Tuning into a Monster (500 words)

I woke that morning with a headache. My son tells me that’s not normal – I should get it checked out. Morning headaches, random pains, frequent nose-bleeds – just my life. I tell him, I figure if it was serious, I’d be dead by now. But I must say, they’d been happening more often in the last few months. When the first star shot by a few years ago, something in me changed. The second star lit up the sky four months ago. I felt it again. 

The news was bleak that day. Lootings, shootings, and other crimes were plastered on the headlines. There was video of cars tipped over and set ablaze. Citizens gathered in the streets, attacking police officers and throwing molotov cocktails through windows. Some stores put up wood planks to discourage entrance, but it made no impact. 

“Good thing I’m not in the city,” I said.

“Morning, honey,” my wife was behind me.

“Morning, doll face. How did you sleep?”

“Fine. What's on the news?”

“All sorts of shit,” I chuckled, “we’re staying home today.”

My stomach began to ache and cramp.

“Honey, could you make me some green tea?” I asked.

“Too lazy to do it yourself?”

“Kinda. My stomach really hurts.”

“Okay. I’ll get it.”

The pain in my abdomen doubled in intensity before I received the cup. I felt no better. Maybe I just need to go to the bathroom. I stumbled down the hall.

“You ok, sweetie?” She asked. I couldn’t answer.

I sat on the toilet, but nothing happened. More pain. My head pounded. My heart raced. My legs found the chair. Maybe if I just focus on something, it’ll pass. I honed in on the news. Things changed. People in the street turned on each other. Some were fighting with pipes and crowbars. But some…they were fighting with claws and teeth. Cannibals all of a sudden? All of them? 

Some of the police officers attacked their peers. The reporter collapsed for a moment – only to rise, having grown claws and fangs, and attack the camera man. 

My chest pounded and pounded. I fell to the floor. My God, I’m hungry! The urges and feelings were beyond my comprehension.

“Sweetie?” Said my wife.

I looked at my hands and my fingernails had turned to claws. I clenched my jaw and fangs cut into my gums. “Get away!” I shouted.

I ran to the yard, the streets were calm, neighbors out mowing their lawns and tending to their gardens. I fell to my knees again. The pain. Oh my God, the pain. The hunger – incredible hunger. Tom, my neighbor, stood on a ladder trimming his trees.

“Johnson?” He called to me, “Johnson, you okay?”

He approached me. I didn't stop him. Everything I saw was tinted yellow. I could hear his body. I could hear his heart. I could hear his precious blood flowing through his veins. I turned to him and smelled his fear upon looking me in the eye. 

And I fed.

Whiskey Sour (800 words)

    The moonlight burned holes through clouds that tried to hide its shine. The air was as crisp on my skin as a cold beer, a slight breeze blew through my curly hair.  The scent of weed floated on the wind, reminding me of my own to indulge. I didn’t care where it was coming from. I was merely sitting on my fire escape enjoying a cool night with a cigar. My own marijuana waited for me to finish with my addiction so it could amplify the nicotine buzz. Or was it the other way around?

    I heard my rice cooker’s button pop as I entered my apartment. My nostrils now enjoyed a smell from childhood, when my mom would make rice and eggs, or rice and ham, chicken, or steak. My mouth watered – cooking rice. 

    It was especially tasty with the pork short ribs I made. I coated it in too much sauce which was too spicy, both things my mother would say. I’d only impressed her with my cooking once. My girlfriend, kids, friends, ex-wife, and co-workers all seemed to like this recipe. 

    I wasn’t having any of them over that night. I was eating for one on a Tuesday night, in the dark, my face illuminated by my laptop screen as I furiously typed code. Pure logic poured out of my fingers, taking breaks to take bites and sip on my whiskey sour. It was my second one that night. My first was before the fire-escape, and I drank it like water. I planned on deliberately enjoying the new glass.

    Knock knock on the door. Who in the hell? I grabbed my gun. A woman peeked back at me through the cracked open entrance. 

    “It’s me, Silas,” she said.

    Gwen? how… “How the hell did you find me?”

    Boom! The door smacked me in the face hard and I stumbled back. She rushed in and kicked at me, but I dodged and backhanded her in the face. She spun and kicked me in the ribs with her shin and punched me in the jaw. I stumbled again. Gwen lunged at me, but I caught her with a perfectly placed cross to the chest, then swept her feet from under her. My fist hit the floor where her head had been and she was on my back in a flash, choking me. I jumped back and slammed through the glass coffee table. She let go.

    “Okay, Okay. Truce, Little Brother,” she said.

    I extended my hand to help her up. “How and why did you find me?”

    “It wasn’t easy,” she walked to my makeshift bar, “may I?”

    “Please.”

    She poured a whiskey neat, with a lime in it. Same old Gwen. “Dad died, Silas.”

    “I told you guys a long time ago. I want nothing to do with the family.”

    “You’ve been running for a long time, Silas. From us and our enemies now that you’re not under our protection,” She poured me a drink.

    I took a sip, “I do fine.”

    “Si, listen to me. You need to come back. I know you want to pay your respects. Even if you feel the way you do.”

    “How do I feel, Gwen? Abandoned? Rejected? Shit on all my fuckin’ life?”

    She shuffled, “Yes.”

    “He caused all that. Why should I give a shit?” I walked to the window and gulped the rest of my drink.

    “Mom needs you, Si. She’s sick. You’re now the oldest living male.”

    “I’m not going back.”

    “Si,” she grasped my hand, “it’s cancer.  She doesn’t have long to live. You know you never stopped loving mom. You’re her baby.”

    Mom…Memories of her rocking me, playing with me in the yard, teaching me to cook, teaching me to ballroom dance, and how to shoot a gun flooded my mind. “You can run the company, Gwennie.”

    “You know I can’t.”

    “Yes.  Bylaws.  Great grandfather wrote those. They can be undone.”

    “Only by the oldest living male.”

    I paced a moment.  Then, “you’re serious about mom’s cancer? It’s not a ploy?”

    “You know I wouldn’t do that, Si.”

    “I’ll come back. But I’m rewriting the laws. You’re in charge now. I want out.”

    She slapped me, hard. “No you don’t!”

    “Girl, I swear to hell, if you slap me again -”

    “We need you, Si. The whole family.” She grabbed my hand. “I need you, Little Brother.”

    More memories.  Gwen was running in front of me in a field. Then, chasing me through a house with tickles, then teaching me to throw a punch. 

    “You can’t keep running from everyone,” she said.

    I sighed deeply and cleared my throat. My hands shook. “What were his last words?”

    “Find my son,” Gwennie answered.

    A tear fell from my eye. “Okay,” I kissed her on the forehead, “Let’s go.”

 

Nightmare (500 words)

    My ears were ringing when I awoke. My head was pounding and my vision, blurry. I couldn’t be sure if the images were real or a remnant of a dream – I wasn’t even completely sure if my eyes were open. After a few moments,  I gathered my composure. My room. I was in my room. 

Goosebumps had formed on my arms. The fan above was blowing full blast and my bare back was dripping with sweat. My shaved head laid on the pillow drenched in my fear. I had a nightmare again. They came more frequently lately; almost every night.

“You ok, babe?” My stirring woke my wife and, as with other nights like this, her eyebrows were raised and she was crying, yet still trying to put forth a soothing smile. 

“Y-yeah.,” I answered through quickened breathing. I forced myself to breathe deep and answered again, “Yeah. I’m ok.”

She went to the desk and came back with my inhaler, “You have another nightmare?”

She was wearing the robe I got her for her birthday two months prior.  Red silk with her name in flowery writing on the front.

“Yeah. Worse this time.”

“What was it about?”

“War,” I said, “always war. I saw Tony again.”

“Tony will always be with you, sweetie. Maybe he’s trying to talk to you. Did he say anything?” She sat and placed her hand on my thigh.

“He was dying  in my arms again. He told me to let him go. He told me to go on without him.” I wiped sweat from my brow and rested my head in my hands.

“It has been five years since you were relieved of duty. You haven’t seen war in a long time. Do you think he’s right?”

I stood and walked to the window. “Maybe. Maybe I’ve been holding on to him. Holding on to the memory. It’s hard not to, babe. He was my brother.”

“I know, Love.”

“I’m the last of my family. We were the last. Now, I’m alone.” I poured myself a whiskey from a bottle I kept on the nightstand.

“It’s a bit early, Trace…”

“I know,” I said sharply. 

She retracted.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just can’t keep watching him die in my dreams. I can’t take it.” A tear fell from each eye and I blinked the moisture gone.

“I know, sweetie.” 

She gently took the drink from my hand and kissed my shoulder – the one that took the bullet. The shoulder that couldn’t save my brother. The one that allowed the assault rifle round to pass-through, hitting Tony in the chest. I tried. I tried.

My fingers ran through her hair and kissed the top of her head, “I’m okay, babe. I’ll be okay.”

Tony’s picture sat on my desk, framed in an oak picture frame – his favorite wood. He was a carpenter when we were younger. Before the war. Before all the death. I stared at it for a moment. “I’m okay,” I said.

Trey at the Restaurant (500 words)

        Trey sits at a table alone, a steaming coffee cup in one hand.  His other types on the keyboard with loud and fast clicks and clacks. He enjoys the hustle and bustle of the restaurant – his favorite to go to for writing and relaxation. There is a server that he's taken a liking to, long blonde hair with sculpted features, just the right height with an athletic build. Trey is twenty years her senior. When he patrons, they flirt with smiles and sheepish giggles. Oftentimes, they'll speak of future plans, whether far ahead or the next day. A few times, they uncomfortably asked each other of their plans for the rest of the day, then walked away, leaving him to wonder..."Was she waiting for an invitation to hang out or was she just being a very friendly waitress?"

He watches her when she walks by, carefully wary of his gaze so as not to draw attention to the path of his eyes. She walks calmly with a smile and glances at him as if to say..."I know you're looking at me..." but she says nothing. Neither does he, leaving self-talk about his lack of charm and prowess.  

"But she's in her twenties. I'm an old broken down soldier riddled with shell shock and chronic pain," he thinks. 

She doesn't know the struggles he goes through everyday. He hides the internal strife caused by the simple act of leaving the house – the terror and anxiety that permeates his mind in times of even the slightest stress. At the restaurant, however, he's well-dressed, clean-shaven, and typing away. He's smiling at other patrons, wearing a scent concoction of his own creation, and joking with the staff. They know him from his frequent visits. 

She passes by again, this time, stopping for a moment to check on him. 

“Are you done with your plate?” she asks.

He looks down at his food, it is only half gone, “No, thank you,” he says with a smile. “I’m not done yet.”

“Oh, I guess not,” she says with a cute smile to match her voice. “Is there anything I can get you?” 

Trey’s mind screams “Her number.  She can get you her number!”

“Maybe some hot sauce?” he says.

She smiles and winks, “Right away.” 

He mentally slaps his forehead and physically droops his head. He lost his nerve again, if he ever had nerve at all. “Next time,” he thinks, “when she comes back, I’m going to ask her.” 

He waits, patiently, for what felt, to him, like forty-five minutes. He had time to ponder, “What am I talking about? She’s twenty!” Then, “She’s throwing down signs, though. Maybe you can become friends at least. Ask her!”

Finally, she returns with his condiment, “Here you go, sweetie.”

“Hey…” he starts as she starts to walk away, “...What would say to us going to dinner or something?  Maybe I can get your phone number.”

Her smile touches both of her ears, “I’d like that.”