So welcome everyone! I really hope you enjoy what you’re about to read as much as I enjoyed writing it. So that’s it. Enjoy. :)
I said no way,
I won’t go there,
Not to that place.
I made a sad face.
They asked again,
Then showed the way,
Threatened with pain,
“You would be slain.”
Oh please my Lord,
Mi Siege whom I adore,
Just let me be,
Just let me free.
They pushed me back,
They pulled me down,
They kicked and punched.
I saw no more.
Editor here. (Not Oculusperegrinus, the author of the wonderful stories on this site.) I often write but all my writings are non-fictions. Inspired by (albeit envious of) Oculusperegrinus‘s skill in making short stories with unpredictable endings, I tried my hand on fiction-writing. And of course, this was edited by the Short Story Master Oulusperegrinus. We both liked it. We do hope you like it too.
She was breathless, tired from running away from her captors. At first she thought they were her family, sweet loving people who gave her what she needed and more. Then she found out about their true identity.
They are high class puppets, with strings invisible to the eye, achieved by the science in that era. Who makes them move, that she doesn’t know yet. That explains it, she thought. They stopped her from doing things she liked, destroying each of her dreams, although it was disguised as done for love.
But now she’s free, finally free from the mindless robotic puppets who still pretend to be humans. She started wondering how many puppets are already here on earth. They must be many, she thought, scared.
She heard foot steps, making her turn around. The puppets are here, and they’re going to take me.
“Dalia,” the voice was calm, sweet even, a voice you wouldn’t expect from someone who wants you gone from this world.
“No, please! Go away!” She was edging to the wall, but there’s no where to hide.
“Dalia, it’s time to end this.”
With one swift motion the puppet master cut Dalia’s strings.
“This one is defective,” the puppet master told her colleagues. “It’s time to make a new puppet.”
He crawled on the bed, sweat dripping from his face and neck. Under his hands and knees, the sheets slowly slipped onto the floor. She smiled at him, one of those naughty smiles she had. He tried to decipher it, but as the rest of her, it was impossible to know. He placed one hand on her thigh and went up her leg, looking for paradise, searching for bliss. She giggled and grabbed his moving arm, stopping him.
She licked his fingers playfully and looked at his crotch. He was ready to go again. She’d give him one last moment of joy.
He woke up in darkness. She was by his side, he could feel it. He could smell her perfume, that curious mix of flowers, recently removed dirt and a little bit of rottenness, weird as it was, but alluring and intoxicating. He tried to reach her, but there was something between them. His eyes started to get used to the darkness. He could see her silhouette, her arm stretching to the front, pointing him towards the light. He grabbed her hand. It was a skinny hand, a cold hand. He didn’t remembered it that way. It was a lifeless hand. That scared him.
She looked at him and smiled. Then she walked away, leaving him with that everlasting joy smile on his face. He was a lucky guy; not everyone gets to fuck death before dying.
She vanished from his side. The light was there, the choice was his. He walked the other way.
Up the hill, down the hill, across the mountains, above the sky, in a star far away, walking, running, flying, dreaming.
“There’s no distance,” he said, and the distance disappeared.
“Nothing can stop me,” and nothing stopped him.
“I’ll cross bridges,” but there are none.
“I’ll build them,” yet he doesn’t have anything to build them with, so he went back to dreaming and dreamt wood and tools and a bridge he built. He walked across it and ran at the end.
“You can’t keep going,” they said, but he flew and kept going.
Stars are unreachable. “Not for my dreams,” he said, and in his dreams he got to the star, but he woke up and he had no air, and it was all black and dark, so he closed his eyes and dreamt a light. You’re in the star. Now what? Now I go back.
The light blinded it, its hands raised instinctively, creating a protective shield in front of its delicate eyes. The echo of the hooves surrounded it. The combination was unbearable. The light damaged its eyes and the growing sounds drilled into its brain through its ears.
It took air to calm itself down, but the smell of wet dirt, wild animals, plants, trees and so many other unknown smells destroyed its little nose. Without any relief, it fell on its knees, weeping blood. With its last breath, it released the most heartrending scream.
The hare-hunt had been very active. After a couple of hours of boredom, riding under the sun and enjoying the forest, one of the youngsters blew his whistle and rode into the deep of the forest followed by many others.
Lord James Barrington stayed back. Experimented hunter as he was, he had waited for his moment, for his prey, and now he was chasing a scared hare through the woods.
Suddenly the most ear-piercing scream interrupted the hunting. It was a soul-breaker, breath-killer, sigh-burner, lake-dryer, garden-witherer scream. The hare fell fulminated to the ground. His horse stood on his hindquarters. Whinnying, it threw the rider to the ground, took a couple of steps and then died.
Lord James Barrington was in shock. For a couple of seconds he thought he was going to die but then the scream ended. Frightened minutes passed by; trees were dead; flowers and leafs laid withered all around.
He rose to his knees, his head spinning. He tried to stand up while leaning on a nearby trunk, his hands feeling the last of the tree’s life that is leaving it. Little by little he came into his senses. He was lost, but he walked toward the source of the scream.
In a bed of leaves and grass a small shadowy figure laid, all covered in blood. By its side there was a little open wooden box, and on its lid there was a single word: “Pandora”.
Everything ended. The lights disappeared slowly. The noise started to die, from a high excitement state to a state of sadness.
Eyes stared at the scene, the beautiful dresses, most of them rented, were tragically splashed by an impossible to remove red. A few faces turned away in horror looking for a shoulder to hide behind so their eyes wouldn’t fall on the morbidity, then looked back at the center of the room. A sob broke the silence, and then it started to grow until it became a desperate cry that soon was joined by a thousand other voices, inconsolable screams of pain which gave a hint of the magnitude of the tragedy that had taken place in the center of the room just a couple of minutes ago, when everything was laughter and dancing.
He was dead, and with him dreams and hopes, the promise of a better life for everyone.
A commission crossed the door talking and laughing. They didn’t understand. Their cameras hanging over their chests, their burlesque eyes looked between entertained and confused at the red stains that covered the whole room, and then the crying reached it’s peak.
He was dead, and with him dreams and hopes. Everybody cried for him. There wasn’t a single photo that proved his existence, only the memories that every inhabitant kept and will treasure forever.
Tomato Ville had been so close to making it to the Guinness World Record Book, five minutes before they could have created history. Damn kid who kicked the world’s largest tomato.
“I see ghosts.”
“It’s like that series. The one with the girl with the big tits — Ghost Whisperer, but a lot more complicated, never so simple, it’s like they say ‘There’s always a catch'”
“Many of them don’t even know they’re dead, or that they are actually ghosts. Most don’t even have any idea why they are still here. The worst are the ones who relive over and over their last moments, always remembering, always forgetting. Others go back hours, days even, wandering again at the same places they were, having the same old conversations of their lives, saying goodbye, crying, screaming, sighing and dying. Some forget others in order to go back even further…”
“Why are you telling this to me?!”
“That’s why I have to help them. It’s hard, seeing how they still suffer in eternal loops. Sometimes they get longer. Others they get shorter, but they always repeat themselves. It’s like a macabre work of Escher. But helping them… that’s worse; For me I mean, once you decide you are going to help them, you have to contact them, wake them up from their loops, go through with them, die with them, find out why they are still here and free them. Some die peacefully, but those are the less, when you die in peace you tend to have all your businesses solved, but a sudden death, a painful death… I am 32 years old. I’ve died 833 times and I remember every one of them as if they were mine.”
“I must insist, why are you telling me this?”
“It’s funny. Life tends to be loaded with ironies and sarcasms. Murphy we call it. Well let me tell you. Death can be a thousand times more ironic and sarcastic.”
“Answer me!! Am I dead? Is that it?”
“No, I’m the one who’s dead. You…well my friend, you see ghosts.”
The world crumbled around her in a form of open hands. She saw them coming. She felt their touch. She heard them collapsing. And then it was all black, and it ended.
He took a napkin off his night stand and cleaned the fly off his palm. A little blood remained so he spat on it and cleaned again. It all came off. Then he threw the napkin to the garbage can and remembered the moth he had set free the day before.
“I let her live. I took her and placed her back outside, and she was alive and unharmed.”
“Do you think that’s letting her live?”
“Well I didn’t kill her, right?”
“So that means you let her live?”
“Maybe she died of cold.”
“It was a warm night.”
“Returning her outside, it’s not letting her live.”
“Well I could’ve just killed her, squish her or something, but I didn’t, I let her live. That’s how we humans roll. Either we let it live or we kill it.”
“So you let her live.”
“I did, maybe tomorrow I won’t.”