Twisted Fix

Presently Untitled

2011-02-28T22:15:00.000-08:00

Title	Presently Untitled
Genre	Sci-Fi
Warnings	Strong Language
Rating	PG
Words	1632
This was originally written off a prompt on Writer's Digest. Use the first line of your favorite song as the first line of your story. The line fit, but was trite, so it's changed. Either way, this is what I gotz.

* * *

“You caught something!”

I keep on poking the dusty ground with a stick. “Yeah. It’s too scrawny to be worth anything.” Kevin is always nagging me for food. I don’t really blame him, but that squirrel - I hope it’s a squirrel, otherwise it’s one sick-ass raccoon - will take more energy to skin and cook than it will give us for eating it. “Move over. I’m gonna let it out, maybe it will fatten up and come back in a few weeks.”

Kevin pouts. His lower lip is trembling when I toss my stick to the ground. Maybe I played up the utility of the cage a little bit too much when I was scavenging for wires. “I’m hungry, Jess.”

And now there are tears, too. I pat his scruffy head and crouch down to his level. “Listen, Kev, I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry, too. When Mom gets back from the stream, I’m going out to find something for lunch, OK?”

He smiles and nods approvingly. I wonder if he’s catching on that these are empty promises. Mom left for the stream almost a month ago, and the damn thing’s only a mile away. She’s not coming back. Hell, I’d be surprised if she’s even alive at this point. And Dad’s dead, but that’s not exactly news to Kevin.

As soon as the cage door hits the dirt, the squirrel takes off. Ranger, Kev’s part-time stray mutt, bolts after him. Lucky squirrel, he dodged death twice. “I wonder how many lives squirrels have,” I mutter under my breath. I want to ask Kevin if we can have dog for dinner but don’t want to risk another crying jag.

He sits quietly for a few minutes, thumbing through his ratty copy of Cat in the Hat, before turning to me. “Hey, Jess, if cats have more than one life, and squirrels do, too, how many lives do people have?”

I finish rigging up the trap. “We only get one, Kev, so don’t blow it.” The sun is already above the treeline. Time to get moving. “Why don’t you come with me to look for lunch?”

That got him going. He grabs his little bag, a holdover from the one month of Kindergarten he got before everything went to shit, and takes up a good pace next to me. He tries to convince Ranger to follow, but the moron is still barking at the scrawny squirrel. “Maybe we’ll find Mom. Wouldn’t that be great, Jess? I bet she’s been waiting for us this whole time.”

“I don’t think we’ll find her today. She went a different direction.”

He spends most of the walk jabbering. I don’t really know what he’s saying, and I don’t really care. He’s probably talking to all those friends who didn’t make it. So I just keep walking until I don’t hear his clumsy footsteps anymore. “Kev? Kevin?”

“Over here!” He’s a few hundred yards behind me, farther away than I ever let him get. Damn kid. “Look! I found something!”

He plops a round, brown rock into my hand. “What the...An acorn?” He nods, excited. “Well, what the heck am I supposed to do with this?”

“Grandpa told me the Injuns used to eat them.”

“In-di-ans, Kev, not injuns. Jeez, why don’t you just call them ‘Reds’.” I toss it lightly a few times. “And, I guess they did, but I don’t know what to do to it so we can eat it. What if it’s poisonous or something if I screw up?” I turn it around in my hand while he stares, the pout coming back. A big, round tear starts falling down his cheek. This stupid little nut is his chance to help, and I’m shitting all over it.

I feel really, truly helpless. I’ve kept us alive this long by bashing rodents over the head with rocks or opening up the old, questionable cans of food I find in dumpsters. Beyond that, I’m useless. What higher authority got the bright idea of leaving a six year old boy with his fifteen year old sister?

“You’re really smart, Jess,” Kevin insists. “You’ll think of something.”

I hate how much he depends on me.

“There was a library back in town. We’ll need to carry all we can, so dump that shit outta your backpack.” He starts crying again, so I tell him to hide it by the big oak tree. No one is going to want his copies of Dr. Seuss, after all.

We spend more than an hour shoving our backpacks and pockets full of these disgusting looking nuts. I should be ecstatic right now - even if these things taste like ass, they’ll fill us up and keep us alive. On the walk back to the town, I end up having to carry both the bags, and I start to feel a few stabs of resentment. My mind starts wandering down the same old path: if it were just me then...

Then what? Then I’d be alone and scared and hungry and not have any reason whatsoever to try to change it.

I make it a point to guide Kevin around the mass grave at the town entrance. He knows it’s there. How could he not? It smells exactly like what you’d imagine rotting flesh would. Almost like rotten chicken, mixed with rotten pork, mixed with dog crap. So we take the long way around, down a cluttered alley, across an empty side street, right up to the front door of the rural library that looks like it was a Hardee’s in a previous life. It even has the double glass doors with pock marks where the We Proudly Accept Visa sticker used to be.

The library is musty. Not in that old book way, either. In that I think there are a few dead bodies in here kind of way. I keep expecting a dislocated limb to fall out of the ceiling tiles. There’s almost no light, and dust dances lazily in the few shafts of sun that filter through. Like a bunch of dying fairies. I think about it like that just to keep my mind off the bug-creeping feeling working along my skin.

Even though the library is small, there are dozens of book racks. I spot the non-fiction section, but it’s useless. They don’t teach the Dewey decimal system anymore. Instinctively, I head for the reference terminal. Kevin watches me as I fumble with the monitor’s power button. A few choice words escape my lips, and Kevin pulls on my shirt. “Sorry, sorry, Kev, this stupid piece of shit just--”

“I don’t think that’s going to work, honey.”

Stranger danger. My head snaps up, and I push Kevin down and under the desk. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s hands are up near his face. “Name’s Tom. I thought I’d save you the frustration of tryin’ to use a computer that ain’t got no juice.” His voice is twinged with an odd jumble of southern accents and spiced with a bit of Chicagoan. Against my will, I’m comforted by that last bit. It’s been a month since I’ve seen a living soul other than Kevin. The familiar accented a of the Midwest reminds me of the normalcy of crowded cafes and busy streets.

I laugh a little and nod to the terminal. “Force of habit, I guess. Sorry for being so rude. I’m Jess.” I extend a hand but he doesn’t take it. There’s only so long you can leave your arm out before it gets tired and/or you feel like an idiot. “Hey, so, you wouldn’t happen to know where the outdoorsy type books are?”

Tom studies me like a lab animal. I’m fairly sure I look like one, too, what with my big tangle of black hair that hasn’t seen a comb for months. And the thread-bare jeans. And the vain attempts at face washing. “‘Outdoorsy’?”

Before I can respond, Kevin pops out from under the desk. “We found a whole bunch of--” I slap my hand over his mouth and shush him harshly.

“Look, Tom, we’re just trying to get by. I’m not exactly a woodsman, and I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to map this place out, so if you could just point us in the right direction, I’d appreciate it.” He points to the back right of the building. “Thanks.”

I drag Kevin along behind me. It’s hard to keep both him and the bags of nuts quiet. We’re turning the corner of the first row of potentially useful books when Tom clears his throat. “I should stick with you,” he calls. “Doesn’t seem right to leave two kids runnin’ around out there on their own.”

“We’ll manage,” I mutter. Kevin gives me that obnoxious little kid pleading for candy look, and I put my hand up. “We’ll. Manage.”

Big boys don’t take a hint as well as little boys. Tom is right behind me. “I insist,” he says.

I grab the first promising book off the shelf. “We have what we came for. We’ll be fine, but thank you.” I turn around. He’s dangerously, uncomfortably close. Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s maybe a senior or a college freshman. I run through my options. He may not be a grown man, but I don’t stand a chance in a pinch.

He’s getting ready to insist more firmly. I’m getting ready to move on to fisticuffs and tell Kevin to run like the wind. But a bit of light reflects off something around his neck. It distracts me to the point his words sound like white noise. Round. Yellow. Long, delicate chain. Mom’s necklace.

She wore it until the day she disappeared.

Well, shit. This changes things.

The Tunnels

2009-12-16T18:11:00.000-08:00

Title	The Tunnel
Genre	Sci-Fi
Warnings	None
Rating	PG
Words	724
The Tunnel came from a combination of random stimuli, including the short film More, a rereading of Fahrenheit 451 and a healthy dose of nihilism.

* * *

The underbrush left a pleasant sting against her skin. Full of brambles and webs and thousands of nameless insects, the thicket engulfed her in oxygenated protection. Faceless hunters crawled from the tunnel, their spotlights pale and weak compared to the sun.

Her respirator lay in the gravel near the tunnel. The metallic hounds circled it and considered the taunting challenge. In a sea of oxygen, the mask continued to breath, to filter, to alert the hounds to its owner’s transgression.

She crawled through the brush without fear. Here, above the tunnels, the hounds couldn’t track her respiratory signature. No matter how much noise she made, they couldn’t find her. She knew this. The mechanized beasts that hunted her were her father’s “other children.” They were the babies he had nurtured for years under harsh fluorescent lights.

The sound of the hounds’ motorized limbs came as long-forgotten memories. As a child, the colony had hailed her father’s research. The hunter hounds would guard the colony against the insane mobs that remained on the surface and the unbalanced residents that tried to disrupt the peace. Each person’s individual respiratory signature could be programmed into the hound’s memory. No parent would ever need to worry about their child losing their way in the tunnels, and no child would ever fear their parent wandering into the darkness alone.

Her grandmother fought the program for years, to the point that it drove her mad and she activated a prototype’s guardian system. Her father had hung his head and listened to the words of the medics - dementia, Alzheimer’s, psychotic episode - as they incinerated her eerily still body. It wasn’t until her father died, and the project was turned over to her cousin, that the people understood the horrible repercussions.

The cousin and his power-hungry nephew seized control of the colony. The respiratory signatures of any dissenting member were transmitted to the hunters’ guardian systems. In those first few weeks, the incinerators ran day and night, until any remaining dissenters closed their mouth and learned to accept their new rulers. Her cousin ordered teachers to stop telling the truth of the underground colonies, and an entire generation of children grew up believing humans were underground creatures.

It was that afternoon, when her son came home repeating the nonsense from his class, that she decided she couldn’t be silent any more. Her father created the mechanized monsters. It was her duty to stop them.

She had her son gather his friends in their small, dusty apartment and showed them her grandmother’s albums. Images of golden fields and foamy surfs, of children climbing trees and high-rises reaching the sky. She gave a picture to each child and told them to get their parents.

Within an hour, the colony was on lock-down. The children were taken to a secured room, the pictures confiscated and the parents assembled. Her cousin assured her that the infraction would be forgiven. The group of guards, flanked by hunter hounds, told her differently.

The sound of the motors was so distant it was barely a whisper, but it reminded her that she’d left it all behind. As she pushed the branches out of her path, she knew she was a coward. Her grandmother stayed until the very end and tried to use her death to change the future. Her father dedicated his life to work he was sure would benefit his child and grandchildren. She was nothing like them. She did enough to cause trouble and left without making her stand.

She stumbled into a vast sea of green. Behind her, the sun set in waves of red and purple and orange. She lay in the soft grass and, for the first time, watched clouds move across the sky. All her grandmother’s stories and pictures could never prepare her for the simple beauty of the moon’s journey through the night.

She didn’t sleep all night. When the colors of the sunrise splashed against the endless sky and the birds began their day again, she realized she’d made it. She was alive. The hounds were miles away, probably standing over her respirator waiting for her to come back. Her family was going about their day, not mentioning her name or even thinking of her. She was alive, but so very alone.

She prayed for the hounds to come.

The Burst

2009-03-11T23:23:00.000-07:00

Title	The Burst
Genre	War
Warnings	None
Rating	G
Words	438
This was one of those fics that just happens. It’s the intro to a much longer piece, that will be released in bits and pieces.

* * *

Researchers have told us that it takes approximately one third of a second to react to visual stimuli.

In that one third of a second, the world can become extremely still. You haven’t reacted yet, at least not consciously, but your brain is already sending out distress signals. Your breathing quickens and your heart pounds to deliver oxygen and adrenaline to all corners of your body. Even before you know what you’re seeing, your body has gone into a full blown panic.

And then you scream.

It isn’t until a second or two after you scream that you realize you’ve turned away, and that your scream wasn’t anything but the most primitive warning. You’re begging your fellow humans to turn to you to find the cause of your distress. You’re begging them not to look at whatever it is that lies in the other direction.

As your cry comes to an end, you pant for breath. Your child tugs at your wrist and asks simply What’s wrong? They don’t know, can’t know, what is coming in just seconds. You remain silent, hoping the mystery will keep people looking towards you. No, not towards you. Just anywhere but where they had been looking. You can’t yell Don’t look. Human nature would only dictate that they would do just that.

There you stand, dozens, maybe hundreds, of confused, annoyed eyes fixated on your panting, desperate form. Your skin crawls under their stare, but you can’t move. If you do, the spell will be broken.

Finally, as you unconsciously tense your muscles and pull your child closer to your body, your conscious mind processes the scene you took in. The barely perceptible shaking of the earth, the slight plume of smoke, the roar of engines miles away.

The world erupts in a blast of yellow and white. You squeeze your eyes shut, worried that, even with your back turned, the explosion will leave you blind. There are gasps and cries from the crowd as people hunch over and cover their heads. Seconds later, the shock wave rolls through, throwing dust, dirt and debris wildly through the air.

You fall to your knees and clutch your child to your chest. She’s screaming, like everyone else, as the world flies quickly by. Even so very far away from the blast, you feel as if you’re in the wake of a tornado.

As soon as the storm comes, it has passed, and the world is calm again. You can’t bear to turn, to see the settling destruction that lays on the horizon. With weary arms, you lift your child, and you begin to walk.

Easier

2009-03-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

Title	Easier
Genre	Angst
Warnings	None
Rating	G
Words	100
This was written as a response for the Week 32 prompt on Gather's "100 Word Stories" community. The prompt was White Lies.

* * *

As their lips parted, she breathed a gentle sigh of relief. He had been away for so long that she’d begun to wonder if he’d return. His letters from the Western battles had done little more than tell her that he, at the time of writing, was alive.

I’ve missed you so…”

“Hush. I came to say goodbye.”

Her shock must have been obvious. “But… but you just…”

“I’ve fallen in love with someone else. I’m sorry.”

She stared after him as he walked away, too engulfed in her grief to notice his fresh blood on the newly fallen snow.

Captive

2008-09-04T00:29:00.000-07:00

Title	Captive
Genre	General
Warnings	None
Rating	G
Words	100
This was written as a prompt for the Week 30 prompt on Gather's "100 Word Stories" community. The prompt was What appears to be the end may really be a new beginning.

* * *

Maybe things can’t get worse. That’s the single thought that gets me through each day, as I sit in this little cell, waiting for my sand to run through the funnel. Mother, father, the sisters, all taken, to somewhere I hope is better, but I know is worse.

Every day I get a new linen gown and a whispered promise that this will be my last. It’s the block or stocks for me.

Today I hear a new voice. “Not this one. I want her.” The gown is silk, the door open. I stand and wonder what waits beyond it.

Sensual Melodies

2008-08-03T01:16:00.000-07:00

Title	Sensual Melodies
Genre	Romance
Warnings	Adult Themes
Rating	PG
Words	349
I don't usually write anything sensual, or even romantically based. This kind of appeared in my mind a few hours ago, and flowed so well it had to be fate.

* * *

With lithe, talented fingers, he made her sing.

Every touch was like magic. The soft, suppleness of her called to him, she knew, as she lay motionless under his delicate ministrations. She wanted to feel him stroke her. Every caress sent blissful tremors through her body.

So she waited, night after night, waited for him to come to her. When he did, she stood silent, in awe of his powerful arms and anxious fingers. She wanted him, needed him, to touch her so intimately. Only for him did she open her most sensitive areas, relishing the feel of his calloused fingertips against her hidden spots.

She longed for the magical hour of the night, nine o’clock on the dot, when he set aside his meal and his paper to come for her. For two, delicious hours, he would satisfy the cravings that had gnawed an unyielding void in her core since the night before. It ended all too soon, but she could feel the shuddering reminders of his enchanting talent long into the night.

The plate was pushed aside, the paper dropped to the table. Now he came to her with unrestrained worship. His careful hands exposed her fully, and he took her in with a renewed sense of awe.

She made only the sounds she knew would bring more of that beautiful, loving touch. With every soprano cry and baritone moan, she spurred him on. She was his goddess for those two hours, and his delicate worshipping shifted to desire filled fervor as the clock ticked toward eleven o’clock. His adoration never faltered; each night, he knew her better than the last and caused her to praise his talents in even more exotic melodies.

Then it came. Their time was up.

Her singing lulled into a pleasured whisper. His promises came through the sounds of rustling papers.

”Tomorrow, love. I’ll come back tomorrow.” His fingers ran the length of her, feather-light and lingering, for a few stolen seconds. He sighed and touched her one last time, protectively, covering her delicate ivory body with a heavy, wooden lid.

The Run

2008-07-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

Title	The Run
Genre	Action
Warnings	Language, Violence
Rating	PG-13
Words	568
This was created as a writer's-block smasher. The concept was provided by a friend to get me to stop whining.

* * *

In the middle of the woods, unprotected and unsuspecting, they fall on him like wolves on a deer.

The thin branches of the saplings catch against his body, ripping, tearing, pulling his skin as he runs. His steps are quick and lithe, even as his feet move backwards over the fallen summer brush. Snow cracks and breaks under his weight. Between the crunch of the snow and the pounding of his heart, he can almost ignore the reports of his pistols.

Behind him, she calls out his name. What a stupid thing to do, at a time like this. Bullets whiz past his head as he pushes the sound from his mind. Ignore her, keep shooting. Ignore her, keep running. His foot loses purchase on the slippery ground. He feels – no, hears, he's too numb from cold and adrenaline to feel – something lodge in his flesh. His body falls hard into a trunk and the air leaves his lungs in a misty puff.

Blood pumps through his veins and out his thigh. “Fuck,” he hisses. Light reflects off the snow covered forest floor like a beacon, and he knows he's close to the edge. To clear ground. To her.

“Peter!”

The trees grow sparser. He has to work harder to find cover from the moving sheet of ammunition looking for a home in his chest. He ducks behind an old, barren tree and lets out a deep, labored breath. The open meadow is so close he can see tiny blades of brown grass peaking through the snow.

He reloads both pistols. Just ten rounds to take down fifteen men. He takes another breath before moving from his cover.

His aim is perfect. Seven bullets, seven kills, all with a precision he thought he'd lost. He fires one more shot before one hits him in the chest.

It's a glancing blow; he knows he'll live. The refrozen snow of the meadow is under his foot. The sun is shining on his back.

He turns to her, for just an instant, just long enough to yell, “Run!”

She is frozen in fear. He holds out his left arm, fires one more round. It finds its mark with ease One left. One last bullet, and I'll put it in his fucking head...

His body shakes again and again. Pop, pop, pop, one round after another delving deep into his flesh. She screams as he falls.

He wants to tell her to run, but his lips won't move. He hopes she knows how much it hurts him to fail, how it hurts worse than all the bullets pulverizing his organs. He fears that once he's down, she'll stay anchored in her spot.

Time is slow enough for him to feel the lead bore into his heart. His body twitches reflexively, as if he's shooing away a bug. He sees only her. She stands so close, huddling behind a dead tree, her silvery hair blowing in the gentle breeze, her stark blue eyes wide with terror. The sounds around him muffle, as if he's underwater, but he can't miss the chilling report of his pistol.

Her body collapses. Her warm blood drips down her forehead to stain the white snow. Before he breathes his last, he realizes that she's dead.

It's probably for the best.