97 reads

To understand my situation, you must first understand the world that I live in.

My name is Brad and I am 37 years old. I work as an accountant in New York, I have a lovely wife and two lovely kids. But things weren't always this way.

Before I met Sally, my expectations for life were rather grim. I drank, smoked and basically ingested every mind-altering substance I could get my hands on in excessive amounts. So when I met Sally at the age of 28, the living ink buried deep in the skin of my right forearm had deteriorated into nothing more than six years. If it hadn't been for her, and the world that opened up for me with her arrival in my life, I would have been dead three years ago.

Even though as I have steadily climbed the mountain of sobriety, the numbers on my arm has climbed as well, I am forever anxious about my time left, despite the fact that it has been steadily lodged in the fifties for the last two years.

But that all changed today.

I entered the Starbucks on the corner on my way to work as I do every day. Coffee is the only stimulant that I still allow myself, so I enjoy every second of the tingling sensation of the caffeine spreading in my body.

As I put down the cup however, I see the numbers and letters of my tattoo melt together to a single large drop of ink, and then spread out again, revealing the new countdown - 39 days.

In a fit of sheer panic, I throw my cup straight through the room, startling every other coffee addict in the room who hasn't yet been completely awakened by their cup of coffee. A lady yells at me - the remaining coffee from my cup seems to have formed several large stains on her dress, but I am too scared to mind her right now.

I stumble out of the café and out onto the street mumbling excuses left and right to the people I bump into. Zombie-like I wander through the masses of men and women, who ironically might just have been zombies as well, noticing nothing but the straight line to work and thinking of nothing else but when they get to go home again.

My mind is a mess. 39 days! I think about my wife and the kids, and all the things I still want to experience with them. But another thought comes sneaking, whispering in the back of my head. Slowly but steadily the whisper turns into a roar, eclipsing all other thoughts. It's like an ancient tribal chant has started echoing in my head.

"Drugs. Drugs. Drugs", it goes.

I feel like a mask has been ripped off me and revealed the face of an addict that has always been hidden underneath. What is the point of sobriety when I am doomed?

My phone feels incredibly heavy in my hand as I dial the old familiar number. Sally had me delete them all, but one remembers things like that.

"Hey, it's me. I know it's been a long time Joe, but there's no time for reminiscing. I need the strongest shit you got, right now".

After informing Joe of my whereabouts, only 10 minutes pass by before I am holding a small bag labeled "Rx", containing 3 orange pills.

I swallow the last of my conscience and then one of the pills. It's supposed to be some new shit, something even Joe didn't know what was, and he's even more strung out than I ever was.

Another 20 minutes go by with nothing happening, and then a freight train packed with hallucinations unloads in my brain. Purple, green, yellow and red lights swirl from the corners of my eyes and obstruct my entire vision.

Then I pass out.

I wake up in the gutter feeling worse than ever, but still hellbent on going out this way. No "39 days" for me, I want to decide myself, and I decide to go out with the things I used to love the most - drugs.

Down goes the second pill.

Even though the drug seems to have some mind-numbing effects, nothing can hold back the wave of terror that washes over me, as I see the numbers on my arm swirling back and forth just before the effects of the second pill sets in.

First it jumps straight to 128 years, then back to only 7 months. Then it jumps even higher, ending at 229 years. Then colors fill my head and I lose my consciousness once again.

Waking up, I think to myself that the numbers changing must have been another hallucination, but the number stays. I have 229 years left to live.

My motions still affected by the drug, I make my way out into the people on the street and ask them to confirm that the number right there on my arm indicates that I do in fact have more than two centuries left to live. Despite my horrible smell from lying in the gutter for what seems like half of the day, most people are polite enough to answer my question before covering their nose and pacing away from me.

I can't believe it. What started as a nightmare ended up as a dream come true! The adrenaline spreading in my body feels better than any high I have ever experienced.

But even in this moment of seemingly total happiness and relief, the lingering thought at the back of my head remains.

I still have one pill left. What if - what if it could be even better?

My inner dialogue debates this in what seems to be an eternity. I can almost feel the angel and the devil physically manifest on my shoulders, screaming to me what I should and shouldn't do.

But "once an addict, always an addict" seems to hold true whether you're chasing the perfect high or eternal life, so I slip the third pill on my tongue and swallow it.

This time it's different. No colors come floating in, and I am as conscious as ever. Instead, darkness fills my vision until everything is black, and I collapse on the street once again, though still aware of every sound and every thought in my head.

Hours go by, and when darkness finally lets go of my eyes, it seems to have spread to my surroundings in the form of dusk.

A man comes walking towards me. He wants to help me up. I thank him and reach out for his stretched out hand, but as I raise my right arm, the light of a streetlamp illuminates my tattoo, showcasing letters that this time are not black, but red, as it is custom for people close to death.

8 hours they read. I fall to my knees in deep agony and scream at the top of my lungs. The helpful man seems to take that as his cue to leave, and I don't mind that he does.

I try calling Joe, but he doesn't answer. Maybe he tried taking some of these pills too so maybe he's dead already, honestly I couldn't care less. My addictive personality has caught up with me, this time once and for all.

My last 39 days which could have been spent in the loving embrace of my ever-supportive wife and my loving kids, have been replaced by 8 hours that I spend frantically rocking back and forth on a street corner, repeating again and again:

"One too many. Always one too many".

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sunero4

77 reads

"A great man has died", the ink at the top of the first thick brown page of the Adventuretown Times read. Olaf skimmed the next few lines as he sat eating a crust of bread with cheese at his sturdy wooden table. Their so-called glorious leader and hero, Smartin, had been brutally murdered. Luckily, the paper stated, his wife Henryilda had not been left a widow for many seconds before she was as well slaughtered. And according to the Times, one might as well just abandon hope now, as the evil man Pugly was now the ruler of these lands. To anyone else, these news might have seemed frightening, but Olaf had lived in Adventuretown his whole life, and this story was far from unusual.

"Another so called dark lord has come to take over, huh" he muttered to himself as he went outside to milk the cows.

While squeezing the white liquid out of the cows breasts, he tried to recall how many days it had taken before their now deceased leader had gone from dark lord to hero and savior. Not more than a fortnight, he concluded. The leaders of Adventuretown changed often. Ever since the founder of the town, John, had been killed by a man that was in fact truly evil, an endless stream of wannabe heroes had come to rescue the town from its oppressive leader, this meaning that each time one hero had taken over, another one came around. And with no imminent danger around, many of these heroes seemed to degrade into something else entirely. No matter how valiant they might be when defending the weak, they almost all caved as soon as they got the sweet taste of power.

So when Olaf returned to eat his lunch, he skipped all the mind-numbing litterature describing the takeover, and simply inspected the last pages, describing the new taxes, rules and so forth that was to be implemented under the reign of the new, 138th hero and savior of Adventuretown.

He was very pleased. Lower taxes on crops, benefits for the farmers, who had been having a tough time making it under the rather strict rules of Smartin. After a long day of work and quietly celebrating the coming of new, better times with his wife and two children, Olaf went to bed.

The next morning he woke up even earlier than usual. The sun had just risen, casting a

faded light on the landscape of the outskirts of Adventuretown. His heart sank a little as he saw the source of his awakening; an ironclad man riding a white stallion, followed by a horde of trumpeteers and servants, announcing his intentions - to liberate the citizens of Adventuretown.

Olaf let out a heavy sigh and went back to bed.

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sunero4

77 reads

He is standing in the lobby, waving his hands furiously as he argues with the manager. Spit is flying from his lips as he shouts obscenities at the manager and my colleagues.

He is an elderly man with the most puzzling demeanor imaginable. He has a stern face and a good posture, but at the same time he seems to be just one inch from falling apart like broken glass. Which is maybe why I feel sorry for him.

"I will take him", I say, and after repeating it a few times to get through the mans shouting and his impaired hearing, the message gets through to him and he calms down. It is a good thing that his hearing is not better, as I swear some of my coworkers let out a very indiscrete sigh of relief when they hear that I will be the one to massage the man.

After his blood pressure seems to have returned to normal levels and the burgundy color from his cheeks has faded a bit, I lead him down the hall to the door with my name on it.

The man mutters a "thank you" and gives me a slight nod as I ask him to undress and lay down on the massage bed. As I see his skin now revealed, a wave of panic rushes through me.

For a man his age he is really fit. No flapping skin, no beer belly, not one excess gram of fat. But his skin is scarred. No, scarred is an understatement. It looks like some sadistic madman has tried to carve a topographical map in his skin with a knife. I try to focus on looking him in the eyes, but he must have noticed my brief, panicked expression, as his eyes quickly dodge mine and he proceeds to lie down on the bed.

As I pour the massage oil on his back, I desperately try to find a way to get out of this situation. Our parlor usually has a strict no scars policy that has been enforced since my former coworker Laila got admitted to a mental hospital after massaging a young man recently returned from Afghanistan.

"Why did I absolutely have to pity this old guy?", I think to myself. But it is too late to turn back, without him causing an even larger scene than he did in the lobby. I breathe deep into my lungs, and put my hands on his shoulders.

Shouting. Smoke. Extreme panic is all around me, accompanied by explosions so loud that I am sure they will destroy my hearing any moment now. I catch glimpses of faces around me, all twisted with hate and fear. For a second I recognize a face unlike the rest, projecting all its hate and fear towards me. I feel a searing pain in my shoulder as I fall to the ground trembling, and..

I am back at the massage parlor. Though it felt like an eternity, my mind cannot have been gone for more than a few seconds. The man does not seem to have noticed anything odd at least.

Part terrified and part intrigued, I slide my hands down and start massaging his upper back. This time I feel my stomach turn as reality fades and is replaced with absolute darkness.

But there is a light in the distance, and it is coming closer. Slowly, as what seems to be a group of men carrying torches come nearer, I start to become aware of my surroundings. I am in a wooden cage, and around me are several others like it. In each cage I see people wearing the same uniform as me.

While I have been examining my surroundings, the torchbearers are now so close that I can see them. They are short of stature, and their eyes are narrow. They speak together in a language I cannot decipher, but I hear the phrase "Viet-Cong" , which must mean that they are Vietnamese.

They pry open the door to my cage, and even though I am already bound by rope, two men step forward and force me to lie face down on the dirty, bug-ridden floor of the cage.

I twist my head to try and see what is going on behind me, but even though the grip of the two men is too strong for me to move much, the metallic sound of a blade drawn tells me what is about to happen.

The third man leans in over me so close that I can smell his foul breath. He starts talking to me, seemingly very agitated, and finishes his sentence with the only english words I have heard them utter so far: "white devil".

As he retracts his head I think for a brief moment that I am safe. That it was nothing but scare tactics. Then I feel the knife enter my back, and this time I do not return to the massage parlor immediately. I get to endure the entire torture session.

My vision is blurred with tears as I find myself on my knees, on the floor of my massage room. My coworkers are all standing in the door looking perplexed. Apparently I have let out several loud screams, urging them all to come and rescue me.

The elderly man is standing by the door, putting on his shirt. He looks down at me, and while I expect some words of comfort to come from his mouth, the thing he says is perhaps more haunting than any of the monstrosities I have lived through him.

"Maybe now you see what your people did to me, to good, honest Americans!". He spits in my face and storms out of the room, leaving people scattered left and right to avoid any physical contact with him.

As I slowly get up from my knees, I start to realize just how blinded by hatred one can become, desperately trying to execute revenge on anyone remotely resembling your former enemy.

So blind that you do not see the signs outside, stating that this is in fact a Japanese massage parlor.

1

0

Challenge

How many words does it take to describe what fear is?

sunero4

81 reads

F.E.A.R. I.S. R.E.A.L.

Frightening heights

Eternal nights

A forbidden desire

Rotten memories, from a time never forgotten

I can never fully explain the nature of fear

Silent, lonesome hours

Raw, awe-inspiring power

Eerie tales of ghosts and death

Awful people doing terrible things

Lest that it is real

2

0

1

Challenge

The Copperplate Awards | Short Fiction Write a piece of fiction where a lie is unearthed. Judges will be basing their decisions on fire, form, content, and creative edge. They will also pay particular attention to grammar, spelling, and formatting. Previous entrants are welcome to resubmit their entries with edits. Submissions are evaluated by Prose and a trusted panel of judges.

sunero4

103 reads

Learning to Think

As long as Gabriel could remember, life had always been this way. He was not sure why his memory didn't reach back farther than his adult working life, but that was the truth. Somehow, a very thorough amnesia had swept through his brain and left him with nothing but his name and his daily routines.

And routines they were.

Gabriel would wake up early every morning. He had no need to put on his working outfit; he simply slept in it. So did everyone else, for in their society, work was everything. Everyone worked, and they all worked towards the same purpose - the betterment of their society.

After waking up, Gabriel would almost immediately receive the first orders of the day through the communication device implanted in his head. This implantation was yet another thing that he had no memory of, but he assumed that it had to have happened, as it always worked to perfection; the voice in his head telling him what to do was always crystal clear.

"Walk the 7,786 steps from your home to the edge of The Greens, search for proper building materials in a 200 step vicinity and then return the 7,217 steps back to the construction site. Repeat action until first break". That was the first order of the day. A typical one at that, too. The majority of the working population was divided into three subcategories: food scavengers, builders and warriors. And above them all, their leader. The one whose voice seemed to simultaneously penetrate the millions of minds of the giant society under her leadership.

Gabriel was a builder. He had previously worked as a part of the food crew, until one morning the voice in his head had given him other instructions without any explanation at all. But that was the way of life in their society. Blind devotion to their eternal empress, no questions asked.

And life could have gone on like that forever it seemed, was it not for the fact that Gabriel seemed to feel different this morning. As he strolled towards The Greens on his usual route, he started to think.

"Why do we follow these orders?" he asked himself, while picking up a log several times his own size at the outskirts of The Greens. And this thought lead to another, and that one to even more. At the time Gabriel put down the giant log at the drop-off spot at the construction site, he had contemplated almost all that he knew about their society. And he was not happy about it.

For when he came to think about it, their rules and customs could best be described as cynical, or perhaps even cruel.

"We slave away for eternity with no apparent gain other than to serve this woman - and none of us even have any memory of why she has all that power! And when the hard, physical work has finally worn you down, you are left to die and replaced. No thanks, no gratefulness, nothing!".

This was one of many thoughts that flew through Gabriels head that day. And all night these reflections tormented him, so for the first time in his life, he had already been awake a long time when he heard the voice issue the same order as yesterday and the day before that.

Despite his newfound truancy towards their seemingly omnipresent leader, Gabriel chose to carry out his orders.

But as he walked alongside the mass of other construction workers headed to gather materials at the same spot as him, he couldn't help but share his thoughts. And as a wildfire these thoughts spread throughout the entire workforce. And when the thousands and thousands of workers on the building team returned with their first haul of logs, these logs were no longer intended for building, but for destruction.

Gabriel was not yet sure how to feel about this. He had shared his thoughts at first merely with the purpose of having the others reflect on them and tell him their opinion. But he had not envisioned the way that his fellow workers seemed to accept his words as the one and only truth.

Every word he spoke seemed to have almost the same effect as an order, except that these ideas spread by word of mouth. Each time they were told another time the force of these notions was amplified, multiplied, until they finally culminated in what was about to happen; an uprising.

They fought their way through the long and narrow tunnels of their home, towards the empress' chambers, sweeping through every bit of opposition with no mercy. Even the most proficient of the warriors were crushed without much difficulty as they were greatly outnumbered by the elated mass of hardened workers.

At some point in this chaos, Gabriel, now just a tiny drop in the unstoppable flow of force all put together by his words, seemed to come to terms with what was happening.

"This is right. It's exactly what we need. To purge the entire colony of anyone opposing us, opposing our freedom." And with that thought in mind he pushed forward, ending up as one of the first to breach the entrance to the queens personal dwellings.

The queen was much larger than them, three or four times their size at least. But they were a people accustomed to following orders no matter the prospect of danger, and she was only one while they were many. She was quickly brought down and pinned to the floor by a wave of some of the strongest workers, and Gabriel was then brought forth to finish what he had started.

"It has to be done. Only this way can we be free. Free from their lies."

With one swift motion he severed the queens head from her body. Her body was dragged away by a few of the workers, but the head was brought to the summit of their colony, for all to see. From this summit Gabriel held a speech. A speech with which he sought to reach the minds of as many of his people as possible. A speech spoken without fear, even though he could see the swarms of the winged warriors appear in the distance, all returning from whatever business they might have in an answer to the queens last call of distress. To avenge her. And Gabriel knew that he and his army of untrained workers would stand no chance against them. This is what he said, and these were his last words:

"Fellow citizens! Fellow workers! Despite the tragic events of today, we should not mourn, but rejoice! For today a great revelation has been made to us. No matter what they might say, no matter what they might do, you should never again trust them. Through what seems like a miracle, I have been granted the ability to see through their fog of lies, and thus reveal the biggest lie of them all!"

Gabriel briefly looked to the sky and then spoke his last few sentences, well knowing that he would be dead soon, seeing the thousands of winged attackers preparing to unleash hell on him and his comrades.

"No matter who ends up ruling this colony after my death, after they have crushed our rebellion, remember one thing. They will tell you that you have to follow the orders. But that's not true. It's a lie."

This was the story of Gabriel, the first ant to grow a conscience.

0

sunero4

83 reads

Learning to Think

As long as Gabriel could remember, life had always been this way. He was not sure why his memory didn't reach back farther than his adult working life, but that was the truth. Somehow, a very thorough amnesia had swept through his brain and left him with nothing but his name and his daily routines.

And routines they were.

Gabriel would wake up early every morning. He had no need to put on his working outfit; he simply slept in it. So did everyone else, for in their society, work was everything. Everyone worked, and they all worked towards the same purpose - the betterment of their society.

After waking up, Gabriel would almost immediately receive the first orders of the day through the communication device implanted in his head. This implantation was yet another thing that he had no memory of, but he assumed that it had to have happened, as it always worked to perfection; the voice in his head telling him what to do was always crystal clear.

"Walk the 7,786 steps from your home to the edge of The Greens, search for proper building materials in a 200 step vicinity and then return the 7,217 steps back to the construction site. Repeat action until first break". That was the first order of the day. A typical one at that, too. The majority of the working population was divided into three subcategories: food scavengers, builders and warriors. And above them all, their leader. The one whose voice seemed to simultaneously penetrate the millions of minds of the giant society under her leadership.

Gabriel was a builder. He had previously worked as a part of the food crew, until one morning the voice in his head had given him other instructions without any explanation at all. But that was the way of life in their society. Blind devotion to their eternal empress, no questions asked.

And life could have gone on like that forever it seemed, was it not for the fact that Gabriel seemed to feel different this morning. As he strolled towards The Greens on his usual route, he started to think.