The Memorial: Lest They Be Forgotten
The cleverness of the human mind, twisted by strategic jurisprudence, had made a holocaust possible even in this democracy. Of the 14 million Xenotians of their pre-holocaust demographic, only 56 remained.
A true democracy gets what it wants, and then it gets what it deserves--in this case, a populist leader who played on the fears and the us-vs-them political thinking at the heart of his agenda of nationalistic purism.
He had closed the borders to reverse the traffic. Complainers were given notice. Dissenters' identities were recorded. "Alternatives" were deported. And, of course, the over-14 million Xenotians, "processed..."
...to death.
Yet, reason returned.
The newest populist leader had stopped the Xenotian genocide. He then invited the 56 remaining to a special ceremony whereupon they would receive the first-ever Presidential Medal of Legacy, awarded to those suffering catastrophic persecution yet prevailing to carry on for their race, religion, or sexual preference.
The ceremony was to coincide with the dedication of a planned "Wall of Honor," memorializing the millions who had fallen so tragically in the previous iteration of national "destiny."
The remaining Xenotians encircled its foundation site where the cement for the grand wall's base would be poured. At one end, a cement truck was positioned and adorned with a golden button a selected Xenotian patriarch was invited to push ceremoniously, beginning the flow of cement over the rebar lining the foundation's bottom.
After the President had completed draping the medals on these brave, resilient and special invitees, he approached the dais next to the industrial concrete truck and the large sign depicting how the completed wall would look.
It was a proud moment for both President and Xenotians.
"Our long national nightmare is over," he said. "In covenant with you--the remaining, resilient, and crucial--we dedicate this wall."
He positioned the patriarch at the golden button and signaled the photographer, who framed the panorama from that golden button to the other end of the standing medal-winners. The photographer raised his hand countdowning to the photograph, which also signaled the strafing that began. The Xenotians fell into their commemorative mass grave.
Once this part of the ceremony was over, the President himself pushed the golden button, sealing the excavation.
The Smoker (Pt. 1)
He’s really starting to get to me now. Four times he has appeared to me, and four times I’ve been left struck. He just stands there, with his fag in his mouth, grinning.
It happened first three weeks ago; I remember the moon was at its fullest and illuminated my room through the prism of my bare, curtainless window. For reasons I do not know, and wish I could explain, I found the exact shade of grey-silver light irresistible, and found myself almost floating out of bed, towards the window.
Looking out at the vast, grey sky, I found myself surprised at how dull the full moon looked, as wispy grey clouds wafted over it. Looking back now, I believe with my full heart that the magical light was not created by the moon, but the figure that I saw dimly lit by it.
Behind the two storey flats is a stone wall five feet high, encompassing the greenery below. Opposite the wall is a number of fences that guard the gardens of houses in a small housing estate. Between these two boundaries is a lane; a long lane of dark blue tarmac that stretches from my flat and winds towards and along the river for about a mile.
Stood - almost rooted - in this lane, no more than forty yards from my tired eyes, was a man, perhaps maybe a figure, squat and dark. He was surrounded in shadow but lit by the lunar light, giving him a greyish, foggy quality. Faint colours mixed around him and changed with every glance; sometimes reflecting the deep dark blue of the tarmac beneath his feet, sometimes incorporating (or emanating?) the moody indigo hue of a neighbour’s vibrant garden forget-me-nots, trembling in the breeze; sometimes the earthy brown and life-giving green of the nearby grassy soil or alder leaves mixed with him, giving him a mossy sheen or slime in the autumn mist.
I stood there, utterly transfixed with fear and anxiety, for a time that could not be judged by humanity’s precious attempts to gauge time: a brief eternity. The wisps of cloud thinned, and the increased illumination of the moon revealed a cracked, craggy, round face, weighed down by a strange nautical type of hat I’d never seen before – part top hat, part sailors’ hat. He stood thirty yards away, but I could make out a thick, oily, brown liquid leaking from the interior of the hat down the side of his face, revolting me. He wore a long, black mackintosh that reached down to his thick black boots, boots that seemed to almost sink into the pavement.
Somehow, perhaps by his design, I had moved from the safety of my room and out onto the balcony. I noticed immediately that there were no sounds, however slight, of the wind, or birds that regularly chirped even in the small hours. I felt that I was not awake, but in a vivid dream. I never know I’m dreaming, so I knew this was real, but not too real. The smells were slightly off, the colours were slightly off, the feeling of the balcony banister against my hand was slightly off. It is as if I had entered a different place but stayed where I was, or he had brought me here.
Then I realised, why? Why did this man, or thing, arrive here, stand there, and stare at me, with blurry eyes. As if answering my self-question, the figure’s face contorted in a bright, yellow-toothed grin, rummaged in a pocket and brought out a dark red cigarillo case. He flicked it open in his hand and inside were a dozen fags, led solemnly in their satin lined coffin, ready for cremation. He took a fag and put it in his mouth, returned the case, rummaged in the same pocket and revealed a dark red zippo lighter that dropped out of his baggy sleeve which landed delicately in his calloused hand. As though it was a part of him, the mackintosh man flicked open the zippo – embossed in white with the logo of a swan – and lit the object clamped between his chewed lips.
Suddenly, he gave an enormous drag of the cigarette, reducing to a beige stub in seconds; his cheeks inflated simultaneously. With a flutter of the lips, as though playing a magical woodwind, the pale cigarette smoke seeped out of the mouth. The gas like smoke looked lost for a moment, floating in front of the figure’s face in a gentle swirling motion, before slowly floating towards me. The cancerous vapor made me cough involuntarily, which seemed to offend the figure and the smoke. Suddenly, I noticed that parts of the swirling grey were flitting off from the main form, and as they did so they were themselves forming peculiar shapes.
Words. They were forming words.
I watched this painstaking process for an age, before the smokey sentence completed itself. To my horror, the words spelled out this:
If I were you, I’d be shit scared, boyo…
The End of the World
One day there was a Town that was created by the Giver, the source of all goodness in the world. The people of the Town were happy in the Town. They smiled as they greeted each other in the streets. They shared their food, their work, and their time. The women wore pretty pastel-coloured dresses. The men wore handsome creamy white shirts. The children all had curly hair. The houses were all painted bright colours. The food was sweet, the air was fresh, and the sun shone brightly. But they knew that all this must soon come to an end. There was a vase full of Evils, hidden away in the cellar of the Town Hall, locked in a box that was locked in another box that was locked in another box. Soon the Taker would rise. The Taker was foretold by prophecy. The Taker would break the seal of the vase, releasing the Evils out into the Town. The Evils would cause havoc and wreckage, and they would kill everyone before descending into the World Beneath the Horizon. The Taker would then descend into the World Beneath the Horizon. There they would rule as the Kingfather. This was tragic, as it was. But it was foretold by prophecy so thus it would be.
One day a baby was found in a blue box on the train tracks. Everyone knew that this baby was the Taker, just as prophecy had foretold. Some people suggested leaving the baby Taker on the train tracks so that a train might run over them and the Town would be safe. But the majority of the Townspeople knew that they couldn't leave the baby on the train tracks. The prophecy was very clear on what was to be the fate of the Town. The Townspeople took the baby Kingfather off the tracks and into the Town to be raised there. They knew they were a creature of unholiness and corruption. But they had to follow the prophecy.
Alas the baby was raised inside the town by the Townspeople. The baby was fed, but with milk made from chalk dust not milk from the cow. For the milk from a living being was said to help one form connection with the living world. And if the baby had connection with the living world they would not be able to destroy it. As the baby grew they were passed from family to family, spending a week with each family. This was so that the child could not form any close family bonds. Because if the child learned to love, they would not fulfill their prophecy. The child was sent to school to be taught in the ways of the world. But they were not allowed to play with the other children. Because if they made friends they might feel love for the Town. The child had straight hair. The child was fed, but not with food that came from living beings. Their food was made of dust and rocks. The child was clothed, but not in soft, warm clothes like the Townspeople. They were made to wear the bags made of plastic that were normally used to store garbage in. The child was given a bed to sleep in but their blankets were made of plastic sheets, not hand-sewn quilts. When the child's host family would gather around the dinner table and laugh and talk as they shared their meal, the child would have to eat alone locked in their room. When the Town had festivals the child was not allowed to attend, but rather locked in the cellar of the Town Hall.
The child spent a week straight locked inside the cellar of the Town Hall each year as the winter solstice was celebrated. It was dark. It was cold. It was small. It was suffocating.
The child knew their destiny. The child knew that one day they would be expected to kill the citizens of the Town and then descend back into the depths where they came from. It was something that was always taught to them. It was taught to them that they were a form of destruction, they were meant to be a form of destruction. It was taught to them that they were only capable of cruelty. It was taught to them that they should look forwards to ruling the World Beneath the Horizon. That it was where creatures like them lived and where they would be accepted.
And so the child grew. The child knew that they did not have the capacity to love, but they felt grateful that the Townspeople loved them enough to care for them and raise them anyways. The child was terrified of ever reaching their fifteenth birthday, which would be the date where they would be compelled to destroy all creation. The child did not want that day to ever come.
The child did continue growing. And soon they were a teenager. Soon they turned fourteen. And then the day of their fifteenth birthday was a mere day away. And then, it arrived.
The teenager felt a feeling of fear they had never felt before as they were led to the stage at the centre of town hall. On the stage there was a podium with a vase on it that was covered in thick, waxy cloth. Beside the vase there was a knife. There was a crowd gathered all around the stage. The whole Town had come for the devastating event. There were families with children. There were lovers holding hands. There were friends whispering to each other. The teenager looked out into the crowd and saw it all. Saw all the love they knew they could never understand.
The Mayor of the Town was standing beside them. He told them to go on. They looked at the Mayor with big, wide eyes. And they shook their head. The Mayor was angry. He demanded to know what they meant. They clasped their hands in front of their chest, pleading. Then they waved a hand over the crowd, so as to gesture towards all the people there. They clasped their hands together again. And gestured back towards the crowd. They brought their hands up to form the shape of a heart with their curved fingers and thumbs. The Mayor was enraged at the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old standing before him. He told them that if they didn't break the seal on their own then he would take their hands in his and make them break the seal.
The teenager stared up, terrified. They held their hands up, placating, in surrender. They looked at the Mayor. They looked at the crowd. They looked at the knife. And they made a decision. The Taker took the knife in their hands. The Taker aimed the knife towards the vase. And then at the last moment they changed direction and drove the knife instead into their own neck.
The crowd gasped as the small body fell upon the rapidly-growing pool of blood on the wooden floor.
What should I have for dinner?
The wind is loud today.
I lounge on a neutral-toned couch and absentmindedly watch the storm through a glass door at the rear of my one-room apartment. The overcast sky colors my room with an array of desaturated shades. I twirl a strand of long, dark hair around my index finger, frowning at the collection of split ends. I’m in desperate need of a trim. A girl needs to keep up her appearance, or so they say. I return my attention to the outdoors.
Tree branches bend at unnatural angles, and I can’t help but imagine the flailing twigs as human body parts—dismembered arms dancing in the wind, a human neck pulled taut by an unseen force, one moment away from tearing…
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I turn my head idly, eyes unfocused. The front door is located behind me. I sigh. That’s one downside to living on the first floor, I’m always the initial stop for door-to-door advertisers. For a moment, I consider pretending I’m not home. However, as the wind gives a mighty roar, I decide to humor the poor fellow. Working in a storm shows dedication. I respect that.
I walk to the front of my apartment in about three seconds and open the door, not bothering to paint a fake smile on my face. To my dismay, my lack of formalities goes unnoticed. No one is there. I crane my neck out the entryway, looking left, then right. Nothing. I shrug and close the door. Perhaps, I imagined it.
I turn around, contemplating what I should make for dinner, when I notice it—a towering figure standing outside, just beyond the glass door. It is clothed in black from head to toe, resembling a physical manifestation of a shadow. Its arms point downwards, and the spaces between its arms, legs, and fingers are all splayed in 45 degree angles. It is completely motionless, which is impressive considering the aggressive winds. I cock my head in curiosity.
“Interesting,” I note aloud.
I remain still for a moment and then sprint towards the dark figure. I smile wickedly, trying to gauge its reaction. It remains frozen.
“Interesting,” I repeat.
Up close, I can now see that the figure is not alive. It’s a mannequin with sandbags securing its feet. As if on cue, I hear my front door open. Oops, I forgot to lock it.
I turn around nonchalantly, just in time to see a serious-eyed man charging towards me. He has a knife at my throat in seconds.
“You’re dead, bit—,” he chokes on his last word. The syllables dribble from his mouth like the blood now pouring from his chest. His eyes grow round as he notices the knife protruding from his body, my hand securely on the hilt. I always keep a concealed weapon up my sleeve.
“Nice try, honey,” I purr in a sugar-coated tone, effortlessly disarming him, “I’ll give you some points for creativity though. Loved the theatrics! The mannequin was a nice touch.”
Disbelief and terror highlight his gaping features until I twist the knife deeper. Then, death finally collects the light in his eyes. I push the heavy body to the floor in mild annoyance. Another perfectly good sweater marred by bloodstains. I meticulously clean my knife’s blade and roll up my left sleeve. Grinning, I carve a diagonal dash across four healed tick marks on my upper arm.
“Guess that makes…” I pause, counting the groupings of five, “Twenty. I wonder who’s going to show up next.”
They have been trying to kill me for years now. I don’t mind though. It’s fun, like a game.
I sigh and collapse on the couch once more, observing the tortured trees shuddering behind the ever-watching mannequin. I guess I’ll have to move again.
I shift my attention to my hands and analyze the deep red hue, warmth, iron-tinged aroma, and stickiness of the man’s blood. My eyes widen in realization, and I gasp, straightening my back.
“That’s it. I’ll have spaghetti for dinner!”
Attention To Tea
Nobody tells you how to go about, 'seeing through it all.' Nobody around me seems to see it the same way I, and maybe we, see it. Nobody could help if they wanted to.
"Can you be more specific?" She looks at me with that look.
I don't know how to respond. Maybe we.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was speaking. I meant to be thinking to myself."
"On every point, honey. I'm just trying to understand." She still has that look, and the bridge between us splinters from more constant communication of not understanding.
"I'm just - I'm lost on where exactly you're lost,"
I can tell by the look on her face, it's spread to me. The bug, that bleeding, smearing bug of unintentional ignorance.
"I went voluntarily to the doctor because I knew I needed help, and I brought my relevant medical history. That was not considered because I - I don't know. They kept implying it was because of my disorganized speech, but my medicine manages my disorganized speech. Do you see why that would be scary to me?"
Please, please, please, please, please, don't misunderstand.
"I... I understand your feelings are valid, I just still don't understand why you choose to be so negative and mistrusting. Why would the doctors be out to get you?" She puts the question to me so gently, and yet it hurts so bad. Oh, honey. You strike me with the sharp end of the blade.
I'll try again.
"I'm not saying anybody is out to get me, I don't think I'm relevant socially enough for that. That's - that's not what I mean, that - no, I mean, I just am floored they didn't know how to, or couldn't, support me at the mental hospital. That's where anybody goes to get extreme help and support, right?"
"Well, yes," she sighs. Straightening up how she always does to show she needs me to consider what she says next, my honey strikes me yet again with the sharp end of her verbal blade. "I'm going to ask you a question because I'm still just so lost, and I think you're lost, too. Doctors have gone to years and years of medical school, doctors are always trying to improve and nobody wants to be liable, especially on hot button issues." Meeting my gaze straight, she delivers the final blow.
"Have you considered if they're right? I'm not saying they are..." And off we go to the beginning.
I physically feel my ears ring before I hear it. Imagine, the love of your life. Or, who you thought was. To titter between two equally abysmally stigmatized labels, within my own forcibly labeled body, daily, debating if you are a person beneath the words and the more you use, the less people understand.
Stress can induce disordered speech, too. So can mood disorders. So can settings, or substances.
I remember where I've felt this feeling before. Very few times has it ever broken through to my heart - this time, it was guided as if an expert sharpshooter had lined up the shot.
True fear.
"Fear can produce disordered speech," I say with tears in my eyes. I don't know when my eyes noticed my petition papers had been slightly mussed with, but they did. I know that is the heart of the issue. "Please," I may not be able to read a room, but I can read text from a distance. Years of bad vision without glasses refined this talent of mine.
Report if Suspected Danger to Self or Symptoms Resurface
"I just - I don't get you right now. It's like how people treat gay people. You know how that manifests, right? So... think like that. Why didn't I just get my regular medicine...? Why was that ignored?" I'm pleading. I can't deny I didn't ask to be monitored like this.
"I'm so sorry, honey," She's crying. I know I've lost. Oh, I don't want to go - don't - how many strikes against me? Is this the third time, or fourth? She wouldn't strike me with a proverbial blade like this on purpose, right? "But the papers ended up in the back seat of the car, right? So, did you really bring them in? Hallucinations on everyday tasks and activities are common, did you read up on it for yourself?"
"Yes - listen, if I imagined it, how come someone else can verify they saw me drop the papers off?"
"But can they verify they were the right papers?" She knows that's a point I can't ignore.
Why can't I be supported... outside of the hospital? Why does everybody want me sent back once I start to feel real...? Who plans to pay for this? How can I work to pay off my own bills, if I'm held against my will in yet another place that's going to stick me with both needles and worse, more bills?
"I don't have the means to help you as much as you need, I'm sorry, honey, I try, and try, and try - I just... I don't understand you, or what you want,"
How? When? Did I say that out loud?
How does she not get it?
Not my horror movie...
I woke up, it was still dark outside. I just went back to sleep. I woke up again, still dark. I slept. I woke up, still dark. Hmm, what time is it? I thought. I pulled out my phone to check, 2:00pm! What the..? My train of thought was interrupted by a curling scream outside, I looked out the window and saw a woman no older than 40. Her face held blood and something wasn't right about her eyes. They were black.What the actual fu-. I immediately go downstairs and lock my front door, and all the windows, and start staring at the people surrounding the screaming lady. I turn away from the window for only a second then I hear a stampede outside. Everyone is running back inside away from the lady who is still standing hurling her arms to the sky. The world turns to reddish black, under the unidentified lights in the sky. The TV flashes to the new station and It sounds urgent, the lady is practically yelling at the camera. And i get distracted by the new reporter to notice the monsters falling from the lights in the sky.
“Everyone must stay inside!” someone screams. The power cuts off. The adrenaline hits me and I'm shaking. The world is deep red now and I look outside to see a black fleshy tube sucking the life out of people. The old lady out front is now lifeless on the ground all pale and skinny. I look around with horror on my face and see more and more dead people on the streets. I witness monsters and demon looking creatures crawling on all-fours and taking the souls of the dead. They break into unlocked houses, they kill them one by one, house by house. I dash downstairs and barrake the front door with my couch and arm chairs. The door slams as they try to get in, their hand prints, covered in blood, stained my windows. All of the sudden i see glass shards flying. And the monsters inside my house. I run into a closet and hide. I turn the lock, and curl into a ball and then i hear the monsters in my house move around and search for me. Their killing call sounds like a loud purr and a low deep growl. They're hunting me.
They are hard of hearing and i make sounds with them having no reaction. I saw their ruthless killing if they could actually hear properly i’d be dead. Their is a car outside. I can hear it, and so can the monsters. I hear them all rush out the shattered window. I slowly open the closet door, making sure they are all out of my house. The people are trying to escape but even the people on a plane cant. Smoke covers the buildings with a plane in the middle. I want to believe that there are other people that are alive, that my family is alive, but the phone is still ringing. No answer. I peek outside and wish for a single person to be alive. I wish. I wish. I wish. Nothing. I grab all of my food and go into my basement. Taking all of the scrape wood to close the door and windows. I silently wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. I hear screams. Again and again and again. My power is still off so I check my phone. The new is off and i check the international channels. One in Asia, Europe, and Australia. There all under attack just like LA. Monsters have officially taken over. Were doomed.
My house is being searched again by the monsters, their stomps getting closer to me. It seems their sense of smell is better then their hearing because they find me in an instant. And all too soon their taking my body into the air and sucking the life out of me like all the others, I see my body on the ground frail and lifeless. How could i be so foolish to think I’d be the one to live in this horror movie?
There’s Evil in My veins
I had a choice. I chose wrong. I chose evil instead of good. I chose chaos instead of peace. It sank in. I didn’t just chose to walk away. Evil is now a part of who I am. People don’t notice it, because it is pure. It is pure evil, and I don’t find it wrong. I embraced it with my heart and now it’s hidden in my soul. I don’t scream or shout. I won’t stab you in the back, unless you provoke me. I am not narcissistic. I know I am wrong. I simply chose myself. I was between a rock and a hard place. I could have chosen to fit in, to be a good Christian, to be a good daughter, to go with the flow. I didn’t. I chose to break the flow. I chose to be a spear of diamond instead of a raft of wood. The one choice I’ll never regret.
I looked into the mirror one day and asked myself if I or my enemies would die. Instead of deciding one of us would die, I chose to make my life heaven and their‘s hell. I woke up out of misery and got to work. First manipulate; I took, I take, I let them win, I lead them on. I watch them crumble, but never let them fall. I am their master of shadows, their demons in the dark. I am fear itself. And this… this? This is just a start. Let them win, let them fall, let them live forever in pain.
Pins and Screws and Eyes of Needles — Oh, My!
Under general anesthesia, the urologist pressed Peter Harper's testicles along his inguinal canals until they reached the final bottlenecks of swollen inguinal rings.
“It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven,” he said under his breath. Peter Harper was indeed very rich.
“What?” asked the anesthesiologist.
“Eye of the needle,” he repeated, pressing gloved thumbs on each bulge. He forced Harper's gonads, squeezing them forward until wringing them through, bruised, into their familiar resting places.
“Those are surely gonna be sore for a while,” the urologist said, transferring care to the orthopedic surgeon who prepared plaster of Paris to immobilize Harper's pelvic ring. He hoped the six separate fractures and disarticulated femur head would heal with the help of a dozen titanium pins and screws.
No one had informed them just how Harper had sustained these injuries, by now requiring six units of blood. Car accident vs being impaled by falling onto something were the leading guesses.
After the orthopedic surgeon shaped the plaster girdle, strategically windowed for bodily functions, ice packs were placed to reduce the swelling of his genitals protruding through the cutaway holes.
The urologist implanted the suprapubic catheter to rest his bladder until his penile urethra could pass anything more viscous than gas. Using the other access hole, the colon and rectal surgeon, having finished the colostomy, next identified the traumatic rectal-bladder fistula via proctoscope, sealing it with an endoscopic procto-ring.
After the suctioning saliva and other comatose secretions had been done, the nurse in the recovery room had time to wonder. Car accident?
Peter Harper attempted to speak.
“What?” his nurse asked. “You’re out of surgery and doing fine.” Harper spoke again. Once again she couldn’t understand. “Try again, Mr. Harper. Cough.” He coughed and groaned from the pain.
“Who was that woman?” he finally rasped.
“What woman?” the nurse asked. “Cough again.” He coughed again. He groaned again.
“That woman,” he repeated. “I have to find out who she is.” He coughed yet again. “She was fucking fantastic.”
"Easy there, lover-boy. You might unscrew your screws."
"That's really funny, he sputtered, then drifted off.
Cold
Icy fingers suddenly grabbed my arm as I inched through the darkness. I jumped and scratched at the cold fingers, desperately trying to remove them, but I couldn’t find them. My fingers only brushed the bare skin of my arms.
I tried to pull away, but my feet were held to the floor, gripped by some force I couldn’t see in the darkness.
I flailed. Pushing, grabbing, moving every inch of me that would move. I could feel the icy grip overtaking me, but I couldn’t touch it.
I opened my mouth to scream, but the cold fingers were there too, covering my mouth, forcing their way in, down my throat and into my belly.
Cold. So cold.