My body was defeated by my enemies but I vowed to return, and now I have.”
“Who are you?” asked Jameson, though he feared the answer was plain before him.
The creature chuckled. “I am the one you call Satan, and now, thanks to you, I am alive once more.”
Jameson’s screams echoed through the empty halls as knowledge filled him, visions of what this creature planned to do with the survivors of humanity, before destroying the entire planet, and then the cosmos. Horror beyond anything ever known to man was coming, and he had been the one to give it birth.
The last thing he saw was the horrific four-way maw opening wide before the beast lunged down at his face with predatory swiftness.
And his last thought was that he’d resurrected the Devil.
Copyright(C) 2011 Luke Romyn All Rights Reserved
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Short Stories, Writing | 3 Comments »
Short Story: NO STRANGER TO DARKNESS
The darkness caresses Angus, soothing him with its beauty and comforting him with its song.
His world is not like theirs, never has been, and the night welcomes him back again and again when others forsake him, hate him, turn from him scornfully. There are more like Angus there, warped away from society’s norm, many damaged, others simply yearning for something else, something more. Either they find it, or turn back, returning to what they left behind, never to return.
Angus is not like them.
He yearns to be normal, has tried again and again, but it is not to be. Normal people sense he is not one of them, he sees it in their eyes, and he hates them for it. Perhaps he will finally snap and kill himself one day… but not today.
No, today – or rather tonight – is special. Tonight he will make his mark on the world in a way beyond mere murder. After this night he will be remembered throughout the ages for his daring, his cunning.
The planning has taken more than a year. Nothing else in Angus’s life has taken so long, and the anticipation of the act awakens him in a way akin to sexual arousal. The explosives laid out on the dining table seem to sing to him, and he knows he will soon have his revenge against the society which has shunned him for so long.
The explosion will be biblical.
A sudden pang hits him and it takes Angus a moment to realize it is separate from his excitement; it is a hunger of a different kind which can only be sated by food.
He glances out the window and winces at the sunshine, but does not want his good mood destroyed, so he pushes his distress aside and pulls on some pants to go with the shirt he already wears, wondering how he hadn’t noticed before but glad he didn’t walk outside like that… again. It wouldn’t do to gather notice before the time was right, and it wasn’t time, not yet.
The keys are on a hook by the door. He grabs them and heads out, jamming them into his right pants pocket, adjusting them until they cease jingling. The convenience store is only a few blocks away, and he worked hard to get that parking space directly in front of his apartment complex – nobody will notice him bringing out a few heavy bags filled with explosives in a couple of hours.
The walk to the shop will be nice, even though the sun still shines. He prefers to only walk in darkness, but under the circumstances he will make an exception. The traffic is light, and few others are walking, but he can see the contempt in the eyes of those striding past on their way home from their normal lives. They can sense he is different, but have no idea why. Even those few who smile at him only do so in an attempt to fool him.
He will not be fooled.
The only friends Angus has are those he meets at night. Before he met them he was nothing, a nobody with no purpose. Now he has a purpose, a reason for being, and it is glorious. After the explosion, everyone will know who he is, everyone will –
The screech of tires breaching the safety of the curb reaches Angus’s ears too late, and by the time he turns, the only thing he sees are the panicked eyes of the driver, the ever-so-massive front grill of the car looking like the triumphant grin of democracy bearing down on him.
Impact.
He flies through air forever, hitting something solid along the way before flipping and skidding endlessly down the road. Occasionally his brain registers the agony of some other injury, but when he smacks head-first into the brick wall and the loud crack emits from his neck all pain disappears like a gift from Heaven.
Footsteps, panicked and rushed, slapping the sidewalk – approaching him. A man’s face peers into his, the expression distraught, the eyes teary.
“Shi – oh man – oh….”
The darkness is calling him, but for once he fights it. The alcohol on the driver’s breath is like a footnote on Angus’s failure. The world will never know who he was, what he planned, what he –
Copyright(C) 2011 Luke Romyn All Rights Reserved
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Short Stories, Writing | 4 Comments »
Short Story – THE COMFORT OF PAIN
There is a safety within the icy arms of sorrow, a frozen comfort which embraces the weak-willed and those yearning for the attention of fools who might feel sorry for them. These cowards huddle within their emotional pain and suckle upon the breast of remorse which feeds them, caring nothing for anyone but themselves as they waste their lives away, forever intent upon prolonging their emanation of grief.
A man stands within this circlet of safety, alone but at one with his pain. He cannot escape it even should he choose to, but he does not. A certain kind of pathetic joy suffuses this man every time the pitying eyes of another turn toward him, enshrouding his life with regret. He dwells in this place for years, content despite knowing he will never be happy again -
“Hey, you,” says a voice one night on the bus, rudely interrupting his morose contemplation. “Why the long face?”
At first he tries to ignore her, but she persists, intent on cracking his incorruptible walls.
“You know if you keep frowning like that the wind might change and you’ll be stuck that way.”
He sourly sneers at her attempts to charm him and turns his head away, gazing at the night-darkened passing countryside, but only seeing a dying world.
The seat beside him squeaks lightly as the stranger moves over to sit beside him, confounding him slightly but hardly ruffling his dour composure. He has seen down much stouter assaults than this during his fifty one winters of life, but her continued tenacity confuses him.
“I watch you every night on this crappy bus riding toward whatever crappy existence it is occupies your time and I can’t help but wonder what’s got you so down. Have you got a little pecker or something?”
The brutal effrontery of the question stuns the man and he turns to face her, but is struck dumb by the joviality alive within her hazel eyes. Momentarily his shield slips and he gazes at her in wonder.
So much like her.
He pushes down the memory and resumes snarling. “You have nothing to gain here, you grinning cow. Go back to where you were sitting and leave me alone.”
Expecting an end to the conversation, he turns back to the window to resume his bland contemplation of a world he despises. As such he is doubly surprised when bright peals of laughter arise from the woman, like a waterfall cascading over crystal glasses, and his breath catches slightly at the sound.
“You’re so funny, Howard.”
He snaps his head around so swiftly it audibly cracks, but that is as nothing compared to the shock of seeing an empty chair beside him. Frantically standing up, he stares around the bus, panic welling within him like a tsunami as he sees every seat is empty, the entire bus is his alone apart from the driver who stares at him oddly in the mirror above him.
Terrified he is losing his mind, the man frenetically searches every seat, looking beneath them all to find where the woman is hiding, but she is not there. Finally he moves to the front and confronts the driver.
“Where is she?”
“Who?” replies the driver, nonplussed.
“Don’t give me that crap. I’m talking about the woman who was just talking to me back there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, buddy. You’re always the only one on here at night.”
He swallows heavily. Is he going crazy?
“Stop the bus. Let me off,” he orders.
“You sure?” says the driver.
“Are you deaf? I told you to let me off, you idiot.”
The bus screeches to a halt so suddenly the man stumbles and has to catch himself on the railing, throwing a glance at the driver before he disembarks, hoping the man picks up on the amount of malice he was trying to convey.
The bus zooms off behind him, covering him in a cloud of fumes and causing him to cough slightly whilst aggravating his mood at the same time. As the fumes clear the man stares around him, amazed he has emerged at what seems to be the only stop along the bus route with no substantial town around it, but he swallows down his surprise like it is a whole lemon and sourly stalks off into the night, silently cursing the bus driver for letting him get off in such a remote place.
Finally he comes to a cafe which is open, obviously awaiting the morning crowd, and enters before taking a seat at a table nearest the window. Ordering a sugarless black coffee from the waitress he stares out into the night, contemplating the event on the bus. No matter how he flips and turns it around in his mind he comes up with no answers.
“You’re never going to figure it out, you know,” says a voice beside him and his swiftly turns to see the strange woman there. “At least not while you’re staring outside. There are no answers out there, you have to look a bit closer.”
He controls the thudding of his heart with difficulty.
“Who are you?”
The woman laughs again and the thudding turns to fluttering at the oh-so-familiar sound.
“I’m just someone who is trying to help you,” she replies.
“I don’t need help, and even if I did I wouldn’t take it from a bitch like you.”
The snide response comes more as a reflex than anything else and he turns away as a new sensation fills him. It takes a while for him to figure out what it is because it has been so long since he has felt anything other than self-pity.
It is shame.
He expects the woman to laugh again as she did on the bus, and when she doesn’t he is surprised to realize he is experiencing a sense of loss as a result. Almost timidly he turns from the window to see she is no longer there.
Unlike the bus he does not search for her, knowing she will not be there. He drinks his black coffee in silence and contemplates what has been happening to him this night. Something odd, far beyond the ordinary, has been occurring, but he refuses to believe he is losing his mind; that is not an option. He has always been a man of logic, and searching within himself he surmises his mind is still intact.
Coming to no conclusion he pays for the coffee and leaves, ambling through streets without looking up, for once suffused with something other than thoughts of how terrible his life is.
“Howard!”
The voice echoes across the empty field and the man turns toward it, part of him unsurprised to see the woman sitting there alone, beckoning him to her. As odd as the scenario is, he cannot suppress his curiosity and steps onto the grass moist with early-morning dew, noting the brightening of the far horizon as he does so. Soon he reaches her side and she tells him to sit.
“What? And get my pants all messed up with dirt and stuff?”
Her laughter quells his arguments and he grudgingly sits, trying to ignore the damp of the grass seeping through the material of his pants.
“Why are you so angry all the time, Howard?”
“How do you know my name?” he snaps back. “Come to think of it, how the hell do you keep disappearing? Am I going crazy?”
She laughs and the odd urge to grin sneaks up on him, but he instantly suppresses it.
“I saw that, Howard,” she says. “You wanted to smile. You should, it’ll make you feel better.”
“Yeah, well maybe I don’t want to feel better.”
“Why would a person not want to feel better?” she asks quizzically. “What is there to gain by putting yourself through such sorrow each and every day?”
“What is there to feel so good about in this crappy world, anyway?” he counters. “You start doing stuff like that and you let down your guard, start feeling other emotions and such. Before you know it everything inside is exposed and open for attack. No thank you, I think I prefer the way I am just fine.”
“Who hurt you, Howard?”
And in that moment an unsurpassable urge overcomes him to disclose something to this strange woman which he has not spoken of in many years.
“You remind me of her, you know,” he says. Maybe that was why she disarmed him so easily; Beverly had always been able to do it too.
“Was she your wife?”
He nods, feeling a shifting of his shields as he does so.
“We were married for eighteen years.”
“Did she leave you?”
Another lurch inside him. “In a way.”
He stares out at the field, feeling his throat tighten slightly and his eyes begin to sting.
“Was she a terrible person?” she asks. “Did she do something horrible to you?”
He shakes his head roughly. “She was wonderful.”
“Then why are you so awful? Her life should have left a mark upon you, and if she was wonderful that mark should also be wonderful.”
“Don’t you see?” he snarls, turning back to her as the tears break loose of his hold. “This is what thinking about her does to me! It hurts. I hurt all the damn time. The only way I can stop it is by not feeling anything good, by not caring for or loving anything in this pathetic life. Truth is there’s nothing to care about without her anyway.”
“Why not?” she asks. “How can you look at that sunrise and tell me it isn’t beautiful?”
He turns to look. “Because it’s a sunrise she cannot share.”
The beast within him has torn his shields to pieces and he now has no defence. Emotions unfelt for years bombard him and he withers before the onslaught. Hunching forward he sobs unashamedly into his hands, tears which have been unshed since his wife lay dying, her body a husk as the cancer raged through it, but her eyes still twinkling whenever she saw him.
He had loved her without caution, and that had been his undoing. When she had finally gone there was barely anything left of him, and so he had curled up what remained and hidden it deep within, not even going to visit her grave, never even knowing where it was after her sister had buried her. He had convinced himself he never cared in order to protect his soul, but it had destroyed him instead.
And now, as everything he had kept protected for so long unravels within him, he realizes he has been wrong. By denying that part of himself he has denied the best part of his wife, and to do that is like proclaiming he never loved her at all. And he had loved her, more than anything else this world ever had to offer, as she had loved him, but in order for her love to live on he needs to release it back out into the world, not keep it caged like some diseased rat, festering in the ill of his resentment.
The tears fall forever, and each one drips away a piece of the coldness which had encompassed his heart for all these years. The wounds which he has never properly tended to finally lay raw before him, but he knows now that one day they will heal if he keeps himself whole, not hides the best of what makes him human.
Finally his crying ebbs, and he feels the warmth of the sun on his head, lifts his face toward it and smiles before turning to give thanks to the woman who has shown him the way back from despair. She is not there, just as he suspected she wouldn’t be, but in her place is a vertical stone. Curious, he glances around and sees the field he is in is full of such stones, all of different sizes and shapes, but each facing toward the sunrise.
A cemetery.
His heart flutters as he rises to his feet and moves around to read the epitaph on the stone he has never before had the courage to know the location of, knowing it will read the name of Beverly Francis Weston –
His wife.
He finally understands the riddle, and smiles his thanks for her final gift to him.
Copyright © 2011 Luke Romyn – All rights reserved.
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Short Stories, Writing | 6 Comments »
Short Story – THE QUEST OF ONE
Below is yet another sample of one of my early stories I never got around to getting published. It is a simple piece, but one that always makes me smile.
THE QUEST OF ONE
The wall swelled in front of Alex and he cringed back in terror, unsure of what would materialize this time. Bulbous eyes emerged first, hanging from stalks like horrific Christmas baubles. Alex curled further into a ball, his mouth agape in a silently wail.
Leaping up, he ran from the room and out into the cavernous hallway, knowing that safety was not far away. Darkness clung to the walls of the hallway and Alex froze once more. What beasts were lurking in the depths of those shadows? What horrors would emerge to drag him screaming back into the abyss with them?
Eyes seemed to emerge from the darkness and the sound of scraping claws on the floorboards echoed throughout the hall. A deathly croak made Alex cry out in terror and then flee back to his room – slamming the door behind him.
He had come so close!
The wall began to bulge again and Alex cried out in terror. This time he was sure that he would die.
Dark claws scrabbled on the other side of the swelling wall before pushing purposefully against it and slicing through as cleanly as hot pee through snow. Alex dropped to the floor, curling into a ball yet again. A head shrouded in shadow pushed its way through the wall and glowing red eyes peered down at him.
Sweat streamed down Alex’s back and tears threatened to burst from within him. He managed to choke them back and once more burst from his room and out into the hallway.
Salvation was not far away. All that he had to do was survive the perils in his way and then everything would be alright. Movement instantly came from all sides and whispers travelled along the moonlight.
Alex took his first tentative steps towards his goal, but the shadows once more crowded around him and terror threatened to overwhelm him once more. Steeling himself against the horrors around him he moved purposefully down the hallway, looking neither left nor right as he did so.
Something brushed against his arm, but with an effort he managed to ignore it. Teeth gnashed at his exposed neck, but he pushed past them and continued on his quest. Running footsteps boomed behind him, but he neither turned nor did he run – he would not give in to his fear.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of horror, Alex made it to the object of his quest. The oak door seemed to tower above him as he reached out for the handle. A wickedly sharp claw lashed out from the keyhole and tried to cut his hand off, but Alex avoided it and slammed the door open.
Finally giving in to his fear, Alex ran through the doorway towards the one thing that would protect him.
Strong arms grabbed him in the darkness and lifted him effortlessly from the ground. Alex fought roughly against the grip of his assailant, but soon realised that the grip was surprisingly gentle. The hands that he had initially thought were attacking him were actually trying to sooth him and he relaxed into the embrace of the giant.
He was the only one who could protect him. The only being in Alex’s universe with the strength and power to destroy the creatures which attacked him in the darkness.
His dad: the biggest and strongest person in the world.
Copyright(C) 2009 Luke Romyn
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Serious, Short Stories, Writing | 1 Comment »
Short Story – OUTCAST
While messing around with something on my website, I noticed this story I have posted on there and figured I might as well give it a bit of a polish and drag it out into the light again. Hope you like it.
OUTCAST
They should have known. It was as simple as that.
Nobody realized how drastic it would be until far too late. Beginning with a few isolated deaths chalked up to unknown causes, it swiftly grew into a major global pandemic. Deaths were no longer counted in the thousands, or the hundreds of thousands, or even in the millions – but in the billions.
Andrew rubbed at his tired eyes and looked for the hundredth time at the figures before him. There had to be a link somewhere, it simply couldn’t be random. The virus had hit all races simultaneously, with no warning of the ferocity which would ensue, nor the deaths to come. Through months of study and testing they had isolated the genome contained within the virus back to global pollution.
They had created it. Mankind had developed the Earth-Killer without even knowing. Human selfishness combined with laziness and ignorance to create smog clouds around the globe; a breeding ground for the most devastating air-borne virus ever to exist.
The virus had been designated as C.A.S.T. – standing for Cryogenic Amino Secular Transference – and it initially destroyed the body’s immune system before massively reducing the victim’s core temperature to the point where they literally froze to death within their own skin. All attempts to raise the temperature of the victims failed – it was almost as though a chemical reaction was taking place within their bloodstream which transformed the blood into a chemical similar to liquid-nitrogen.
Andrew sighed and sat back in his chair, defeated. He had been working on this for months now and still had no answers; the virus seemed to completely dissipate from the victims once they died, leaving no trace, like a killer in the night vanishing into the shadows. Without a fresh source of the virus to study, Andrew had to make do with the partial facts which they were able to divulge from living hosts, and had managed to find out one important feature: the virus could not survive the carbon dioxide in the air. Somehow, once a person died, the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere permeated their bodies more effectively and destroyed the virus like napalm in a Vietnamese war camp. This was strange considering the atmosphere where the virus originated was crammed with CO2, but he pushed this aside for the time being.
At least those who died didn’t suffer for long; the longest reported case of C.A.S.T. had only lasted seventy two hours. Most sufferers were dead before they even knew they were sick.
From a population of almost 6.7 billion people, only around one billion still survived after six months – that’s how devastating this thing was. The worst part was the loss of the children. Whether it was from weaker immune systems or some other factor, no child under the age of ten still survived anywhere on the face of the Earth. Communication worldwide had collapsed in the face of the pandemic and governments had been torn apart in the panic.
Andrew worked with ten other researchers in this small community in the outskirts of what had previously been Sydney, Australia. The world was not over yet, but it was well on its way to a swift demise. Animals and even fish seemed no better off than humans and food shortages were massive. At least they still had farms, but unfortunately there were no people to work those farms anymore – they were simply too terrified of C.A.S.T. to venture outside.
The virus wasn’t the only killer, though. Fear and panic led to anger and violence. Scared people became aggressive people incredibly easily – they just needed an excuse. With the breakdown of governments to the point where only skeleton crews of police and law enforcement were able to perform their duties, society norms went out the window and large scale riots and looting became commonplace. Horrendous crimes were committed by people who felt they had nothing more to lose. Criminals escaped in droves from prisons which were no longer guarded.
In a way, Andrew was glad there were no children left to see the horrors which were now commonplace. Just the other day he had seen an elderly woman bashed and raped by a group of men with lust and insanity gleaming in their eyes. Andrew’s fear had been so great he had turned his back and run away. Even now he could hear her screams echoing through his conscience.
He justified his cowardice by telling himself that the work he was doing was more important and he couldn’t risk his safety simply to help one person. It didn’t work. Her screams would turn to accusations and he awoke every night in an empty bed drenched with sweat.
Rising from his desk, Andrew strode from the office to where he had left his bag. Rummaging through the assorted contents he finally found his cigarettes and moved outside to have a smoke. He grimaced at the stupidity of it all. For so long he had gotten used to being a social outcast with this disgusting habit, now the habits he had formed during that time remained with him and he still felt impelled to go outside every time he wanted a smoke – even though the dangers in the air were far worse than anything coming out of his cigarette.
Drawing back sharply, Andrew inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs before exhaling it with a huff. There had to be something he could do about this damn virus. Re-examining the facts, he checked and re-checked everything in his mind. It made no sense that the virus couldn’t stand carbon dioxide since it had been created through massive amounts of pollution combined within the earth’s atmosphere. Carbon dioxide was rampant within pollution, so it would make sense if the virus thrived when combined with CO2, but it didn’t. The result was opposite and the virus died almost instantly.
The other strange thing was that some people seemed to be immune to the disease. The majority of the deaths had occurred in the first few months, but since then they had tapered off dramatically. It couldn’t just be survival of the fittest. Andrew glanced down at his own paunch and patted it with his hand.
Suddenly he froze. Staring at his hand he wondered at how he hadn’t thought of it before.
A cigarette.
As a smoker, Andrew knew about being unfit. As a scientist he understood why he was unfit. The blood in a fit person was quite often enriched with oxygen which in turn provided the individual with an increased source of energy when exercising or conducting physical activity. A smoker was generally less fit than a non-smoker for many reasons. Lung capacity was affected through long-term smoking, with tar building up on the walls of the lungs and obstructing the absorption of oxygen. This in turn increased the blood’s concentration of another element:
Carbon dioxide.
The same element which destroyed the virus in the human body. When the virus made contact with the host it combined with oxygen molecules in the blood to flow rapidly through the system and destroy the immune system. After this it swiftly reconfigured the oxygen molecules into nitrogen – he had no idea how – and effectively froze the victim’s blood.
A smoker, however, had much higher levels of carbon dioxide in their blood and as such it would destroy the virus before it had a chance to combine with the oxygen.
Andrew stared down at the cigarette and marveled at the incredulity of it all. For years people had been telling him that his habit would eventually kill him, when it had in fact saved him. Being an outcast for so long had saved his life – and as such might save the rest of humanity.
His hacking cough drowned the shout of triumph which echoed through the still air.
Copyright(C) 2009 Luke Romyn
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Serious, Short Stories, Writing | 6 Comments »
Short Story – BLOOD
I’ve noticed my blog getting a little bit too sensitive and flowery for my taste. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I don’t want to suddenly look down and realize I’ve grown a vagina and I’m crying at daffodil commercials. And so I wrote something to remind us all what I truly am. Enjoy.
BLOOD
There was so much of it, covering him, consuming him. He could not escape its cloying effect upon his skin; its bitter, coppery taste as it gagged him.
And he loved it.
Or at least a part of him did.
Part of him rebelled at the things he had done to people he did not know, but the greater part, the stronger part, quashed what little rebellion remained within his mind to such a point he could barely remember his own name anymore. All he knew was the exultation he felt every time he cut open an artery and the hot, crimson liquid of life flowed out and over him.
They would eventually catch him, of that he had no doubt. The lack of control he had shown had resulted in crime scenes thick with evidence – almost as thick as they were with blood – but he didn’t care. The addiction was too strong, the need to cut and tear, maim and chew… he had no control anymore.
In the start he’d had control, or at least thought he had. He could stop himself back then, in fact he had done so on more than one occasion when the morality he still held within had rebelled at his actions.
But no more.
He could no more control these urges than a fisherman could control the tide, and though he might try to stop himself, each time he knew it was futile. Eventually they would catch him, and he would go peacefully, hoping they put him with other prisoners, but if they didn’t… oh well.
For now, however, he had other things on his mind. He stared at the young man who had tried to terrify him in the bar with bravado, mocking him in front of the young man’s friends and prancing like a peacock. He was no peacock anymore, had no cock at all, in fact. The young man had first been angry, then disbelieving, as they all were, then afraid, and now he was terrified.
The crying had finally stopped, but not before he had threatened to slice the man’s eyelids off completely in order to get to the ducts hidden beneath; this was the only way to stop the crying without blinding or killing the victim, and it wasn’t time for killing… yet. He was enjoying this far too much to end it so soon.
For all his bravado, the fight the young man had put up was pathetic in its incompetence. Versed in various forms of martial arts himself, the fact the young man had been so easy to incapacitate and handcuff had been a true disappointment. He had made up for that by slowly severing the man’s feet and sealing the wounds with duct-tape. It really could fix anything.
Such an action was ultimately messy, but he didn’t mind. The blood contained the life, the soul, of the young man, and to be touched by it was like a special kind of sacrament. In a way, what he was doing to the young man was the greatest compliment; he was worshiping his life in a way no other ever would, but the young man didn’t appreciate that, he merely kept trying to scream around the duct-tape sealing his mouth.
The man kept flopping around on the floor like a fish whenever he made a cut, making things difficult. Several times he had come close to nicking an artery, especially when he was working up near the man’s groin, but that was the price he had to pay for working under these conditions. He brandished the scalpel once more and moved forward, deciding this time to take the legs off at the –
SLAM!!!
The door to his storage shed banged open and before he knew it a dozen bodies were converging on him, smashing him into the ground, cuffing his hands behind him. The young man cried out like a bitch as they tore the duct-tape from his lipless mouth.
Stupid cops.
But they’d been smart enough to catch him, and before he knew it he was sitting in a padded cell, restrained in a nice canvas jacket with leather buckles going all the way up his back as well as one which went between his legs. It was very secure.
He was done.
There was no arguing it; he was going to rot in this cell or one exactly like it for the rest of his life. He might not know much, but he remembered the state he was in didn’t support the death penalty, so this was it forever.
No more blood, no more life, no more joy.
Glancing up at the camera, he turned away from it, sitting with his face pointed towards the corner, his legs pulled up towards his chest. This would be difficult to do without getting caught, but those many sessions of yoga would finally pay off, as would his meticulous dental care.
It took a while of nuzzling and digging, but he finally found it and clamped down hard with his incisors, sawing back and forth at the thick leathery texture. On the cameras it would probably look like he was trying to satisfy himself sexually, but by the time they realized what he was actually doing he would be free.
As he felt it start to sever between his teeth, he heard the door open behind him, but they were too late. Once he was free they wouldn’t be able to stop him, not this time. The rushing of feet sounded and he gave a last, final wrench –
And was loose.
The blood from the severed femoral artery in his thigh sprayed hard against the white padding, and he pushed his face into it, savouring the last time, drinking deeply just before hands grabbed him and pushed his face into the ground. But they were too late; the scene was already fading before him.
The last thing he saw was his own blood congealing on his eyeballs, and he licked his lips, savouring the taste for the final time….
Copyright © Luke Romyn 2011
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Serious, Short Stories, Writing | 7 Comments »
Short Story – BOBBY
This is a brand new story and one which I really like. I hope you like it too.
Bobby
Bobby stared at the sunflower, his face awash with the majesty of joy, and the entire world faded away into mere blobs of movement and sound on the periphery of his perception. It wasn’t the sight of the flower that brought him such joy; it was what the yellow bloom represented.
Life.
Ordinary people stepped past such wonders every day in their fumbling lives, and Bobby often watched them, wondering why they seemed so worried all the time, why their faces were constantly contorted into grimaces or stressed frowns when there was beauty like this all around them. How could they walk past and not notice it?
His eyes traced the line of a petal, marvelling in the perfection of its design and the intricate lines within which pumped the life force through the plant in a similar fashion to a human circulatory system. And then there was the large central stigma of the flower, like a huge, unblinking eye staring back at him.
A bee, larger than most and something Bobby knew he should be afraid of but wasn’t, flew in and landed on the flower, gathering nectar which it would then take back to its hive. While the bee was collecting nectar, however, Bobby noticed it was also inadvertently picking up pollen which would then end up travelling away with the bee, aiding in pollinating other flowers as it visited each one throughout the day.
More life.
Wind caressed Bobby’s face and he turned towards it, smiling as the coolness touched him like a gracious hand on this warm day, the heat of the sun beating down from above. He turned back toward the flower, about to resume his contemplation of its marvels when a noise interrupted him, breaking through the bubble of solitude he so rarely enjoyed.
Turning towards the sound, Bobby watched as two men attacked a third, the victim screaming like a woman as he lay curled up protectively on the ground, his two assailants raining kicks and punches down on him. It had been this screaming which had broken through Bobby’s contemplation of the flower and as such he was rather annoyed, but remained silent for the moment, hoping that when they were finished the men would move on and leave him in peace once more.
The assault continued….
And continued….
And continued….
Just as Bobby’s tolerance was fraying, the puffing men finally stopped stomping on the now motionless body on the ground and one began to go through his pockets, finally removing a wallet and taking money from it.
“Fifty dollars?” snarled one of the attackers, landing another kick on the unmoving figure. “You made us waste you for fifty dollars?” He kicked him again several more times.
“You’ve got blood on your pants, Andy,” said the second man, pointing.
The first man glanced at his pants and swore as he noticed the bright-red stain up the inside of one leg of his gray sweatpants. For a moment it seemed he would kick the body once more, but he appeared to think better of it – probably not wanting to get any more stains on his pants, thought Bobby. He hoped they would leave soon.
“What the hell…?” muttered the second man.
Bobby reverted his gaze back to him and realized the man was staring across the ground between them. Their eyes locked. The attacker nudged his companion and pointed over to Bobby. The man called Andy swore again and the two swiftly made their way over the twenty yards or so to where he sat beside the sunflowers.
As they said in the movies: Damn.
Bobby had hoped to get out of this without any sort of confrontation, but it seemed inevitable now so he merely sat and awaited their arrival.
“Now what the hell are we gonna do with you?” asked the one called Andy when they finally reached him.
Bobby shrugged.
“Not very talkative, are ya? Unfortunately that ain’t gonna save you this time, buddy. You’re a set of eyes in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Andy reached into his pocket and drew out something; he pressed a button on the side and a blade flicked out, glinting in the warm sunshine. Bobby turned his face to the sunflower once more and smiled, deciding that he wouldn’t let these men ruin his time with life.
Sounds of a scuffle broke out but Bobby ignored them, reaching out once more and caressing the petals, amazed in the intricacy of their design, but also with the sheer beauty of the overall result. There was purpose built into the beauty, or was it beauty built into the purpose, he couldn’t tell. The noises seemed to have ended now, and he smiled again, peace flooding through him once more.
“Hey buddy,” said a voice, a gentle hand shaking his shoulder.
Despite his annoyance at being interrupted again, Bobby turned to see the speaker was the second man, the one that was not Andy. Glancing around he eventually saw Andy lying a short distance away, not moving, with the hilt of his own knife sticking out of his chest.
“Hey kid,” said the second man, his bloody hand trembling on Bobby’s shoulder, “I don’t know if you can understand me, but for what it’s worth I’m sorry we done in your carer dude back there. I might be a lot of things, but I ain’t never been no murderer… before.” He looked over at the body of Andy and shuddered, appearing close to tears. Bobby hoped he would hurry up.
He knew the news about his carer should have affected him, and it did, but Bobby couldn’t do anything about it now and so let it pass from his mind without issue. He saw other people worry and stress about the problems around them which they couldn’t fix, and it never did them any good; if anything it just made matters worse. Bobby just wanted to enjoy what was right in front of him right now, because in the end that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it? He had cherished Steven, his carer, and if he could have helped he would have tried, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t.
“Anyways, I ain’t gonna stand by while someone sticks a kid in a wheelchair; no matter what. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I hope you understand me and believe me. I’m gonna go and call for help from a phone box for you so someone comes and finds you, okay? Damn… please don’t tell nobody I was here. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”
The man stumbled away through Central Park and Bobby turned back to his sunflower once more just as another bee flew in to collect nectar and inadvertently pick up pollen as it did so –
Something suddenly broke through Bobby’s consciousness, interrupting his peace: he hadn’t checked Steven. Maybe the second man was wrong and he wasn’t dead. Maybe Bobby could help. Such a thought was alien to Bobby, but it intrigued him and as such he followed the idea to its logical conclusion: he had to check.
Pushing forward on his directional stick, the wheelchair trundled forward across the uneven ground. Bobby knew he could get in trouble for such a thing, because if he tipped as he’d done before he could hurt himself, but he continued anyway, completely focused on the task at hand. He soon reached the path where Steven lay and part of him hesitated at the sight.
There was blood, so much of it.
Blood wasn’t normally an issue for Bobby, but when he saw it pumping out of his carer – his friend – emotions began to overwhelm him and he wanted to cry. But crying wouldn’t solve anything, so Bobby stopped the reaction and wondered what he could do. He didn’t know whether Steven was dead or not and had no way of –
Wait a moment.
The blood was pumping; that meant the pump was still going. The pump was the heart and as far as Bobby knew a heart couldn’t go without the person being alive.
He still wasn’t convinced, so he kept looking, finally noticing the tiny rise and fall of Steven’s broken chest. Surely this had to mean his carer still lived. Surely.
But now another problem arose in that Bobby had no idea what to do next. He had never been told how to fix a person before, but he knew it could be done, he’d seen the programs on TV do it all the time. Frustration flooded through him and Bobby felt the need to cry rise up once more, but he ignored it again, trying to remember what the people on the television had done to fix the broken bodies.
Something came to him and Bobby shrugged, sure it couldn’t hurt. Reaching down with his right hand he tried to touch Steven, but his seatbelt wouldn’t let him lean forward enough. Well that was easy, he’d learned ages ago how to unbuckle it, he just had to press the red button in the mid –
The buckle released and Bobby collapsed forward onto the ground, his legs and left arm useless and his right barely able to move, but he managed to flop it over the body of Steven and roughly uttered the words from the TV, his non-responsive tongue making them sound mangled, but he hoped it would suffice. He kept repeating them over and over….
It seemed hours later that the ambulance men arrived, but even then Bobby didn’t stop saying the words, afraid that if he did Steven might break again. They gently tried to move him but he refused to let go, holding on with what little strength his right hand retained until they finally had to pry his fingers away from his carer’s arm.
Other emergency workers came over and lifted Bobby into his chair once more. He’d stopped saying the words when his touch had been broken, sure that others would take up the chant now they were here. He sighed as they strapped him into his chair once more and relaxed, watching as they first checked over Steven’s body and then put him onto a stretcher, wheeling him away to where an ambulance waited.
“Hey!” said the emergency man pushing Bobby up towards where more flashing lights waited. He wasn’t calling to Bobby, but to one of the returning emergency workers coming back from the ambulance. “I heard the kid saying something as you pulled him away; what was it?” People often talked around Bobby as though he wasn’t there; he was used to it.
“Damndest thing, man. He just kept saying the same words over and over. It took me a second to figure out what he was saying, but I got it in the end.”
“Well, what was it?”
“He was saying, ‘Don’t die’,” replied the man. “Ain’t that something?”
The man pushing him stopped and moved around in front of Bobby’s chair, crouching down and looking him straight in the eyes. Bobby noticed his eyes were hazel with little flecks of gold, and he was reminded of his sunflower.
“Just so you know, kid,” said the man, “your friend is gonna live. You did a great job, well done.”
Bobby lifted his head toward the sun and smiled.
Copyright © 2011 Luke Romyn – All rights reserved.
Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.
Topics: Short Stories, Writing | 9 Comments »
