Monday, August 15, 2011

Tittle: Zombie
Word Count: 306
Story Notes: I love this story. It's kind of dark.


I step onto the grass. There is no one here that I know. Logically, I know that it shouldn’t matter, but it does. I know I’m not here to hang out with my friends. I have a job to do. One last job before I die. The masses are hungry and they need to be fed.

I remember coming here last year with Kimmy, my best friend. We sat on a blanket eating hummus on pita and drinking chilled green tea. We were laughing about something stupid. I think it was a boy.

Kimmy was the first to go.

They weren’t supposed to be real. They were just stories; campfire nightmares and movie theatre horrors. But when they came, they weren’t the way we always thought they’d be- they were smart. Smarter than before, and they were the only ones who could figure out how to reverse the effects. How to change back.

But they were so hungry.

It only affected men, and they only eat women. The disease was spreading and it needed to stop. If they were going to stop it, they needed to be fed. One girl could feed a group of them for weeks and when they were fed they could work. When they were fed, they could study to find a cure. They were so close, but I won’t be here when the cure was discovered. I have a job to do.

 They cry as they grab me. They whisper that they’re sorry. I feel my arms rip away. They bite my breasts and my thighs, a cruel imitation of sex. I wish I could believe that everything will be okay, but my father kissed me goodbye this morning. I’ve never seen him so sad. Not even when mom died. Not even when Teddy changed. Teddy can be saved. I’m dinner.

I vanished!

Gah. I took a "week" and it lasted a month. Sorry! I haven't been very good at writing original fiction at the moment. I'm going to post only once a week for the next few months. Hopefully, I'll get back into the swing of writing soon and I'll be able to update more.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Taking the week off

I'm working on some writing that doesn't fit in the 1500 words or less format. I'm taking a week to dedicate myself to it. :) see y'all in a week!

Friday, July 15, 2011

To Whoever Finds This Letter

Tittle: To Whoever Finds This Letter
Word Count: 123
Story Notes: If this story seems unfinished, it is because I never quite could finish it. I like it as a fragment. We know that Jamie thinks he is the most important person in the world, we just don't know WHY he thinks this.




    To whoever finds this letter,
                
               My name is Jamie Myers; I’m 28 years old and live in a one room apartment.  I have never dated anyone over 3 months, never worked a job longer than a year and have never owned an animal that has lived over two years. I’m average build and slightly below average weight, I have brown hair and eyes and a medium white complexion. I never went to college.
                It may seem strange to lay everything out so quickly, but strange seems fitting of the past few days. I just wanted to get the fact that I’m nothing special out of the way before dropping this bomb on you; I may be the most important person in the world.
               

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Poem on the spot!

Something came up today and I completely forgot to post here. I'm on the wrong computer, so instead of a normal post- I'll write a poem on the spot! It'll probably be crap :)

Today I went to therapy
For once, someone understood me
I try and tell my family when I'm in pain
Too bad they never seem to get it
Sometimes things just suck

---

There you go! A poem on the spot.. about my day :) it's hard writing poetry with no real inspiration. It doesn't come out as good as my usual stuff.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Nightmare II

Title: Nightmare (II)
Word Count: 54
Story Notes:


Sleep now, the day is long over
And now the night is almost gone
And when tomorrow brings the dawn
Every nightmare that sweats your brow
Everything that haunts you now
Will be gone until the night
And everything will be aright
I’ll stay by your side here
‘Till there’s nothing left to fear.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Blue

Title: Blue
Author: Samantha Goode
Word Count: 41
Story Notes:



Blue

Like the color of her eyes
That gazed down at me

I look up
And touch my lips to hers

We are one
As one can be

But it’s not love
Because love doesn’t exist

Love is but a word

Saturday, July 9, 2011

No blog today!

I completely forgot. I'll have my weekend post tomorrow. There will probably be only 1 post a weekend for awhile. I'm still compiling weekend posts from people.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Killer

Title: Killer
Word Count: 147
Story Notes: This one is pretty dark.


When I woke up the morning sun had spilled into the room though open blinds, filling the tiny space with light. I was still wet with blood from the night before, although some of it had dried to my skin. I glanced at Susan, or what was left of her.
 You’d think it’d be a shock, killing my best friend, but it wasn’t. Lately there had been something so off about her; at least that was what I was telling myself. Realizing that it was me that had something “off” was the best discovery of my life. I’d never felt as alive as I did cutting into Susan. The only downside about killing my best friend was that I had no one to share this feeling with.
 I wondered if I could get this place clean before someone showed up. I wondered who I should kill next.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

The Smashed Mirror

Tittle: The Smashed Mirror
Word Count: 83
Story Notes: This has to be one of my favorites. It's short and to the point. It gives no real details, but tells you everything you need to know.



When I realized my luck, I broke the mirror; smashed it into pieces and buried them in the yard. There was no way to switch places with me. No way was she going to get back here. I’m not a bad person, really I’m not. But only one of us can exist in this world at a time and if I had to choose between a world where I was loved or a world where I was despised… well, I chose the obvious.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Nightmare

Title: Nightmare
Word Count: 37
Story Notes: This was originally part of a larger poem. The other piece may find it's way here eventually.


Close the windows
Turn on all the lights
I want no shadows
So paint the walls white
Lay down beside me
Sing me a lullaby
And if I wake up screaming
Please hold me as I cry

July 4th :)

Happy 4th, America!

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Agent Number Four (#1)

Title: Agent Number Four (#1)
Author: Maria C.
Word Count: 1337
Story Notes: I'll ask for some later. For  now- pig roast!


Darkness was everywhere. Thick, hot, and smoky like a forest fire. She held a ratty piece of paper between her fingers. It had to be around here somewhere, one of the many headquarters where the Infected hid. She cast a fleeting look at the address again, and stopped walking. There was no structure where she stood. It had to be wrong, the number had to be wrong. She took a few mere steps around the area, looking for evidence of recent activity. Her foot hit something hidden in the overgrown lawn. It felt like a stone, but appeared to be a round piece of metal.
“Wait a sec,” she tugged lightly at it, and its weight gave a little. Pulling more, she lifted the steel door over to her left. Bits of sod and twigs slid from its surface as she flipped it over. Peering downward, she could make out a wide staircase. Its stone surface was cracked, looking to be made of crushed pebbles and mortar. She took a step and placed her foot on the top block, and it held. Placing her other foot on the same step, she did a little hop. Still holding. She continued down the stairs and was soon below the ground. She couldn’t find a light switch, and even her alternate vision wasn’t taking effect yet. Slowly she continued down each step one at a time, and it seemed to take almost a minute before she hit the floor.
Her vision quickly adapted to the lightless area. Something in the air seemed familiar. It was the smell, that scent of death. She glanced towards the floor, and a boot came into view. Its angle gave away its owner's position. It was still being worn on a foot, but the foot did not move. Reaching for her gun in its holster, she tapped the muddy sole with her toe. Nothing. Her eyes averted to the vicinity of the body, which seemed to be untouched. Many more bodies lay about, but only a select few looked to have fought back. Slowly turning her head, she felt someone staring. Staring. She hated when people stared at her, as if they knew what she was.
            “You must be from LIMES,” a tall man with light hair stood in a doorway behind her. His entire body engulfed in a blue hue, his eyes wide with anticipation, and his shirt tucked in but unbuttoned.
            “Who are you?” Rochelle pulled her weapon around to her face only for her hand fall to her side, “Why did you kill them?” She nodded towards the floor and vast array of bodies.
            “Ah yes, Number Four. You’ve probably don't remember me, even if I remember you. It has been so long since that day. I remember you waiting, waiting patiently for them to call your number. Zero. Zero. Zero-“
            “Zero Four. I remember my call number. Just tell me why.”
            “Why what?” He twirled some of his light hair between his right thumb and middle finger. His opposite hand slid down his hip to his thigh.
            “They were your followers. You meant everything to them. So why-“
            “Bunch of needy worthless fucks. They deserved it,” His bare feet padded over to where she stood. He was getting too close. Raising her gun quick she saw him jump toward her, she pulled the trigger for a point blank shot at his cheek. He dropped back and lay limp for several moments before twitching.
            “C’mon! Quick! I heard a gunshot,” A familiar male’s voice could be heard from above. Thumping down the stairs, two people emerged. Michael and his step-sister Lydia stood barely a foot apart and looked around. Obviously Michael couldn’t see anything, but Lydia seemed as confused as he was. They both walked forward with hands spread out before them calling out to one another.
            Looking towards where the mysterious Infected lay. His face half covered in blood, his fingers touching the gash across his cheekbone. The bullet had only grazed him due to the angle. His eyes pierced through the darkness, she could feel the hatred that wafted through the air towards her. He shifted to stand up, eyes still locked with hers. Without realizing how close she was, his arm waving around for something to stabilize his balance, the Infected smacked Lydia across the stomach.
            “Michael?” she yelled out, “Was that you?”
            “What?”
            “Something hit me. Was it you?” she stopped moving now, only feeling around with her hands. The Infected had slipped the opposite way now, Rochelle looked to where he kneeled. Michael and Lydia seemed to have found each other, she could hear their mumblings to one another. As the Infected stood up, Rochelle raised her gun and aimed. Beg for forgiveness, you worthless fuck. The shot rang through the underground space like thunder. Lydia screamed, Michael yelped, the Infected dropped to the ground with a bullet to the forehead. Rochelle pulled from her pocket a small cigarette lighter, clicked the tab and illuminated her face. Michael gasped, Lydia seemed mesmerized by the flame. Pointing the gun to Lydia’s face, Rochelle spoke quietly.
            “If I kill her now, you can go free. I won’t say anything if you don’t.”
            “Why?”
            “If you don’t let me do this, she’ll only get worse. She’ll become a monster.”
            “How do you know?”
            “I’ve seen it happen. Too many times. Let me kill her.”
            “No. She’s fine.”
            “Do not oppose someone with a loaded gun,” placing her finger on the trigger, she clicked her tongue twice.
            Michael barely heard the shot. His step-sister fell from his arms, her corpse thudded against the ground at his feet. Stepping back, he tripped over something on the floor. Falling into the fresh Infected body, his voice left disappeared from his throat. Amidst trying to scream, he heard feet thudding down the concrete steps. Flashlight beams crossed about as voices sounded.
            “Agent Number Four?” Commander Price yelled down the space, “Are you stable?”
            “Careful Commander. We have a pedestrian, likely unarmed.”
            “You didn’t shoot at this one, did you?” Price hit the last step, waved the flashlight around seeking his agent. His eyes widened at the mass array of bodies on the ground, “Bring some lanterns down here. Lots of cleaning up to do.”
            “Over here,” Rochelle grabbed Michael’s arm, he was amazed at her grip. He watched many men in white jumpsuits and paper hospital masks begin their work of bagging up bodies, squirting gel-like liquid on the ground and walls. Some of them had black lights, searching for stains they couldn’t miss.
Cree-eak.
            Throwing Michael to the ground with one arm, Rochelle twisted around and raised her weapon, pulled the trigger. The shadow faltered slightly and collapsed, the mass of blue dropped to the floor. A woman, older than Rochelle herself, and her blinkless eyes peered back. Her long dark hair flowed past her shoulders and into the blood puddle spreading beneath her body. Price trotted up behind Rochelle and tucked his paper mask under his chin.
            “You didn’t have enough ammo to kill off this many. What happened?”
            “They’ve begun to kill their own,” her answer was faint as she leaned down to lift Michael by the upper arm. Looking to him she winced a smile, “Sorry, couldn’t have your pretty face in my bullet’s way,” she shoved him towards her commander.
            “Thanks. How about you get yourself looked at?” Price latched a pair of handcuffs onto Michael’s wrists, and pulled him towards the stairs. Motioning for his agent to follow, he twisted Michael around so he didn’t have to drag him up the stairs, “Poor kid. What was he doing here anyway?”
            “He was with her,” Rochelle spoke louder now, though her manner seemed confused, “She knew I was coming here. She contacted someone. They kill their own when a threat approaches.”
            “You… You… You killed her,” Michael struggled to talk, his shock beginning to wear off now. His complexion filling with pigment, his pale eyes still wide with fear.