“It’ll be a breeze” He says, clicking on a harness. Whilst I inwardly sigh, biting my lip and curtly nodding. “You kill me..” I let out meekly, my facade as hard as the concrete against our feet.
My hands are clammy, sweaty, and for some reason I can’t stop pulling the collar of my shirt away from the skin of my neck. Breathe, pull. Breathe, pull. Breathe, “Hey, you with me?” The boy beside me asks, grabbing my wrist for assurance.
The expression on his face is much more lit up than mine, and his eyes are light, “Y-Yeah, sorry.” I say, as we’re nearly dangling a couple hundred feet from the city street down below.
I clear my throat and shove the heavy pair of garden shears down further into the pocket of my pants. Throwing on a fake smile once again. I nod, “I’m ready.” I say, remembering all of the ones before this.
Now I’ve had some creative “dates” in the past, but this one will top them all in my book. However, no matter how drastic the date, they all end the same.
It isn’t a fear of heights that’s making me so nervous. It’s how I’m going to get out of this one without being suspicious.
I brought her Lillie’s, Every day since her rest But I cant help but feel, That I’ve failed her test
She said she’d be back, Yet she’s still beneath me But I’ll get her flowers anyway, And happy she will be
Happy I am, For the gifts I’ve been given I said I’d return, As I once have been
She places another flower, And I finally awaken “I’ve return to the world, That I once walked in”
I never wanted to live through this. I never agreed to be zombie bait. My initial plan was to just end it all before any of it even began. But even then, with the gun in my hands, I couldn’t do it. Something nagged at me to stay.
Now I wish I had. If I knew it would be this much work to survive, maybe I’d of just done it. Maybe I’d of just given up.
“We aren’t quitters.” My father would say. My father would still say, if the zombies didn’t take him from me.
Now I walk alone, with my head down, and the ghost of my father looming over my shoulder.
Even though I’m surprised by a pair of boney hands that clasp me, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was expecting it. I was wishing for it. It’s convenient how you just wish things, and the universe throws them at your feet. It happened before when I wished for a pack of Swedish Fish.
And it’s happening again when I wish to leave the life I live.
I fight back lazily, but this zombie is different. It’s grasp is stronger, despite its frail looking build. It wrestles me onto the ground, and I don’t realize how much I’m fighting back now-limbs shaking and straining, while I hold it’s forearms parallel to me.
I look into its dead eyes, and I observe it’s decomposed skin. When it’s saliva falls onto my chin, I realize that I don’t want to become it. I don’t want to become this flesh hungry corpse.
I don’t want to die anymore.
And maybe that’s just the other half of my brain finally waking up and knocking some sense into me. Or maybe it’s my father taking control of my calloused hands. “Jesus take the wheel” I grit, handing him control. And with my father in mind, somehow I feel lighter, lighter but stronger.
Maybe I’ll regret not ending it all in the first place, again, in a couple of hours.
But for now, all I can think about is kicking this son of a bitches ass. “We aren’t quitters.” I say, for me and for him.
It had been fifteen years since the sun had last risen.
Everybody was causing chaos, upon seeing first light. And once again, the world began to burn.
Fires erupted throughout the grounds of Jasper, the planet that was supposed to be furthest from the lava ridden star. However, every fifteen years, solar rotation placed Jasper right at its side.
The people ran to their underground bunkers, a system that came familiar ever since the citizens could remember. It was protocol at this point. Stay underground, the soil will protect you from the heat.
Though there was only one person that didn’t retreat into cover, as the planet-in motion-veered toward the sun.
“Run, run dammit!” A screaming stranger cursed at the boy who stood in place.
But instead of the boys skin burning and scrunching up, or flaking off and melting from the bone. His skin was blue.
“Run! Run boy run!” A woman screeched, with disgusting forming boils on her face and a limp in her step.
But he didn’t run, he wouldn’t.
The blue boy stared up at the sun, and the sun stared right back down. And like the two were made from the same god, neither hurt the other.
And the boy was peace.
And the sun was no longer wrathful.
Jasper burned beneath the boys feet, and he didn’t feel a thing.
He couldn’t.
For a dead boy cannot feel.
The woman stared up ahead at the man announcing the conference. He began on about the work environment but the girls mind was elsewhere.
She was watching his mouth move, but she wasn’t hearing anything. The only thing she was thinking at the moment, was ‘oh fuck..’.
The woman abruptly got up, and her chair scraped against the floor dramatically, anticipating more attention than intended.
She rushed to her bag, leaving the table in a hurry and dismissing the man who stood in disbelief. “What’s this about?” He asked, angrily. She could see the way his face became red, it would’ve been hilarious if he didn’t follow up with, “if you walk out that door, you’re fired.”
But, she did it anyway.
“Where are you going, this conference could cost you your job?” The receptionist asked as the woman began to run down the corridor.
“I left my oven on.”
You cant do this, it isn’t right! Hon, You tell me you’re sorry now? I should live till’ tomorrow night! Hon, Your whines will help you how?
Let me go, I won’t say a thing! And how can I believe that? If you don’t I’ll take a swing! Oh, so now you can fight brat?
Fight I will, and you’ll regret this! Isn’t that what they all say? I’ll raise my fists and I won’t miss! Well, bring it on then hey?
Fight I did and fight I won? … Now I live, I’m sorry hon! …
“You’ve got the wrong guy!” he shouted, dazed and confused.
The teenage boy was struggling at the hands of an older man who’s breath reeked of alcohol. The boy shuddered against his firm grip, desperate eyes squinting up to the bearded man’s face.
“You tellin’ me you ain’t the one that knocked over my bike?” The man growled, and with tightening fingertips, the boy was pulled an inch closer to his face by the shirt.
Ah shit, he’d forgotten. On the way into the bar he’d leaned on a bike, and to follow that, the bike had fallen onto the ground. The boy had picked it up quickly, but he couldn’t have not known that the man would’ve noticed, after all he left the bike with a few ugly dents and scratches.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. It was an honest mistake, I swear!” He insisted, biting his lip. He felt a jolt of electricity rush through him and in that moment his face contorted, ‘oh fuck’ the boy internally groaned, before the electricity erupted throughout his fingertips.
The shock sent the man flying backward, and it left the boy on the floor. Some superpower he had, if he got to choose, he would’ve chosen invisibility, or flight, or something.
But no, he was stuck with conducting and controlling electricity. And the worst part about it was that most days he didn’t have control over his own abilities.
“Sorry.. ah, shit, sorry..” he groaned from the ground, angling his head up far enough to see the man sprawled out on the ground. With an aching back, the boy got to his feet. He backed away apologetically and began to run: he was not willing to see what the man-or his friends would do to him now.
“Mi casa es su casa!”
The old Italian man had exclaimed, throwing out his arms and doing a small turnaround in the centre of the living room. His renter only stared at him, smiling thankfully and hiding his nervousness.
It was this renters first time renting, and he was anxious to see his living space. The owners of said house were an old Italian couple, and though they were old, the house didn’t seem too outdated.
It was perfect to the renter, and he came to this conclusion when the owners showed him to his apartment on the upper level of the house.
On the tour the old man insisted that he’d have everything he needed upstairs, but if he were to need anything at all he shouldn’t hesitate to ask either of the two. He mentioned how he would prefer nothing stayed on during the night, such as water or lights, as to not raise the electricity bill. And then, during the conclusion of the tour the old man had stopped at the edge of the stairs.
“Oh, and son, you are not to enter the basement unless given permission, is that understood? I have a lot of tools down there and it can be dangerous to navigate in the dark, I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.” He mentioned, and despite the friendly tone the renter recognized danger within this warning.
“Understood, thank you sir. This place is far nicer than I’d imagined, I do appreciate it.” The renter smiled in return, brushing off his thoughts.
In the afternoon that followed all was normal. The renter had even been invited to sit down for dinner with the old couple, just to exchange words and talk more about themselves. The meal they shared was home made, something that the renter had never had before. It was said to be an exotic meat from an animal that he knew not the name of. He enjoyed it nonetheless, it was a nice treat from the two.
On the way back upstairs, the renter didn’t know why, but something about this house put him on edge. It didn’t seem to be the furniture, or even the architecture, but maybe so the owners. That, or he’d gotten some sort of uneasiness by the food he’d just eaten.
Though he thought nothing of it; alas, the house had been shared for such a cheap price, he saw nothing more to complain about.
Though he’d come to regret it soon enough.
On a late night the next week the renter had awoken to a sound coming from the downstairs. He had awoken discombobulated, coming out of a vivid dream, the hairs on his arms were on end. Though he found himself to his feet instantly, coming to.
It sounded like one of the old owners had fallen, and the renter had the urge to check on them.
Running down the stairs and seeing the light of the living room on, he realized that the old woman-wife of the old Italian man-had taken a fall. So, he rushed over to help, hunching down and asking her if she was okay.
“Oh, thank you.” She smiled, a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. He’d of figured she was in pain, if it weren’t for the maliciousness behind this smile.
Following the next few seconds, the renter was grabbed, and before he knew it an aching erupted through his back, like he’d been stabbed. Well, he’d of said that if he hadn’t seen the old man above him with a blood soaked knife in his hand.
He had been stabbed, and by the owner of the renter house. Now that he was thinking about it, it was as if he was living some king of fucked up horror movie: and of course he played the role of the stupid house renter that trusted the cozy owners.
The loss of blood worried the renter, but he found himself standing once more, and he began to curse at the man. Perhaps he thought he was an intruder? No, no. The grin on his face wouldn’t be there if he had.
“Mi casa es su casa.” The owner had smiled eerily, before plunging the knife back into his renter and watching his body fall to the floor.
That would make up for next weeks dinner, and a nice home warming meal for the next renter, the owner planned familiarly.
To astral project is one thing, but to completely step into another universe; well that’s just make belief.
Lyra Jones has been having a hard time; suffering through nights of sleep paralysis and nightmares, she is sick of waking up shaken. However, on one fateful night her routine seems to.. flip. Instead of being paralyzed to her mattress by some eerie force, Lyra Jones is pulled from her body. As if tearing a sheet from a bed, her soul is peeled from within by the Man In The Top Hat.
The Man In The Top Hat is no new ‘demon’, as she likes to call him. His grin is imprinted on the back of her eyelids when she tries to sleep. However to say he’s entirely an evil entity is a misdemeanour.
The Man In The Top Hat brings Lyra across the floor of her room, in a dance like way, and when he stops she realizes her reality has crumbled and she is elsewhere: A town of otherworldly people, monsters, fae, and deceiving humans.
“Why did you bring me here?” Is a question that continues to arise throughout this horrendous story. Though The Man In The Top Hat isn’t able to answer in whole, his jokes are enough to make Lyra halt her questions.
Will Lyra Jones find her way home? What does this man in the top hat want from her? Is The Man truly as he seems? Well, this novel conceals these answers that you seek, so prepare yourself greatly and give it a read.
“Your honour, I plea innocent.” I insist, with folded hands and a straightened posture. I’m certain I can sway this jury, before the judge beats the stand. It doesn’t help that every time I glance down to my palms, they appear red-stained, I have yet to know why. The jury can’t see my blood stained hands, can they? Is that why my case is so helpless?
I didn’t kill anyone, I didn’t. I wouldn’t harm anyone intentionally, no, no! I definitely wouldn’t! My brain is being wracked for answers, and it feels as if I’m missing something. “I was framed.” I come down with confidently, but my team isn’t as square shouldered as I am.
We haven’t been beat, not yet. I am not going to jail an innocent man.
—
“Did you, or did you not kill Daniel Rodriguez?” The opposite side asks, in a stand ahead of me, mocking me. My glare tightens down on them, and my snarl gives away my answer before I can speak: “He deserved it.” I say.
The opposite addresses me by a name I do not know, and I ignore them, until they call me it once more. “That is not my name!” My roar echoes, “My name is Samuel, and I murdered Daniel Rodriguez, so don’t credit this-Wilbur-on behalf of my doings!” I confess in full, allowing anger to consume me.
At this point I don’t care about slithering my way out of this one. It was expected when I watched the life leave Daniel’s eyes. He would not be forgiven for what he’d done to me, not even in the afterlife. Jail seemed like a blessed escape from the world I lived in anyway, who was I to fight the odds?
—
“Alright, Samuel, so you confess?” What? Who is this Samuel? My positions changed and it was as if I’d been stuck in a whir, but now I am standing opposite of my opposing team. “Samuel? My name is Wilbur, your honour-clearly it is Samuel who has done this! Please your honour, I have not committed any act of violence and I do not intend to!” I plead, looking from the lawyer to the judge, and then back to the lawyer with desperate eyes.
The opposing lawyers eyes are vengeful, and my heart is beating fast. How could they not believe me, I didn’t do this! I’d never hurt anyone, I don’t even know a ‘Daniel’. The defying evidence presented is baffling, and I feel the world weighing down on my shoulders. The image of Daniel Rodriguez’s body before me makes me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t have done this.
“Your honour..” My lawyer booms from behind me, startling me and planting me to the ground. My head is pounding and my hands are red, blood red. “We would like to be granted the insanity plea.” My lawyer interjects, standing straight and confident.
Insanity plea? I don’t need that, why would I need that? I’m not insane. I wipe my hands against pants, and my vision begins to blur. I feel my lip quivering, before I know it I begin to cry.
The judge motions my lawyer to continue, and he does: “As we have been discussing, my client has recently been diagnosed with a multiple personality disorder. It truly isn’t Wilbur’s fault for committing this crime. More obviously, it does appear to be Samuel’s, a person-or personality-in which Wilbur has no control over.” My lawyer states, and my heart drops. When was I diagnosed with a disorder? I’d surly remember.
There’s another person inside of my head? Why yes, of course there is, that is why the shouting in my head never ceases. But then again, what if it’s my conscience, everybody has a conscience! “I killed Daniel, I did!” A voice erupts from within me absentmindedly. And in a snap I regain control, frightened.
So, Samuel is the one who has stained these hands. And I am the one stuck with the consequences.
Before I know it, the jury has come to a conclusion and the judge is confident with the answer. I’m standing upright but I feel as if I’m on a ship at sea, painfully holding myself upright to stay in place.
“Wilbur Kempt is granted the insanity plea.” The judge states firmly, before slamming the small mallet onto the stand. The banging taunts me in an echo within my mind, and that single sentence has my world in shambles.
