Mine's in there. Thanks, Laymon Lady:
| Horror World http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/ |
|
| MOVING DAY! http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/viewtopic.php?f=58&t=7925 |
Page 1 of 3 |
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 12:53 pm ] |
| Post subject: | MOVING DAY! |
The tan colored Jeep was pushing through the dirt road at 70mph as its driver rushed away from the house that he once called “The Home Of My Dreams.” Blaring from the modest sound system was, not the soft classical music that was the driver’s favorite, but the absolute most obnoxious vulgar cross of the most offensive music that the vehicle had ever known. The driver himself, a man who was usually described in certain crowds as “a swell guy” and “someone who would do anything for anyone” was now a shell of his former self. The man, who once valued his peace and quiet, now could not stand the silence and now embraced the thunderously loud. He was bordering on the insane, because a man who hears his own evil thoughts in every moment of silence can only take so much before he breaks. He hoped that his plan of destroying what had become to be the destroyer of his life would finally work, and bring him to peace once again. Though he could not explain it, he knew that somehow, that all the torture he was facing, the lifetime of robbed moments of silence he was facing, were caused by the man…with Angry…Green…Eyes Steve had found the house in one of those free real estate guides that are available in every gas-and-go in the country. At the time he was only kicking around the idea of moving, but the house in the guide seemed to jump out at him, as if he was supposed to find it. There was no photo of the house, only a generic “no photo available” type scenery shot to entice him, but it was the description of the house that caught his eye. NAME YOUR OWN PRICE!!!!: elegant brick with large foyer, 4 season room, 1st floor bath. original glass tile for retro kitchen and bath. new furnace, central air, roof, windows, all appliances. integral garage. SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! He thought at the moment that there had to be some horrible, indescribable flaw in the house that would make the building not only unlivable, but not even worth the effort to bulldoze and turn into a mini-mall. As it turned out, the weeks that followed proved him wrong on so many levels. Not only was the house well within his price range, he could dip into his minute savings account, pay full price for the house without so much as a mortgage, and still have a bit left over to do some remodeling. Even more shocking was that furniture would not be a problem either because the house came fully furnished. It not only came with the standard couch, recliner and appliances, but it also came with some odd things that he was sure anyone moving out of a house would want to take with them. There was a large drum kit, a piano, brand new flat screen TV and even a jet ski in the garage. It seemed that the most amazing, movie style happenstance actually had happened to him, and he loved every minute of it. Steve found the letter about 3 days after moving into the house. He was dusting off yet another treasure left behind, a small scale replica of the C.S.S Hunley when he found the folded up letter: WHOEVER GETS THIS, DO NOT OPEN THE ATTIC CLOSET!!!!! IT IS THE REASON I LEFT!!!!! FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR OWN SANITY AND YOUR LIFE, LEAVE THIS HOUSE NOW AND NEVER COME BACK!!! There was no signature on the letter and he immediately discredited it as a joke or a prank. He was never one to believe something as silly a warning letter from an unknown author and it an instant he forgot about the letter as it fell behind the book case full of rare copies of classic literature. He opened the attic closet two days after he found the letter. The word “TRESSPASSOR” was carved into the outside of the door. What struck him as odd was the fact that the carving was fresh enough in the wood that it seemed to have been carved only a few days ago, even though he was told the house was empty for months. He ignored the etching, opened the door, and inside the closet was a portrait, a portrait of a man, a portrait of a man…with Angry…Green…Eyes He swallowed hard, felt the lump of uncertainty slide down his throat, and closed the door. What he saw on the other side of the attic door was not the carving he saw before, but the portrait of the man…with Angry…Green…Eyes. He was officially the most afraid he had ever been in his life. Gazing at the man, he saw someone who could stare into ones soul. He hair and long beard were a fiery red, he wore a black and white suit, and gazing back at Steve all the while were those Angry…Green…Eyes. A million voices erupted into Steve’s head. All the evil, unpleasant thoughts he had ever pondered were all forcing themselves out into the open. It only took him a second to realize that he was not just re-thinking them, he could hear them. They were spoken to him in the open as if someone else were in the room. Thought from murder, for arson, to simply beating up a grade school bully were resurfacing in the open air for him to hear, they were spoken by the most intimidating voice he ever heard, and he knew who it was. It took him three hours of trying to get rid of the painting before it came to what he finally did. He tried breaking it, hiding it, burying it, but every time he tried to rid himself of the portrait, it simply came back, staring daggers into him. All the while the thought he would never admit to continued repeating themselves to him. With every effort to destroy the painting they became louder and more vicious. Finally in an act of desperation he went to the garage. In it he found a wood chipper and a 3 gallon can of gasoline. Acting on impulse he poured the gasoline into the chipper and lit it, and then he fed the portrait into the machine, and watched as the flaming chips were reduced to ash. The voices erupted. He was now hearing not only his own evil thoughts, but the thoughts of what seemed like everyone who ever dared to think evil. He sprinted to his jeep, leaving his dream home behind, and frantically drove away. He awoke several hours later bleeding and with a splitting headache. He did not remember the crash, but he saw the end result. He was ejected from his tan Jeep, the jeep itself on its roof, burned and charred. He realized though that he did not hear malicious thoughts anymore, however he also did not hear the sounds of the woods. . He only heard the breathing of a man beside his jeep, a man with fiery red hair, a man in a black suit, a man…with Very…Angry…Green…Eyes |
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 1:09 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
THE WEIGHT *** CHAPTER TWO (EXCERPT) As many times as he’d been to the morgue, Stockton should have anticipated the chill. An all too familiar shiver racked his upper body as he made his way to the center of the room where the Medical Examiner and Jensen were conferring over one of the lab tables. With a forced curiosity, born from too many years on the job, Stockton casually approached the duo and asked, “What’ve we got?” Jensen hesitantly took his eyes off of the table and swept them toward Stockton. “Well partner, this one’s a doozy. Doc’s got him put back together the best he could, but there’s some doubt on the COD. That’s what he is working on now.” He was usually prepared for the worst, but despite himself, Stockton’s face broke into a grimace as he glanced over the body, nude except for a small sheet covering his midsection. Even if the cause of death wasn’t readily apparent to the Medical Examiner, what was done to the body post mortem was. From the looks of it, the guy had been segmented into several large pieces, and was now reassembled on the table like a giant jigsaw puzzle by the medical examiner. Stockton observed that the individual body parts had been severed somewhat cleanly, most likely with a serrated knife that was sharp enough to cut through the skin without much tearing, but tough enough to saw through bone easily. He asked Jensen without looking away from the table, “What do we know?” “Guy’s name is Arthur Jackshizt. He’s 52 years old, married, no kids, and he works, uh… make that worked, at the Manchester campus of The Elms. Personnel Department at the school tells us he was in charge of the storage area, and that’s where a janitor found him late last night. The janitor called 911 at 12:47 a.m.” “Forensics?” “Still combing the storeroom. But we have some leads. Two of the faculty didn’t show up for classes this morning. They didn’t call in, and calls to their number were picked up by the answering machine. We sent two black and whites to their house, but they weren’t home.” “Their house?” “Yeah, they’re married. One’s name is Bob Goodfellow and the other’s name is Fred Goodfellow. Fred’s maiden name is Thompson.” Stockton stared at Jenson waiting for the punch line. All he got in return was a shoulder shrug. It took a moment, but Stockton finally recalled that New Hampshire passed a law allowing same sex marriages recently, and apparently those two were now one happy couple. Shaking his head while wondering how the world had gone to hell so quickly, Stockton asked, “You said leads?” Jensen took a small note pad out of his pocket and flipped a few pages. “Yeah, seems there is a history professor visiting the school for a lecture and he had some historical art object forwarded and secured in the storage area. When he went to retrieve it this morning it was gone. I’ve got Sergeant Biggs following up with the professor as we speak.” “Anything else missing?” “Too early to tell, but from what the staff at the school could see, everything else still seems to be in place. They’re doing an inventory this morning.” Stockton frowned as he quickly ran a few scenarios over in his mind. He was about to ask Jensen another question about the history professor when the Medical Examiner spoke up. “In light of your conversation, officers,” he began, “I think you two should take a look at this.” Stockton and Jensen moved closer to the table as the Medical Examiner reached out with his hands and slowly peeled back the cloth off of Arthur Jackshitz’s midsection. He folded it down until it rested on the dead man’s knees. Neither Stockton or Jensen said a word; their eyes were locked on the dead man’s groin. Where his penis should have been, there was only a neatly severed stub. “It looks like the professor’s historical object isn’t the only piece of art that’s missing,” deadpanned the Medical Examiner. Stockton and Jensen slowly turned to face each other, and, as if reading each other’s mind, they said in unison, “Goodfellows!” *** CHAPTER FOUR (EXCERPT) Rose’s shoulders sagged with the twin weights of melancholy and worry, but she was determined not to break down and cry as she finished packing the detritus from her life into plain, beige cardboard boxes. Despair had been a burden that she had carried most of her adult life, but thankfully, she had always been able to manage it in her own unique way. She was proud of the manner in which she handled adversity, how she managed it with a grace that she thought was becoming to a woman, and more important a wife. Unpleasant memories suddenly intruded into her thoughts. She found herself resisting, trying to empty her mind of them. She silently reprimanded herself, now was not the time to get lost in a numbing emptiness or, conversely, to wallow in the frustrations of her past. No, it was a time for reflection, a moment to dwell on the happier memories she had of her husband and their marriage. Of course, her life with Art was nowhere perfect. Smiling now, she recalled the beginning of that old saw, I might not have been the smartest kid in the classroom, but…. In her case, she would have finished the phrase with but I was smart enough to know that I wasn’t delusional. No, since its inception, she had never kidded herself about their marriage. She had never embraced the false optimism that, over time, Art would have somehow risen above his intellectual limitations and been more than just a good provider. The man was kind. He was giving. And he gave her the best life he was capable of. She recalled all the years he struggled for her; working the night shift for the extra few cents an hour it paid him, and the bag lunches he took along consisting of little more than a sandwich and a piece of fruit. And how he continued to wear his old patched up clothes so she could afford a new dress now and then. He suffered all of these hardships for only one reason, because he loved her. Rose could still picture him as he was 30 years ago when he had proposed. Once again, she smiled when remembering how comical he looked when he bent down on his knee to offer her the ring. Since he was short to begin with, the top of his head barely reached her belly; and she recalled fighting the temptation to place her hand on his head and rough up his hair as one might do to a child. And when he looked up at her with those nervous, oversized brown eyes, framed underneath a haircut that looked as if it were made with a soup bowl, she couldn’t resist a giggle. Confused, and misinterpreting her reaction, he hurriedly dug into his pocket and produced the quarter karat diamond ring he had purchased at a local discount store, thinking it a last resort to make his love for her more visible. She cried at the gesture, and agreed to marry to him. With the memory of his proposal lingering, she walked to the closet, removed some of her blouses from the rod, and began to fold them. As she went to replace the hangers, she heard a motion behind her. Before she could turn, she felt two arms begin to slide around her hips and encircle her. Looking down, she saw two well cared for but masculine hands gently clasp her waist. She stood motionless for a moment, uncertain, until the passionate caress of soft lips against her neck set her at ease. She bent her head slightly to prolong the moment, and then turned around gently in his arms to face her visitor. “You never told me,” she began, her gaze focusing on him, “if he suffered. You promised me he wouldn’t suffer.” Ignoring her statement, her visitor replied casually, “Still packing for the move, I see.” She tried to study his eyes, thinking they would provide her the answer, but they remained soft, and evasive. Realizing it might be best if she didn’t know, she responded to his statement. “Yes, but there’s not all that much to pack. You would think there would be more after 30 years.” “Well, in another six months you’ll have everything you’ve always desired, and more.” Rose leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips lingered on his mouth for almost a full minute, enjoying eroticism she had never dreamed possible. “It’s so hard to believe,” she whispered over his lips. “I have a whole new life ahead of me.” “What’s the first thing you are going to do with it, Rose?” Without hesitation she replied, “Change my last name.” |
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 1:11 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Moving Day Fred stood in the middle of the street, looking at the group of men fifty feet away from him with something akin to hunger and resignation in his dead eyes. His clothes hung in tatters from his decomposing body. One arm was nothing but skin and skeleton, part of his scalp was gone, his jaw hung at an angle from the left mandible joint. He barely weighed a hundred pounds. Fred had been this way for about five months. It was not an ideal existence, especially for a man of his nature. In life, Fred had been fastidious and regimented. Wandering around, looking for humans to feed on was an anethema to him. Or would have been, if he'd been alive. As a child, he'd been an Army brat. His father had moved his family every 18 months or so, and, after awhile, Fred had grown weary of the moving. It got to the point that he hated moving so much, he began to fill notebooks with the phrase "I hate moving day." He progressed to using synonyms for hate, like abhor and detest. He even began looking up the phrase in other languages. By the time he was eighteen, Fred had filled a dozen notebooks using over 70 languages. When he graduated high school, he decided that he would pick a college where the family was living at that time, and stay there. He wound up going to UCLA, and after leaving there, he stayed in LA in an IT postion. He bought a house and lived there for twenty-plus years, never moving. Not even when the so-called Zombie Apocalypse hit eight months ago. It started around Omaha and radiated outward, like the ripples from a pond after a rock broke its surface. The zombies were slow and lumbering, very Romeroesque. Fred knew that when a group of older kids had shown him Night Of The Living Dead in an attempt to draw him out of his shell. He hadn't liked the movie. One thing he noticed, however, was that the things that happened in those movies didn't happen here. The power dimmed, but didn't go out. Phones worked. The internet was still up. The tv reporters were everywhere, telling you about cannibalistic creatures with a gleam in their eye. And the experts were astounding. Everyone from geneticists to viralogists to family doctors to authors (Brian Keene, usually) to George Romero himself appeared on tv and agreed on nothing. The government told people to remain calm and stay indoors. The nation's armed forces were on the move, protecting the populace and destroying the zombies. Many in his neighborhood decided to say screw that, and headed en masse to anywhere that could be fortified--schools, army bases, police and fire stations. Some banded together to sit off shore on their weekend sailboats until the panic subsided. Fred stayed put. He did venture out two weeks after the initial reports, going with a couple of neighbors who'd stayed as well to hit the grocery stores. The stores were being looted, and Fred reluctantly joined in, procuring himself enough food to last a couple of months. He hadn't worried about water, since it was still on, too. It was also around this time that he decided that leaving his lights on at night was possibly a bad idea. He went to a Lowe's, took some wood and nails, and boarded up his windows. He stopped turning on his lights at night and created a dark room towards the center of his house where he could watch tv and surf the web without any lights being seen. At the beginning of the second month, reports came in of zombies in LA. His remaining neighbors went to the fortified areas of the city. Fred was alone. The tv and web offered no new information, only rumors. Three days after his last neighbor left, a squad of National Guardsmen rolled down his street in the early afternoon. Fred went out and greeted them, almost getting shot before a level-headed Lieutenant got everyone to stand down. Fred offered them water to refill canteens, and the Guardsmen offered Fred news that wasn't on tv. Like the zombies were the result of a military test gone wrong. That was why there were still utilities and tv and the like. The military had a plan to protect those areas and were doing so successfully. People were getting to fortifications with little panic. One Guardsman even gave Fred a website to check out. The squad urged Fred to get to safety, and headed off. Fred immediately got on the website. The story from some scientists was that the more the zombies fed, the longer they lived. Zombies unable to feed burned through their energy faster, causing their bodies to start feeding on itself, killing them, according to secret tests being done. A week later, Fred saw his first zombie. He was peeking out a window, drinking his tea, when it shambled down the street. It took fifteen minutes to walk a block, and Fred saw that the zombie was decomposing badly. He nodded his head, remembering the website. Several more appeared in the following days, none of them even glancing towards Fred's house. After almost a week of no zombies, Fred began to run low on food and, at high noon, ventured out. He opened his front door to have a zombie, which had been sitting with its back against it, fall into his house. Fred was surprised and terrified, not having heard the creature climb his porch steps. It was almost gone, but had enough energy to reach out, grab Fred's ankle, pull him in and take a bite. Fred pulled back, leaving blood and a good chunk of flesh in the zombie's mouth. He grabbed the hammer he'd used to board the windows and crushed the zombie's skull. Fred knew from the website that a bite turned one into a zombie. Something in the creature's saliva carried a virus that quickly mutated the bitten. He guessed he had about an hour before he died and rose again. He sat on the top step of his porch and waited. Seventy-three minutes later, Fred died painfully, his heart and other organs seizing on him. Two minutes after that, Fred's reanimated corpse stood up, went down the walk and into the street. Fred found no food for two weeks. He sensed humans somewhere and headed that way, walking slowly. It took him four months to go three miles, walking every other day, then every third day, to conserve his precious energy. Which led him to where he was presently. In the middle of the street, three blocks from a police station, with humans goading him. They'd first spied him a month ago, and Fred had only taken three steps since then. What Fred couldn't know was most of the zombies had died off, their bodies turning inward for food. Fred was one of a couple of hundred left in the U.S., mainly due to his walking very little. Now, his body felt it had enough strength, causing Fred to lift a leg, push it out and step forward, generating a mighty cheer from the group of men. If Fred had been able to form a conscious thought, it would have been this. Moving day was always a bitch. |
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 1:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
It’s Time To Move Clyde Again Inside the room it smelled like someone had stuffed road kill in the microwave and hit the button marked incinerate. The old man that was laying in a hospital bed waiting to die was Clyde. No last name was listed on his chart. He was bathed in sweat, rolling back and forth in his sleep, crying over and over that he was dreaming of Hell. It was a dreary day the color of ash, the kind that burrows into the minds of troubled men, planting suicidal thoughts, as if they were little pods of sunshine for the soul. The shadow of a tall, skinny nurse paced back and forth before Clyde’s bed; she appeared to be packing his things, but it was too gloomy in the room to see clearly. “Lord … those things … those crawling black things … “ Clyde was in the throes of delirium now, and was describing some of the dark things that roamed the Hell he dreamed. The tall shadow stopped moving and stood still, staring at Clyde’s wrinkled body writhing in bed. The nurse had her hair pulled back, the ends so frayed that the shadow her hair cast made her look like The Bride of Frankenstein. “Shut-up old man. Thanks to the crap you blather on about in your sleep, we have to move your sorry, old ass to another nursing home,” she said. A small black bird struck the window, making the nurse jump and delivering Clyde out of Hell. “What did you say …” His voice was slurry, still sounding half asleep. "Time to move, Clyde." Suddenly Clyde’s eyeballs rolled in back of his head and then back around, his arms flailing like he was being attacked by invisible demons left behind. “I’m not moving! I’m not moving!” His screams could be heard down at the end of the hall where two men in long, black coats and sunglasses stood as if their feet were glued to the puke-green tiles that adorned the floor. Like all nursing homes and hospitals, every hallway reeked of the kind of powerful disinfectant that could clear your sinus out and strip brain cells at the same time. This caused the shorter man in the black coat to break out in a sneezing fit at the exact same second Clyde went ballistic. The nurse lunged towards the bed, grabbed hold of Clyde with one hand over his mouth while the other inserted a needle of Valium in to his left arm. Within seconds of the drug entering his bloodstream, Clyde was out cold, which also meant he was free to dream. The sound of boots skidding to a halt just outside of Clyde’s door made the nurse jump like someone punched a blown up paper bag behind her back. “You assholes scared the shit out of me!” “He’s out cold now. Pull the van around back and don’t fuck anything up,” she spat. The two men adjusted their sunglasses, leaving her with Clyde’s unconscious body crumpled up on the bed like an electrocuted prune. Clyde looked closer to death’s door now than he ever did. A fly buzzed over Clyde’s left eye; the nurse swatted it, not bothering to clean the brown splatter off Clyde’s eyelid. Inside she giggled, like an evil little girl who would one day grow up to love murder. Clyde couldn’t wake up, and that was the ultimate Hell of the one he was living through right now. When he wasn’t drugged, he had partial control over the demonic dream world that haunted him. With a lot of inner-strength, in the past, he could will himself out of unconsciousness. But drugged, like he was now, and he was forced to confront the tortures of the damned. Clyde’s eyes rolled wild, like marbles underneath the closed lids, giving the physical sign that he was now entering REM sleep. His body was perfectly still, but with ripples rising up underneath the skin on his arms, like little fingers trying to poke their way out from inside. In Clyde’s dream he was near a blackened pit the size of half a football field: a desolate crater that smelled like a thousand decaying bodies were oozing down below. He was lying on the outer edge and couldn’t move. His limbs were paralyzed here. The Earth beneath him was scorched and burnt. He couldn’t bring himself out of it because the drugs held him under. The sound of a flute whispered through the noxious air, sending a tremendous wave of nausea inching through Clyde’s body; he tilted his head sideways and sprayed pink vomit all over the black ground. One slithered up over the pit. It’s body a shiny black, like a porcelain cougar. It had two little holes where eyes should have been; they dripped bright red blood. It made sniffing sounds and continued to sit crouched in a defensive posture, all the while waiting to drag Clyde down in to the pit with it’s other demonic brethren. *** In the nursing home, the phone in Clyde’s room rang loud, almost like it wanted Clyde to wake up. The tall nurse picked it up, fast, before the second ring even completed. “Yes?” The voice on the other end was as cold sounding and to the point as another human being could be. It was deep, mysterious, with a pinch of true evil thrown in to make the person on the other end cringe inside. “Did you move him yet?” The nurse was staring at the slow, hypnotic pulse beating out of Clyde’s neck; how she wanted to open that vein with a razor and spill the old man’s blood. He could no more lead them to Hell than she could. She waited a long minute before replying, “Do you people really think this old fart can bring you anything more than bad gas and pure grief?” The cold silence on the other end spoke volumes. “Listen to me,” the voice said, “it’s moving day for Clyde, because of what others now know. You will not fuck this up, or it will be moving day for you-and you won‘t like where I’ll send you.” The phone on the other end could be heard smashing, and then the line went dead. The nurse raised the receiver high above her head and struggled with the question of whether or not to bash Clyde’s head in. Drool spilled out the corner of her mouth, and her body trembled for all the scorn she held for the human race. *** It got closer, and Clyde still couldn’t move. Above him the atmosphere was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of dark swirling colors: death-clouds that pulsed and breathed, like they contained something alive inside of them, and at the same time absorbing what looked like gigantic white leeches. Clyde’s head spun. The slithering body was inching farther away from the pit. It was only feet from reaching Clyde now. It gave off an odor of rotten fish that threatened to make him puke again, but he didn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wake up. “God, help me …” he moaned. And then the ground underneath him began to split open, and the freakish sky above began to bang with thunder that sounded like angels were using a golden battering ram on the gates of Hell, ready to storm in and add another chapter to the story of the war between Heaven and Hell. Clyde felt that it was over-whatever it was that had finally happened. He thought of his true home and closed his eyes for good, one last time. *** When the two men came back to move Clyde, they found him dead with his skull caved in. The skinny nurse was lying in the chair next to his bed with veins in both wrists opened up and bleeding out all over the cream colored floor. Neither man looked like he cared. “You really think this old man found some kind of dream doorway to Hell?” The taller man didn’t respond, and didn’t need to. No one except insane, rich people with too much money to spend ever believed such a thing. A dark shadow floated past the window, bathing the room in an even more dismal depression than before. “Okay, let’s move him,” the shorter man said. Clyde’s right eyeball twitched. The End |
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 1:26 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
THE LAKE Part 1: The Awakening Even before he saw the men with the pumpkin heads, Richard knew he was in hell. Something reeking like vinegar splashed his face, jerking him awake out of his stupor. Had he really fallen asleep? He shook what liquid he could out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. He desperately wanted to wipe his face, but his hands were shackled to the bare, concrete wall behind him. Others sat chained on both sides of him, as well as along the entire far wall of the building. The room itself resembled an empty, long-forgotten warehouse. The floor, walls, and ceiling were concrete, featureless save for the hundreds of devices connecting the prisoner’s shackles to the walls. At both ends of the warehouse stood a large rolling door, the only visible hope for an exit. To Richard’s right, a man in army camos continued to splash vinegar in the faces of those not already awake. Innumerable scars lined his face, most likely remnants of a fiery encounter. A few other soldiers were similarly spraying prisoners around the room. Directly in front of him, more soldiers, all burned and disfigured in the same manner, stood at attention in the bed of a large army truck. Each one carried a powerful looking rifle. The driver took a bullhorn, and spoke as he stuck it out the window. “LISTEN UP. IT’S MOVING DAY, FOLKS. TIME TO CLEAN HOUSE. IN TWO MINUTES, YOUR CHAINS SHALL BE UNLOCKED, AND THE DOORS WILL BE OPENED. AT THAT TIME, IT IS UP TO YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU SURVIVE. SIX MILES DUE SOUTH, THERE IS A LAKE. THE FIRST ONE TO ARRIVE THERE, ON OUR MASTER’S WORD, WILL BE FREED. ONE MORE THING. YOU WILL BE HUNTED. NOW GO.” Richard immediately felt pinpricks of sensation in his wrist as his chains snapped open. He was free! At the same time, he heard the two rolling doors open. An orange, dawn-like sky appeared outside. In the opening of each stood a creature, easily seven feet tall, with human bodies but massive pumpkins for heads. Jack-o-lanterns on steroids. Each one wielded a large, four-pronged pitchfork. “BEGIN!” shouted the driver with the bullhorn, and as one, the soldiers hoisted their rifles and opened fire. Richard dove for the floor, crawling on his stomach as bullets whizzed by overhead, blasting away chips of concrete that fell like confetti above him. Many of the other prisoners, in panic, stood and ran toward the doors. The riflemen began picking them off one by one. Richard raised his head just a bit, trying to find one of the doors, and instead saw a man not five feet in front of him take a bullet to the head. A gooey shred of scalp and brain tissue hit Richard in the face. He swiped it off quickly, doing his best not to vomit on the floor. It would only draw attention to himself. He felt a steady vibration rising from the floor, and rolled away as the army truck roared by, smashing helpless people with its massive front bumper. It shot out one of the doors and disappeared. Bodies littered the warehouse floor, and perhaps thirty or so still stood, making a break for the doors while there was no gunfire. Richard headed for what he believed to be the west door, opposite the way of the truck and its soldiers, but one of the pumpkin men stood in the way. It stared at him, its carved eyes glowing bright orange with flame. As he backed away, Richard saw movement to his right. A young woman ran to the door as the pumpkin man’s head was turned. She almost made it, too. As she reached the doorway, the creature swung its huge pitchfork around, impaling her through the back. She stood rigid as the prongs were shoved all the way through, exploding out her stomach. As the pumpkin man lifted the woman off the ground, Richard made his break for the exit. The monstrosity roared in anger, slamming the pitchfork against the wall until the woman finally tore off, strings of loopy intestines steaming on the floor. Richard wasn’t sure if the thing was giving chase or not, and he didn’t dare look back to find out. A large patch of woodland loomed before him, and Richard sprinted with everything he had to get there. Once he reached the cover of the forest, he could turn left and head south. Gunfire rattled off behind him, but he ducked low and kept running. The pumpkin man roared again, but more distantly this time. Richard risked a glance back, and saw the creature giving chase to another prisoner. The soldiers were southeast of him, massacring a band of people trying to board the truck and fight back. Upon entering the woods, the noises behind him vanished, as though slammed behind an iron curtain. Peeking around a tree, Richard could still see everything going on, but it reminded him of an old silent film. “No time to screw around,” he said. If he couldn’t hear anything outside the forest, it stood to reason that they could no longer hear him as well. Turning left, he wandered through the forest, trying his best to maintain a straight line. Logic told him if he kept this exact line, he’d have to run into the lake at some point. The trees should have provided some sort of shade and comfort, but the monotonous orange glow permeated through the forest and gave off a heat and humidity that soaked Richard through his white t-shirt and khakis. He managed to persevere for a while, but after what couldn’t have been more than a mile or two, lightheadedness brought him crashing to the ground. Dry twigs scratched his face, but he didn’t care. Enough was enough. Perhaps he’d be lucky and die right here before anyone found him. His face itching from the dry ground, Richard sat up to wipe it off. Through the sweat in his eyes, a blurry structure shimmered before him. Wiping only made his eyes sting more, so he closed them and waited. After a few minutes he looked again to see a small, ramshackle house sitting amidst a clearing of tall grass and weeds. Instinct told him to stay away, but he nevertheless felt drawn to the shack. If it was empty, it would allow him the opportunity to rest without being easily seen. Gathering his strength, he walked up and peeked in a shattered window. The structure appeared to be split into two rooms. This side was barren, save for a few cockroaches scuttling along the floor. He moved to the other side and found the rotting wooden door. Grabbing the handle, he pushed the door open. Immediately an overpowering smell invaded his nostrils. It invited him in, seducing him with its aroma. Removing his hand from the door handle, he looked down to see it smeared with a thick brown substance. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was chocolate. He licked his forefinger, relishing the sweet taste. The smell was that of gingerbread, and before him sat a couch made of marshmallows. His survival instinct completely gone, exhaustion overtook him and he laid down on the couch to rest. Part 2: Family Matters It’s the summer of 2006. The house on Lakeview Avenue is your typical suburban cookie-cutter style abode, but to Richard it’s a little piece of heaven. Pulling into the driveway, he can see Matthew and Megan staring out the living room bay window, their grins growing impossibly wide as he honks the horn for them. Three-year old twins, such novelties still excite them to no end. Richard grabs his briefcase out of the passenger seat and makes his way up the front patio. His children are waiting not so patiently by the screen door as he approaches. “Daddy!” they cry in unison. “Hey kiddos,” Richard responds, dropping his briefcase to accommodate a child in each arm. “Were you both good for mommy today?” “Yes daddy!” “Good. Go on and play now. I’m going to go say hi to mommy, then I’ll be back, okey-dokey?” “Okay!” The sweet aroma of fresh baked cookies invades Richard’s nostrils as he enters the kitchen. Isabella has her back turned to him, and for a moment he simply gazes at her silky black hair flowing halfway down her back, her almond colored skin glowing in the light. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, his own personal angel, and he briefly wonders what he ever did to deserve being this blessed. “Hi honey,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Smells wonderful in here.” “Gingerbread cookies,” she replies, tilting her head back on his shoulder to give him a kiss. “I told the kids they have to wait until after dinner, and so do you.” She smiles up at him, a smile that radiates enough love Richard knows it could power a city for a million years. His life is complete. (to be continued) |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat May 01, 2010 1:36 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I love them all. Tt |
|
| Author: | horrordude [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:10 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:11 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Did I get everyone's story posted? |
|
| Author: | horrordude [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:12 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Mine's in there. Thanks, Laymon Lady:
|
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:13 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
You are very welcome, 'Dude. I will post my thoughts in a few days. I don't like to comment right away because I know the identity of the authors. After the writers reveal which story is theirs, I will post some thoughts. |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Yes, thanks to our moderator for another great job! |
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat May 01, 2010 2:44 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Thanks Laurel - you rock!! 
|
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat May 01, 2010 3:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I just went through and read all of these. Great job, as usual, folks. I want tsome time to process them a bit more before commenting on each one, but I loved the seeing the vast array of supernatural angles in these stories. I even liked the zombie story, which is hard for me nowadays. I see there are 5 entries. Laurel, can you tell us who the five people are, so we have an idea who to guess for? And I think Tony wrote The Weight. |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat May 01, 2010 4:01 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I can see why you'd think that. Tt |
|
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Sat May 01, 2010 4:09 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Stories were submitted by Tony, Craig, Thad, The 'Dude and Adam. |
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat May 01, 2010 4:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Looks like JD and Paulo are going to get branded. 
|
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sun May 02, 2010 7:09 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Wow, there seems to be quite a lack of feedback and overall views for this thread. 
|
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun May 02, 2010 7:12 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I'll comment tomorrow most likely. It's been a busy weekend for me and I want to reread these at least a couple of time more before I comment. Tt |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun May 02, 2010 7:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I will however comment on the first story now. Not sure who wrote this but I really liked the story, it was an easy read and I enjoyed the premise. But I did find some area's where it could have been improved. My first impression while reading it was there was too much telling and not enough showing. I never got a feeling of fear when reading it, and I think it was because instead of feeling fear, I was just reading about a guy who told me he was scared. For instance this phrase: He was officially the most afraid he had ever been in his life. We need to feel that fear, not be told it. And there are also too many words in this story, making it somewhat overwritten. For instance: Blaring from the modest sound system was, not the soft classical music that was the driver’s favorite, but the absolute most obnoxious vulgar cross of the most offensive music that the vehicle had ever known. Seems a little overkill to me. In fact, though I like the idea of the first paragraph to set up the story, it needs to be more focused, a bit tighter. And the Angry...Green...Eyes...phrase seemed more in line with what you would find in a young adult novel. I don't want to put the writer off here no matter who wrote it. I thought it was a good story and I did enjoy it, and the ending was well executed. These are just my thoughts on how it could have been better, others may disagree. All in all I thought it was good read. Tt |
|
| Author: | TMLCrow [ Sun May 02, 2010 7:38 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I've read them. I just want to read them again on something bigger than my phone before I respond. |
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sun May 02, 2010 8:01 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun May 02, 2010 8:12 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
That was cool! Way to go Thad! It at BrianKeene.com by the way, not his forum. |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon May 03, 2010 8:48 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
A few comments on The Lake. I thought it was a wonderful story. It was exciting from the beginning to the end of the first portion and it got me very involved. It was very detailed and wonderfully descriptive. And the whole second portion and the very end of the first portion added a surreal edge to it that just put it over the top for me. An excellent piece of flash fiction in my opinion. The only negative I could comment on was the actual printed style of the story. It was not very conducive to reading. There needs to be some white space on the page, everything is too crowded. I'm not sure if its the word processing program he's using (I'm pretty sure I know who the author is), if there is a translation problem when going from one computer to the next, or the author simply doesn't take the time to make it more presentable, but it would add more to the enjoyment of the story if it was laid out better. Again, just my opinion. An excellent story none the less. Tt |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon May 03, 2010 9:05 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Some comments on Moving Day. Another great story. The omniscient author style really works on this, it had a really nice laid back feel to it. It not only gave you enough information about what was happening, but it was also strong enough to get me into Fred's head without overplaying his emotions. And the attention to detail really rounded out the story well. I love the notebook and 70 languages and how he didn't move for over 20 years. I also love the line about how the epidemic was like a rock hitting water and the ripples going out. Just great attention to detail which made the story so much fuller. And I like the twist where the zombies only survived for a short time, for me it was original, and not the same old zombie trope. A well written and entertaining story in my opinion. Tt |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon May 03, 2010 9:26 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Comments on It's Time To Move Clyde Again: Another story I enjoyed, but this one left me more confused than all the others. Maybe I missed it, but the title says "Again", how many times was he moved? Does he keep coming back to life? And I'm not sure who the nurse character was and what her relationship with the man on the phone was. I knew he was her boss so to speak, but what was he boss of? And why did his eye twich at the end? Was he really not dead? The concept is a good one, a dream doorway to hell, it sounds very cool. And I thought that this author also paid good attention to detail, keeping us enthused throughout the story. The part with the fly grossed me out completely, and the head caving in when he died was another great touch. The story flowed very well and was a good read. Again, in just around a thousand words, this author told a pretty good story. Tt |
|
| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon May 03, 2010 9:29 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
Comments on The Weight: This one was too bizarre for me. I didn't understand it at all. Who in their right mind would have a character with a Moe Howard haircut? Tt |
|
| Author: | TMLCrow [ Mon May 03, 2010 11:45 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
| Author: | TMLCrow [ Mon May 03, 2010 11:51 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
I enjoyed both The Weight and The Lake. If I have concerns with them, it's with the presentation, not the stories themselves. One appears to be part of a larger novel and one says to be continued. That kind of took me out of each one a bit and, to be honest, irked me a touch. But they also were well-written, so I also want to keep reading about them, to see where the stories go. I think I know who wrote what, but Craig and Tt might be tossing red herrings at me, causing me to overthink it. |
|
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Mon May 03, 2010 12:39 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon May 03, 2010 12:53 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: MOVING DAY! |
So...where's your comments? |
|
| Page 1 of 3 | All times are UTC - 5 hours [ DST ] |
| Powered by phpBB® Forum Software © phpBB Group http://www.phpbb.com/ |
|