I ought to be thankful that I was never a slave to the latest fashions. But I’ll have to settle to being a slave to full moons. Rummaging through these old clothes is actually kind of relaxing. It’s a shame that I have to buy two sets of clothes every 28 days. There are the clothes for the actual transformation: the clothes that get torn to shreds when the metamorphosis happens. Then there are the clothes that will be waiting for me when it’s all over. Hell, it’s better than the first few times when I was wandering around the woods naked and cold in the morning. Getting back to the apartment was the trickiest part. At least now, everyone thinks I’m just a horrible dresser as opposed to some sort of pervert.
Sometimes I wish I could afford nicer clothes. But with all the sides of beef that I’ve purchased, I’m lucky to have enough money to buy regular human food. It’s a small sacrifice; but I’d rather have this monster inside me devouring an entire side of beef than some unfortunate hiker. Then, there’s trying to hide the cow carcasses. I used to have the food right in front of me when I transformed. But then I’d gulp down the entire thing in less than a minute; that made for an unpleasant morning. Hiding the food buys me some time and forces me to run around in circles in the wilderness. God forbid, that I wander hungry into the city. I can’t chain myself somewhere; breaking free, starving for raw flesh is too much of a risk.
It took me a while to figure all this out. I nearly killed a ranger in the forest that first night. Fortunately, he had the wherewithal to shoot me with that 12-gauge. I didn’t get hurt, but at least the shots scared me off. I hope to God that he didn’t get hurt. I hope I didn’t touch him. I wouldn’t wish this curse on my worst enemies.
Just a few years ago, I didn’t have to worry about the meat, about the clothes, about hurting anyone else. I had a girlfriend and a normal life. We just wanted to go for a romantic moonlit stroll to the lake. Unfortunately it was a full moon. The air was cold and still. The ripples on the lake were gentle, magnifying the light from the moon. It was going to be where I proposed to her. At least that was the thought that was running through my head before we heard the rustling of the trees.
Heavy footsteps fell, but we couldn’t tell from where. The crunch of leaves and twigs surrounded us. It wasn’t until we heard the damned thing breathing that we both got scared. The hair on the backs of our necks stood in attention. My legs were like jelly. But all I could think about was protecting her. The bushes behind us moved violently. As soon as our heads turned, the air around the lake froze. I turned to see that the monster was already leaping towards us. I used my body to shield her from the fangs, but it was too large and swept its paw at me throwing into the frigid water. When I woke up I saw her lifeless body hanging from his enormous jaw as he walked away. The police never found a body, and I wasn’t able to walk for a month.
Every time I change into that beast it’s all at once frightening, painful, and sometimes enjoyable. As much as I hat to admit it, there’s something so liberating about becoming the monster. The bones in my body crunch and rearrange. My face goes numb as my face grows into a grotesque snout. The teeth elongate and sometimes pierce through my mouth during the transformation. My spine becomes a column of fire as I grow five times my size. I can feel every sinew of every muscle tear and regenerate. Every nerve synapse fires all at once like firecrackers under my skin. The hair slides slowly through my pores like hundreds of jagged razors slicing me open from the inside. A hideous howl escapes my lungs and lunges into the air in a vapor cloud. Everything that happens after that is lost to the night. I have no memory of anything else once the transformation is complete. I just pray to God, that I hadn’t killed anyone that night.
The alarm on my watch just went off. That’s my cue to head on out to the site. It’ll only be two hours until the full moon rises over the horizon. I’m lucky the moon comes out at night this time around. I’ve got my extra clothes for the next morning. I’ve got a map of the general area, and I’ve marked the places where I’ve hidden the carcasses for feeding on. I’m stuck with this life, with this curse until someone comes up with some sort of cure. If I’m lucky enough, maybe a raving lunatic with a gun loaded with silver bullets will pass me by.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Neighborly Behavior
So you’re the new neighbor? Since you’re not familiar with the street let me be the first to warn you. Do you see that house at the end of the street? It’s the one that looks like it’s frowning at you. That’s the Munro house and you don’t want to go anywhere near it… at least not yet.
It’s out of place for a reason. It’s a warning to all of us kids that trouble is just beyond that red door in the front. But don’t worry; we won’t make you go inside. That would be just awful of us! All the other kids are busy right now, but you’ll meet us all tomorrow.
We’re not use to just letting anybody play with us. So you’re going to have to prove your loyalty to the rest of the group. Tomorrow’s Halloween so you can imagine how big a deal it is on this street. And that’s how you’re going to show us that you’re worthy of becoming the new guy. All of us are going to walk you up to the Munro house and—I know, I know. I said we wouldn’t make you go inside. But you have to prove you’re big and brave enough don’t you? We want you to knock on the door, AND someone has to answer.
You seem like a nice enough guy, and I really want you to pass the test so I’m going to give you a couple of tips. What’s that? Well, of course I did! We all had to go knock on his door on Halloween at one point in our lives. My dad calls it a “rite of passage” or something like that. Now remember, someone has to answer, but that doesn’t mean you have to be their when the door opens. So knock hard and fast and dive into the shrubs if you have to, but get out of the way!
Monster Munro is definitely dangerous; I can’t believe you would ask that! What’s so scary about the Munro house? Look at the place; it just doesn’t fit with the rest of our neighborhood. The colors don’t look right. It smells funny. And shivers slide up and down your back when you walk by the front gate. And nobody ever sees the old man outside of the house except on Halloween.
Well, that’s not true. I saw him once. I couldn’t sleep and happened to wander to the window and saw him up and about in the strangest hour of the day. When everyone else was asleep, there he was, just walking around on his front lawn.
What does he look like? He’s old and wrinkly like paper that’s been buried in the ground. And he’s tall, but I think that’s how most monsters are. He doesn’t talk like we do. It’s more of a growl than saying actual words. I heard that he even ate of one of the kids that used to live here. The kid snuck into his backyard and was never seen again. His family moved not too long after that.
But do you want to know what I think? I think he’s more that just a monster, but he’s definitely not like you and me. When it was my year to knock on his door, I jumped into that shrub right there by the door. By the way, you want to avoid jumping into that same shrub… trust me, thistles are not fun.
Well, when I hid in that pile of thistles that passes for a shrub, the door opened slowly and Monster Munro crept out looking for his would be passerby. But it wasn’t the sight of Munro that caught my eye. I saw that contraption that he sleeps in and it’s not like what you and I sleep in.
He sleeps in a bed! And from what I’ve seen he probably sleeps at night! I know! That’s so strange! But don’t tell anyone that you know he’s not a vampire like us. They’ll know I’ve been giving you tips. I have to go now, but I’ll see you right in front of your house tomorrow night, and I’m going to bring everyone with me. We’re going to have the best Halloween this year. And welcome to the neighborhood!
It’s out of place for a reason. It’s a warning to all of us kids that trouble is just beyond that red door in the front. But don’t worry; we won’t make you go inside. That would be just awful of us! All the other kids are busy right now, but you’ll meet us all tomorrow.
We’re not use to just letting anybody play with us. So you’re going to have to prove your loyalty to the rest of the group. Tomorrow’s Halloween so you can imagine how big a deal it is on this street. And that’s how you’re going to show us that you’re worthy of becoming the new guy. All of us are going to walk you up to the Munro house and—I know, I know. I said we wouldn’t make you go inside. But you have to prove you’re big and brave enough don’t you? We want you to knock on the door, AND someone has to answer.
You seem like a nice enough guy, and I really want you to pass the test so I’m going to give you a couple of tips. What’s that? Well, of course I did! We all had to go knock on his door on Halloween at one point in our lives. My dad calls it a “rite of passage” or something like that. Now remember, someone has to answer, but that doesn’t mean you have to be their when the door opens. So knock hard and fast and dive into the shrubs if you have to, but get out of the way!
Monster Munro is definitely dangerous; I can’t believe you would ask that! What’s so scary about the Munro house? Look at the place; it just doesn’t fit with the rest of our neighborhood. The colors don’t look right. It smells funny. And shivers slide up and down your back when you walk by the front gate. And nobody ever sees the old man outside of the house except on Halloween.
Well, that’s not true. I saw him once. I couldn’t sleep and happened to wander to the window and saw him up and about in the strangest hour of the day. When everyone else was asleep, there he was, just walking around on his front lawn.
What does he look like? He’s old and wrinkly like paper that’s been buried in the ground. And he’s tall, but I think that’s how most monsters are. He doesn’t talk like we do. It’s more of a growl than saying actual words. I heard that he even ate of one of the kids that used to live here. The kid snuck into his backyard and was never seen again. His family moved not too long after that.
But do you want to know what I think? I think he’s more that just a monster, but he’s definitely not like you and me. When it was my year to knock on his door, I jumped into that shrub right there by the door. By the way, you want to avoid jumping into that same shrub… trust me, thistles are not fun.
Well, when I hid in that pile of thistles that passes for a shrub, the door opened slowly and Monster Munro crept out looking for his would be passerby. But it wasn’t the sight of Munro that caught my eye. I saw that contraption that he sleeps in and it’s not like what you and I sleep in.
He sleeps in a bed! And from what I’ve seen he probably sleeps at night! I know! That’s so strange! But don’t tell anyone that you know he’s not a vampire like us. They’ll know I’ve been giving you tips. I have to go now, but I’ll see you right in front of your house tomorrow night, and I’m going to bring everyone with me. We’re going to have the best Halloween this year. And welcome to the neighborhood!
No. 1 Suspect
Cold, neon lights bathe the room in a sick glow emitting a buzzing noise that would drive any fly on the wall mad. The interrogation room stunk of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. There were doughnut crumbs sprinkled carelessly on the stainless steel table. The only clean thing in the room was the not-so-subtle two-way mirror behind which stood Detective Matheson and his partner, Detective Poe.
The two had taken in the suspect a little over an hour ago. The case was a multiple homicide. The victims were a loving family with no known enemies. The number one suspect is also the only witness, the only survivor, and she’s barely 6 years old.
Poe breathed in the embers of his cigarette and attempted to calm himself as the fire scratched its way into its lungs. He exhaled a cloud of ash and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had on his best coat, his nicest tie, and his shirt was newly ironed. It turns out that before this latest arrest, Poe had been interviewed by the local news concerning a separate incident that he was overseeing. The little girl had chocolate hair, hazel eyes, and looked like she had yet to learn how to smile. Poe was thoroughly perplexed, but all the evidence pointed to this singular suspect.
Matheson loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He took a water bottle and wet his handkerchief. He touched the moist cloth to his face. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a medal of Saint Michael the archangel, a gift from his mother. Quickly, he whispered a short prayer, begging God for forgiveness for arresting that little girl. He downed the entire paper cup full of black coffee, put the medal back in his pocket and took a chain and put it around his neck. On the end of the chain was his large, shimmering badge. With a quick nod to Poe, Matheson opened the door and walked into the interrogation room.
“I can save you the trouble officer,” the young girl said without even looking at Matheson, “I did it. You got the perpetrator in a single attempt. Congratulations.” She spoke beyond her years. Her voice did not quiver.
“And what exactly did you do?”
“I murdered my family. I slit my mother’s throat. It was quick and painless, and a shame about her. She was nice. But it had to be done.”
“It had to be done? Because she came into the house after working an extra shift.”
“You wouldn’t blame me for wanting to get rid of all traces back to me.” Even the two detectives could not hide the shock in their eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Isabel.”
“Hi, Isabel. I’m Detective Matheson. Do you want to tell me what happened that night?”
“I believe you already know the particulars. A thorough investigation would show that I lured my father to the stairs leading to the cellar… then I pushed him.”
“How would a little girl like you find the strength to push a grown man like your father down the cellar steps?”
“I shut the lights off. In that split second of confusion, I lunged my body into his gut. Then of course I tortured him for a few hours, which would explain the various wounds that coagulated at different rates on the corpse.”
“I’ll be right back,” Matheson got up and went back to the observation room. Poe was nodding his head.
“I think I’m going to need your help,” Matheson said to his partner. And the two entered the interrogation room. Isabel didn’t bother to turn around.
“Detective Poe, Detective Matheson, I’ll be frank with you. I know that you know about my father’s abusive nature. And I know you’re using that as motive, which you won’t need since I’m confessing to you that I did it all.”
“You know it all, don’t you?” Poe snidely remarked.
“You have no idea, Detective Poe, how much I know. I know that your partner over there prayed to his medal of Saint Michael just before he came in. He asked God for forgiveness, though I can assure you, Detective Matheson, you have done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, Mr. Matheson, that medal holds no power over me. You are protected by your faith. But not so much with that medal? It’s nothing more than a keepsake.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Poe asked, frightened.
“How in the world did you know about my medal?”
“I can sense these things. Especially, when these keepsakes have an image of my old foe. He fought me valiantly and was the victor. I will give him that.” Matheson’s jaw dropped, Poe’s eyes widened.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Matheson asked with incredulity in his voice. He took out the medal of Saint Michael and laid it on the table.
“Just offhand. He had shorter hair,” she looked at the image of the archangel on the medal and chuckled to herself. Isabel then sharply turned to Poe, “You have no idea do you?”
“It explains why you talk so much, even for a six-year-old,” Poe remarked, “So you’re trying to tell us that you’re the devil?”
“Precisely,” she replied, “but if we want to be completely honest with each other, I inhabited this corporal vessel a three minutes after the true murder.”
“After?” Poe asked.
“You found some blood in the living room did you not?” No answer.
“I suppose there’s no point in beating around the proverbial bush. My ‘father’ killed ‘me’ and was aiming to bury this body in the cellar. When his back was turned, I inhabited the corpse and waited until I was captured.”
“Why did you want to be captured?” Matheson inquired. Isabel looked at Poe as she responded.
“I said I know a great deal. People have had the wrong idea about me, officers. Yes, I’m a malicious creature, but I don’t commit acts of random evil. There’s a method to my madness. Everyone thinks I’m a bad guy. There is one irrefutable truth that both sides can agree on,” Isabel explained.
“Both sides?” Poe wondered. Isabel responded by mouthing the words “us” and “them” while pointing up and down, at heaven and hell, respectively.
“So what is this ‘irrefutable truth’ you’re talking about?” Matheson asked, genuinely curious.
“People can choose sides. People like you two can choose whether to act good or bad. Where I differ from your friend on that medal of yours, Detective Matheson, is how to deal with those who make the wrong decisions. He sides with his superior who emphasized compassion and forgiveness. But I know the truth: people who commit evil deeds respond only to punishment. And that’s where I come in.”
“But you still haven’t explained what you meant when you said that you were meant to be captured.”
“You’re a good man, Matheson. There’s no need for you to clutch onto that medal. I haven’t come here for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Poe asked, sweating, sneaking to the door. The knob turned into molten steel as soon as Poe touched it. He screamed and Isabel casually stood up out of the chair as if the cuffs had never restrained her. She stood next to Poe who was writhing in pain on the floor. The young girl then turned to Matheson.
“You lead a good life, scuffles and struggles with your own morality aside, you are a good man. But how well do you know you’re partner?” The walls melted together and began to groan as if in pain. The lights flickered. “Detective Poe has been keeping a very nasty secret from you. We’ve met. You see it turns out that this girl, Isabel, has met your partner before.”
“I don’t understand,” Matheson said, clutching even tighter to his medal.
“Isabel was beaten by her father on a regular basis. She asked for help. Unfortunately for her, you were out sick that day. She was scared to use the phone. She was incapable of finding a ride to the station. So she wrote a letter to Poe. And what did you do, Mr. Poe?” Poe was still on the floor and was too scared to reply. “Well, Poe, it’s not nice to keep secrets from your partner.”
“I ignored it,” Poe breathed heavily, his heart raced. “I didn’t know what it was, I swear to God.”
“Oh, come now, Poe. You can tell a story better than that. You did read the letter and you knew exactly what it was. Now why did you ignore it?” Flames surrounded Matheson as sweat poured down his face.
“The captain gave me another case.” Poe responded.
“It got you on television, did it not?”
“Yes. I get domestic disputes all the time. I didn’t think this one was so serious.” Poe explained.
“They are all serious crimes, Poe. But not all of them feed your ego by putting you on the evening news. Do they? And that’s why Isabel was killed. Because of your vanity,” the little girl turned to Matheson, “I’m sorry to have troubled you Detective Matheson. It was a pleasure speaking with you.” The lights flickered off for a second before turning on again just as suddenly.
The room was back to normal, smelling of cigarette ash instead of sulfur. Isabel was gone. Detective Poe was gone. Detective Matheson stood alone in the interrogation room, clutching desperately to his medal.
The two had taken in the suspect a little over an hour ago. The case was a multiple homicide. The victims were a loving family with no known enemies. The number one suspect is also the only witness, the only survivor, and she’s barely 6 years old.
Poe breathed in the embers of his cigarette and attempted to calm himself as the fire scratched its way into its lungs. He exhaled a cloud of ash and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had on his best coat, his nicest tie, and his shirt was newly ironed. It turns out that before this latest arrest, Poe had been interviewed by the local news concerning a separate incident that he was overseeing. The little girl had chocolate hair, hazel eyes, and looked like she had yet to learn how to smile. Poe was thoroughly perplexed, but all the evidence pointed to this singular suspect.
Matheson loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He took a water bottle and wet his handkerchief. He touched the moist cloth to his face. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a medal of Saint Michael the archangel, a gift from his mother. Quickly, he whispered a short prayer, begging God for forgiveness for arresting that little girl. He downed the entire paper cup full of black coffee, put the medal back in his pocket and took a chain and put it around his neck. On the end of the chain was his large, shimmering badge. With a quick nod to Poe, Matheson opened the door and walked into the interrogation room.
“I can save you the trouble officer,” the young girl said without even looking at Matheson, “I did it. You got the perpetrator in a single attempt. Congratulations.” She spoke beyond her years. Her voice did not quiver.
“And what exactly did you do?”
“I murdered my family. I slit my mother’s throat. It was quick and painless, and a shame about her. She was nice. But it had to be done.”
“It had to be done? Because she came into the house after working an extra shift.”
“You wouldn’t blame me for wanting to get rid of all traces back to me.” Even the two detectives could not hide the shock in their eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Isabel.”
“Hi, Isabel. I’m Detective Matheson. Do you want to tell me what happened that night?”
“I believe you already know the particulars. A thorough investigation would show that I lured my father to the stairs leading to the cellar… then I pushed him.”
“How would a little girl like you find the strength to push a grown man like your father down the cellar steps?”
“I shut the lights off. In that split second of confusion, I lunged my body into his gut. Then of course I tortured him for a few hours, which would explain the various wounds that coagulated at different rates on the corpse.”
“I’ll be right back,” Matheson got up and went back to the observation room. Poe was nodding his head.
“I think I’m going to need your help,” Matheson said to his partner. And the two entered the interrogation room. Isabel didn’t bother to turn around.
“Detective Poe, Detective Matheson, I’ll be frank with you. I know that you know about my father’s abusive nature. And I know you’re using that as motive, which you won’t need since I’m confessing to you that I did it all.”
“You know it all, don’t you?” Poe snidely remarked.
“You have no idea, Detective Poe, how much I know. I know that your partner over there prayed to his medal of Saint Michael just before he came in. He asked God for forgiveness, though I can assure you, Detective Matheson, you have done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, Mr. Matheson, that medal holds no power over me. You are protected by your faith. But not so much with that medal? It’s nothing more than a keepsake.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Poe asked, frightened.
“How in the world did you know about my medal?”
“I can sense these things. Especially, when these keepsakes have an image of my old foe. He fought me valiantly and was the victor. I will give him that.” Matheson’s jaw dropped, Poe’s eyes widened.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Matheson asked with incredulity in his voice. He took out the medal of Saint Michael and laid it on the table.
“Just offhand. He had shorter hair,” she looked at the image of the archangel on the medal and chuckled to herself. Isabel then sharply turned to Poe, “You have no idea do you?”
“It explains why you talk so much, even for a six-year-old,” Poe remarked, “So you’re trying to tell us that you’re the devil?”
“Precisely,” she replied, “but if we want to be completely honest with each other, I inhabited this corporal vessel a three minutes after the true murder.”
“After?” Poe asked.
“You found some blood in the living room did you not?” No answer.
“I suppose there’s no point in beating around the proverbial bush. My ‘father’ killed ‘me’ and was aiming to bury this body in the cellar. When his back was turned, I inhabited the corpse and waited until I was captured.”
“Why did you want to be captured?” Matheson inquired. Isabel looked at Poe as she responded.
“I said I know a great deal. People have had the wrong idea about me, officers. Yes, I’m a malicious creature, but I don’t commit acts of random evil. There’s a method to my madness. Everyone thinks I’m a bad guy. There is one irrefutable truth that both sides can agree on,” Isabel explained.
“Both sides?” Poe wondered. Isabel responded by mouthing the words “us” and “them” while pointing up and down, at heaven and hell, respectively.
“So what is this ‘irrefutable truth’ you’re talking about?” Matheson asked, genuinely curious.
“People can choose sides. People like you two can choose whether to act good or bad. Where I differ from your friend on that medal of yours, Detective Matheson, is how to deal with those who make the wrong decisions. He sides with his superior who emphasized compassion and forgiveness. But I know the truth: people who commit evil deeds respond only to punishment. And that’s where I come in.”
“But you still haven’t explained what you meant when you said that you were meant to be captured.”
“You’re a good man, Matheson. There’s no need for you to clutch onto that medal. I haven’t come here for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Poe asked, sweating, sneaking to the door. The knob turned into molten steel as soon as Poe touched it. He screamed and Isabel casually stood up out of the chair as if the cuffs had never restrained her. She stood next to Poe who was writhing in pain on the floor. The young girl then turned to Matheson.
“You lead a good life, scuffles and struggles with your own morality aside, you are a good man. But how well do you know you’re partner?” The walls melted together and began to groan as if in pain. The lights flickered. “Detective Poe has been keeping a very nasty secret from you. We’ve met. You see it turns out that this girl, Isabel, has met your partner before.”
“I don’t understand,” Matheson said, clutching even tighter to his medal.
“Isabel was beaten by her father on a regular basis. She asked for help. Unfortunately for her, you were out sick that day. She was scared to use the phone. She was incapable of finding a ride to the station. So she wrote a letter to Poe. And what did you do, Mr. Poe?” Poe was still on the floor and was too scared to reply. “Well, Poe, it’s not nice to keep secrets from your partner.”
“I ignored it,” Poe breathed heavily, his heart raced. “I didn’t know what it was, I swear to God.”
“Oh, come now, Poe. You can tell a story better than that. You did read the letter and you knew exactly what it was. Now why did you ignore it?” Flames surrounded Matheson as sweat poured down his face.
“The captain gave me another case.” Poe responded.
“It got you on television, did it not?”
“Yes. I get domestic disputes all the time. I didn’t think this one was so serious.” Poe explained.
“They are all serious crimes, Poe. But not all of them feed your ego by putting you on the evening news. Do they? And that’s why Isabel was killed. Because of your vanity,” the little girl turned to Matheson, “I’m sorry to have troubled you Detective Matheson. It was a pleasure speaking with you.” The lights flickered off for a second before turning on again just as suddenly.
The room was back to normal, smelling of cigarette ash instead of sulfur. Isabel was gone. Detective Poe was gone. Detective Matheson stood alone in the interrogation room, clutching desperately to his medal.
Smooth Ride Home
The back roads were never lit very well, but they were hardly ever packed with cars. Professor Beatty had left San Francisco just before the sun had set and aimed to be in San Diego before he saw it again. He was never one for the scenic road, always in a rush. Time was a precious commodity that the good professor had plenty of but was clueless on how to spend it. He had lectured at most of the prestigious campuses across the globe, stayed in the illustrious cities of the world, but Professor Beatty could never tell the difference.
To compound the dangers of a darkly lit road are its convoluted paths that hug perilously close to the edges of cliffs. This is the environment that this educated driver finds himself navigating. He has driven this road dozens of times, checked the maps hundreds of times, and is even keen on the tendencies of traffic all along his route. But nothing can prepare him for the encounter that he is destined to face on the miles coming up ahead.
Beatty turns on the high beams, but to no avail as even the light has difficult piercing through the darkness. All that shone back was the asphalt of the road and the reflectors that smiled mockingly from a few feet away. Then, in the distance, there was a shimmering figure standing alongside the shoulder of the barren road. It was a man dressed completely in white. He didn’t seem to be headed in any direction. He turned towards the car as if waiting for its arrival. The stranger lifted his hand to the driver.
“There’s no way that that man was looking for a ride,” Beatty reasoned to himself, “There’s nowhere he could have come from. How did he get to be in the middle of nowhere? He must have been working for some government project.” The chatter in his mind was comforting only to him as he past the stranger by. Another mile passed and he saw another shimmering figure on the roadside just beneath the sign that declared the rising elevation of the road.
Professor Beatty saw those steel gray eyes looking softly at him, beckoning him to stop. It wasn’t until he say the figure raise his hand towards him that he recognized this man. But it couldn’t be! How could the hitchhiker he passed by just a mile ago be ahead of him on this same road? There was no indication that any vehicle had passed him on the highway. He knew that there were no other connecting roads for at least 50 miles. How did he get there so quickly?
“My mind must be playing tricks on me. It’s a symptom of my lack of sleep,” he deduced, “It’s a different worker than the previous one, just seems the same because of that suit. That is an odd suit. But they must be working on something big. This one is wearing watch. I’m sure the first guy wasn’t wearing such a nice gold watch. I’m just sure of it.” Beatty kept talking in the hopes of convincing himself that he was right about the watch.
The road was getting steeper uphill and the reflectors on the road were becoming less subtle. It was a tactic employed to alert the lone driver that there was a shear cliff just on the other side of the railing. The professor gathered his wits about him and cautiously hugged the curves of the roads. Around the first bend he felt relieved until a sharp pain shot up throughout his entire spine. He saw those steel gray eyes, looking kindly at him once more; the white suit gleaming as if made by pure light. The hand rose up once more toward the car, hailing it to stop. And hanging from the stranger’s wrist was a sparkling gold watch that Professor Beatty could not deny was the same one he say a mile prior to the bend.
Terrified, Beatty’s foot exploded into the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in place for a second, screeching rubber onto the asphalt before speeding the hulking car forward, away from the man in the white suit. He looked behind him to look for the stranger who had disappeared like smoke into the sky. There was no one on the roadside, and no trace that there ever was. Before processing the event a loud bang jolted the front of the car and the rest of it followed quickly after. The engine was still running when Beatty swiped his head towards the front of the road again.
“Just another pothole,” he told himself, “I hope I didn’t wreck the car too awfully.”
The ride seemed somehow smoother after the pothole. The darkness didn’t seem as dark, and for whatever reason an inexplicable calm overcame Professor Beatty. Then, once more, the figure in white was at the roadside. The stranger’s gray eyes seemed welcoming to Beatty. The glowing white arm was raised again, and the good professor submitted and pulled over to let the man in.
“I thought you’d never stop, Professor Beatty,” the stranger said, smiling innocently and warmly.
“I was scared, I didn’t expect to see another car on this road let alone a man,” the professor explained. “Where are you headed? And how did you know my name?”
“There’s no need to be scared, Professor. And I’m headed where you’re going right now. I’m an angel, and I’m afraid I’ve failed you.”
“Failed me?” Beatty’s skin was getting cold, the ride getting even smoother.
“I never intended to frighten you. I was trying to get you to slow down,” the angel smiled at Beatty in a comforting manner. “I thought if I could ride with you for a couple of miles you would take your time around that sheer cliff back there. Maybe I could’ve convinced you to pullover and rest your weary eyes.”
The man in the white suit thumbed back to the rear window. Beatty looked back and saw the edge of the cliff. The railings intended to keep cars on the road was broken and frayed out over the edge. He slowly turned his head to the front of the car and saw the tops of jagged rocks hurling towards him.
“That pothole back there… wasn’t really a pothole, was it?” Professor Beatty began to realize. The angel sat calmly in the passenger seat smiling warmly at him and placed his hand on the professor’s shoulder.
“No, you went straight through the railing,” the angel explained, “But I thought this would be easier on you. You have nothing to worry about, Professor Beatty. I assure you, you will be very well cared for where you’re headed. I’ll see to it personally.”
Professor Beatty became the casualty of not just drowsiness behind the wheel, but was caught too often with his eyes either too far behind him or too far ahead. What he should have been concerned with was the opportunities at hand. He learned all too late, that one cannot plan to stop and smell the proverbial roses, that spontaneity cannot be easily penciled into a little black book. Fortunately, for the good professor he picked up a companion on the road who helped him enjoy one more smooth ride before he reached his ultimate destination.
To compound the dangers of a darkly lit road are its convoluted paths that hug perilously close to the edges of cliffs. This is the environment that this educated driver finds himself navigating. He has driven this road dozens of times, checked the maps hundreds of times, and is even keen on the tendencies of traffic all along his route. But nothing can prepare him for the encounter that he is destined to face on the miles coming up ahead.
Beatty turns on the high beams, but to no avail as even the light has difficult piercing through the darkness. All that shone back was the asphalt of the road and the reflectors that smiled mockingly from a few feet away. Then, in the distance, there was a shimmering figure standing alongside the shoulder of the barren road. It was a man dressed completely in white. He didn’t seem to be headed in any direction. He turned towards the car as if waiting for its arrival. The stranger lifted his hand to the driver.
“There’s no way that that man was looking for a ride,” Beatty reasoned to himself, “There’s nowhere he could have come from. How did he get to be in the middle of nowhere? He must have been working for some government project.” The chatter in his mind was comforting only to him as he past the stranger by. Another mile passed and he saw another shimmering figure on the roadside just beneath the sign that declared the rising elevation of the road.
Professor Beatty saw those steel gray eyes looking softly at him, beckoning him to stop. It wasn’t until he say the figure raise his hand towards him that he recognized this man. But it couldn’t be! How could the hitchhiker he passed by just a mile ago be ahead of him on this same road? There was no indication that any vehicle had passed him on the highway. He knew that there were no other connecting roads for at least 50 miles. How did he get there so quickly?
“My mind must be playing tricks on me. It’s a symptom of my lack of sleep,” he deduced, “It’s a different worker than the previous one, just seems the same because of that suit. That is an odd suit. But they must be working on something big. This one is wearing watch. I’m sure the first guy wasn’t wearing such a nice gold watch. I’m just sure of it.” Beatty kept talking in the hopes of convincing himself that he was right about the watch.
The road was getting steeper uphill and the reflectors on the road were becoming less subtle. It was a tactic employed to alert the lone driver that there was a shear cliff just on the other side of the railing. The professor gathered his wits about him and cautiously hugged the curves of the roads. Around the first bend he felt relieved until a sharp pain shot up throughout his entire spine. He saw those steel gray eyes, looking kindly at him once more; the white suit gleaming as if made by pure light. The hand rose up once more toward the car, hailing it to stop. And hanging from the stranger’s wrist was a sparkling gold watch that Professor Beatty could not deny was the same one he say a mile prior to the bend.
Terrified, Beatty’s foot exploded into the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in place for a second, screeching rubber onto the asphalt before speeding the hulking car forward, away from the man in the white suit. He looked behind him to look for the stranger who had disappeared like smoke into the sky. There was no one on the roadside, and no trace that there ever was. Before processing the event a loud bang jolted the front of the car and the rest of it followed quickly after. The engine was still running when Beatty swiped his head towards the front of the road again.
“Just another pothole,” he told himself, “I hope I didn’t wreck the car too awfully.”
The ride seemed somehow smoother after the pothole. The darkness didn’t seem as dark, and for whatever reason an inexplicable calm overcame Professor Beatty. Then, once more, the figure in white was at the roadside. The stranger’s gray eyes seemed welcoming to Beatty. The glowing white arm was raised again, and the good professor submitted and pulled over to let the man in.
“I thought you’d never stop, Professor Beatty,” the stranger said, smiling innocently and warmly.
“I was scared, I didn’t expect to see another car on this road let alone a man,” the professor explained. “Where are you headed? And how did you know my name?”
“There’s no need to be scared, Professor. And I’m headed where you’re going right now. I’m an angel, and I’m afraid I’ve failed you.”
“Failed me?” Beatty’s skin was getting cold, the ride getting even smoother.
“I never intended to frighten you. I was trying to get you to slow down,” the angel smiled at Beatty in a comforting manner. “I thought if I could ride with you for a couple of miles you would take your time around that sheer cliff back there. Maybe I could’ve convinced you to pullover and rest your weary eyes.”
The man in the white suit thumbed back to the rear window. Beatty looked back and saw the edge of the cliff. The railings intended to keep cars on the road was broken and frayed out over the edge. He slowly turned his head to the front of the car and saw the tops of jagged rocks hurling towards him.
“That pothole back there… wasn’t really a pothole, was it?” Professor Beatty began to realize. The angel sat calmly in the passenger seat smiling warmly at him and placed his hand on the professor’s shoulder.
“No, you went straight through the railing,” the angel explained, “But I thought this would be easier on you. You have nothing to worry about, Professor Beatty. I assure you, you will be very well cared for where you’re headed. I’ll see to it personally.”
Professor Beatty became the casualty of not just drowsiness behind the wheel, but was caught too often with his eyes either too far behind him or too far ahead. What he should have been concerned with was the opportunities at hand. He learned all too late, that one cannot plan to stop and smell the proverbial roses, that spontaneity cannot be easily penciled into a little black book. Fortunately, for the good professor he picked up a companion on the road who helped him enjoy one more smooth ride before he reached his ultimate destination.
Lone Survivor
October 31- Journal Entry
The windows are boarded up now. Streams of light are all that can manage to bore its way through the uneven slats. The sun has reached its peak and will go into hiding behind the horizon in just a few, short hours. The sunlight is my best ally when sniping the walking dead. I prepare my rifle and make sure the scope is on, the lenses cleaned. I go to the upstairs bedroom. I can afford to have a single window open there, where I can observe the zombies approaching the house. Then, one by one, I pick them off.
I hear something rustling down the street. Footsteps. Pit-Pat. Pit-Pat. Sounds small. The rhythm is faster than the usual walking corpse. I quietly slide the barrel of the rifle out of the window. These creatures can’t see me from up high but why take the chance. I breathe in. Then out. I feel the beating of my heart, the blood pulsing through my veins as I line the sight of the gun and find my target: A little girl?
Her flaxen hair and rosy cheeks shines like a beacon on my front lawn. I quickly jump out of the bedroom and jolted downstairs. I take the claw hammer I keep close to me as a secondary weapon and use it for its original intended use. I pry all the lumber off of the door and swing it open as fast as possible. “Hey!” I cry out to the little girl who walks toward me slowly, timidly. She’s scared. Who could blame her? Being outside all alone with all those… things crawling around the earth.
I grab her and she struggles to free herself. I’m sorry, honey, but I have to do this. It’s for your own good. I run back into the house and board up the door again. She’s in the corner, looking at me with wide eyes, petrified eyes, eyes glossy with tears yet to be formed. I kneel down next to her and ask her if she’s hungry. No answer. Is she scared? Still no answer. I try and explain what’s going on, she cries, but still makes no sound. I ask her what her name is, and that’s the only sound she makes. “Barbara,” she whispers.
Barbara is hesitant to follow me around. I wonder how long she’s been out there. Poor girl. All of a sudden, there is a commotion outside. It may be the first kill of the day. I beckon Barbara to stay in the bed but she wanders over to the window. I grab my gun and she coils away from me. I have no time to console her. There are more pressing matters at hand. I prepare myself for the first shot. The barrel peeks out of the window, I breathe to myself and line the sight. A fat, ugly one is my first target.
The child gasps and lunges at me before I can assure my aim. She cries for me to stop. How can I explain it to her? How can I make her understand that I’m not really killing anyone, that I can’t kill the living dead? I shake her off violently. She tries to escape but I’ve locked the door. It’s a secondary caution in case these scum break through the frontline defenses. She’ll keep trying to escape, but I know she can’t get out unless she has the key… or as a last resort: there’s always this window.
I slide the rifle back out and see the zombie through my scope. I gently squeeze the trigger and see the brain matter propel itself from the back of the demon’s skull. Lifeless, the undead man falls to its knees and collapses face down into the grass. Barbara let out a scream that could drop a grown man to his knees. And more dangerously, it could attract more zombies to the house. I wrap my hands over her mouth, but she bites down hard on it. She jumps out the window and into the bushes below. I try and go after her but it’s too late, she’s run too far down the street to catch without being caught myself.
The blood is pouring profusely from my hand. I run into the master bathroom to tend to it. Fortunately, I have prepared myself for such an occasion. After my wounds are dressed and all possible infections prevented, I scan the lawn again for more zombies. The streets are empty, and quieter than a grave. The sun is sinking quickly out of sight. I lie down on the bed to take a quick rest for a few moments.
Darkness is now draping the area. I shut the window to keep the cold air out, but there was a noise in the air, vaguely familiar. Sirens? They stop a block from my house. I hear footsteps stomp out of them. I can hear guns loading. Have they come to stop the undead once and for all?
November 1- Newspaper Clipping
Official reports say the room was boarded up as if the suspect was afraid of some sort of attack against his house. Police are not releasing any more details about the suspect who is currently in custody after the murder, which occurred yesterday afternoon. Neighbors say he was an introverted individual who may have been suffering from severe paranoia and grand delusions. The only witness and lone survivor of the horrific ordeal is a young girl who was allegedly kidnapped by the shooter only to courageously escape out of the second story bedroom window. Police say that it was this little girl that called 911 and alerted them to the shooter’s actions.
The windows are boarded up now. Streams of light are all that can manage to bore its way through the uneven slats. The sun has reached its peak and will go into hiding behind the horizon in just a few, short hours. The sunlight is my best ally when sniping the walking dead. I prepare my rifle and make sure the scope is on, the lenses cleaned. I go to the upstairs bedroom. I can afford to have a single window open there, where I can observe the zombies approaching the house. Then, one by one, I pick them off.
I hear something rustling down the street. Footsteps. Pit-Pat. Pit-Pat. Sounds small. The rhythm is faster than the usual walking corpse. I quietly slide the barrel of the rifle out of the window. These creatures can’t see me from up high but why take the chance. I breathe in. Then out. I feel the beating of my heart, the blood pulsing through my veins as I line the sight of the gun and find my target: A little girl?
Her flaxen hair and rosy cheeks shines like a beacon on my front lawn. I quickly jump out of the bedroom and jolted downstairs. I take the claw hammer I keep close to me as a secondary weapon and use it for its original intended use. I pry all the lumber off of the door and swing it open as fast as possible. “Hey!” I cry out to the little girl who walks toward me slowly, timidly. She’s scared. Who could blame her? Being outside all alone with all those… things crawling around the earth.
I grab her and she struggles to free herself. I’m sorry, honey, but I have to do this. It’s for your own good. I run back into the house and board up the door again. She’s in the corner, looking at me with wide eyes, petrified eyes, eyes glossy with tears yet to be formed. I kneel down next to her and ask her if she’s hungry. No answer. Is she scared? Still no answer. I try and explain what’s going on, she cries, but still makes no sound. I ask her what her name is, and that’s the only sound she makes. “Barbara,” she whispers.
Barbara is hesitant to follow me around. I wonder how long she’s been out there. Poor girl. All of a sudden, there is a commotion outside. It may be the first kill of the day. I beckon Barbara to stay in the bed but she wanders over to the window. I grab my gun and she coils away from me. I have no time to console her. There are more pressing matters at hand. I prepare myself for the first shot. The barrel peeks out of the window, I breathe to myself and line the sight. A fat, ugly one is my first target.
The child gasps and lunges at me before I can assure my aim. She cries for me to stop. How can I explain it to her? How can I make her understand that I’m not really killing anyone, that I can’t kill the living dead? I shake her off violently. She tries to escape but I’ve locked the door. It’s a secondary caution in case these scum break through the frontline defenses. She’ll keep trying to escape, but I know she can’t get out unless she has the key… or as a last resort: there’s always this window.
I slide the rifle back out and see the zombie through my scope. I gently squeeze the trigger and see the brain matter propel itself from the back of the demon’s skull. Lifeless, the undead man falls to its knees and collapses face down into the grass. Barbara let out a scream that could drop a grown man to his knees. And more dangerously, it could attract more zombies to the house. I wrap my hands over her mouth, but she bites down hard on it. She jumps out the window and into the bushes below. I try and go after her but it’s too late, she’s run too far down the street to catch without being caught myself.
The blood is pouring profusely from my hand. I run into the master bathroom to tend to it. Fortunately, I have prepared myself for such an occasion. After my wounds are dressed and all possible infections prevented, I scan the lawn again for more zombies. The streets are empty, and quieter than a grave. The sun is sinking quickly out of sight. I lie down on the bed to take a quick rest for a few moments.
Darkness is now draping the area. I shut the window to keep the cold air out, but there was a noise in the air, vaguely familiar. Sirens? They stop a block from my house. I hear footsteps stomp out of them. I can hear guns loading. Have they come to stop the undead once and for all?
November 1- Newspaper Clipping
Official reports say the room was boarded up as if the suspect was afraid of some sort of attack against his house. Police are not releasing any more details about the suspect who is currently in custody after the murder, which occurred yesterday afternoon. Neighbors say he was an introverted individual who may have been suffering from severe paranoia and grand delusions. The only witness and lone survivor of the horrific ordeal is a young girl who was allegedly kidnapped by the shooter only to courageously escape out of the second story bedroom window. Police say that it was this little girl that called 911 and alerted them to the shooter’s actions.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Day Television Changed
Happy birthday, Lost! September 22, 2004 was the day the show premiered. It was a day a plane crashed onto a magical healing island as it was split apart by a magnetic anomaly. Thus began the greatest show to ever grace the history of television. Fast forward five years later and all of us fans are eagerly awaiting the beginning of the end, and the questions that have plagued us for the past five seasons. The mystery of Adam and Eve will be revealed, and the islanders’ destinies will be found.
My mission has not gained as much momentum as it had a few weeks ago, but I have the letters to Michael Emerson and Sam Anderson in the works as I write this blog. I plan to send the two letters out by the end of this week. As far as the poster is concerned, I think I should have it out by the end of the month… hopefully. Definitely before my birthday on the eighteenth.
I suppose lady luck was smiling on the mission as I now have a chance to congratulate the talented Michael Emerson on his Emmy win. I’m sure I won’t be the first fan to do so, but he deserves all the accolades coming his way. And of course, there’s Sam Anderson who was the closest I have ever come to a cast member. I grew up watching him in reruns of WKRP, Perfect Strangers, X-Files, and even Forrest Gump. Not to mention that outside of Cindy Chandler, Zack and Emma, Bernard was the only tail-survivor to make it to the last season.
Well, that’s my update for now. Hopefully, something more eventful happens by my next post. Since I haven’t been posting stories on here recently, I may just post the fan fiction I did during the first long hiatus between seasons 3 and 4.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Going All In
I think it’s safe to say that Jorge Garcia won’t be reading this blog again anytime soon. And, let me be the first to say, that I wouldn’t blame him. I screwed up the first time around and it bummed me out to the point that I considered scrapping the entire mission altogether. But, I assure you, that is not the case. I set out to do something that I thought was an impossible task to accomplish, and I intend to see it through.
Things are in the air right now as far getting anyone to sign the poster after that little snafu that I caused a while back. Essentially, I’m back to square one. I’m familiar with square one. If, by some off chance, Jorge does read this, I hope he knows that I wasn’t trying to put anyone in hot water. I misread his note and took it a step too far. I still think he’s the nicest guy to answer back, but I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t respond back to my apology.
With the encouragement of family, friends, and a bunch of fellow Lost bloggers, I’ve decided to push forward and send out the poster to Hawaii anyway. My sister asked me what were to happen if I didn’t get any signatures on the poster. And that’s when I realized that I would probably just let it collect dust in my closet. I wouldn’t hang it up on the wall unless it’s got at least one cast member on it.
So what’s the worst that could happen? I may never see the poster again. But since I’m in a situation where I have no idea whether or not I will get anybody to sign, I’ve really got nothing left to lose. And I’ve got to confess that I’m a sucker for the good side of people. I still have some faith that someone out there will help me out with this mission. Maybe it’ll be Jorge (that’s a BIG ‘maybe’), maybe it’ll be an intern who needed something to do, but I will get someone to sign that poster.
Once I figure out the postage, I’ll send the poster over to Grass Skirt Productions and play the waiting game. I’ll post up more stories on here so this blog doesn’t collect too much dust. My next update for the Lost Mission will be on September 22, 2009. And any Lost fan can tell you why I chose that date.
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