Story Updates

The phone rang. It rang three times before it roused the man from his slumber. He sighed, and fumbled around in the darkness until he came up with an old flip phone. “Hello?” he mumbled sleepily.

“Morgan, you awake?” a deep voice said.

The man glanced at his alarm clock. The numbers “3:25” shone dully back. “Julius?” he muttered questioningly.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What the hell are you calling me for?”

“I found him.”

Morgan sat up, groaning. “The bail jumper?”

“Corner of 35^th and Main in Westbrook, Lucky Star Motel.”

Morgan flipped the phone close. He looked at the clock again. 3:26. He could hear rain splattering against his bedroom window. With a great effort, he heaved himself out of bed and started to get dressed. He shucked off his nightshirt and pulled on a pair of jeans, a patterned dark blue t-shirt, and a black jacket. He shuffled into his bathroom and looked into the mirror. It was flecked with brown, dirty around the edges, and there was a thin crack tracing from the upper left to the lower right corners. Morgan looked at himself. He pushed down his mussed-up brown hair but could do little to make it tidier. Dark circles lurked beneath his brown eyes. His lips were cracked. Morgan turned the cold water knob on the sink and water spilled out onto the grimy enamel sink. He splashed some water on his face and then turned away. Morgan stepped out into the living room and grabbed his keys. After a moment of thought, he also took his umbrella before stepping into the hallway.

As he turned back to lock the door behind him, he noticed an envelope taped to the door. Frowning, Morgan took it down and opened it to find a short message scrawled out in chicken-scratch: “Your rent’s already a week late. I better have $500 by the end of the week or else I’m evicting you.” Morgan smiled bitterly. How charming, as always. He parted his door and chucked the letter in before closing and locking it.

Every other ceiling light in the hallway was out. Morgan remembered his landlord telling him that he took out half the lights to save money. Apparently,  not cleaning the stained walls and replacing the leaky ceiling tiles also fell under the category of unnecessary maintenance. As Morgan moved down to the hallway to the elevator, he noticed a sign reading “Out of Order” taped to the metal door. Apparently, the landlord felt the same way about the elevator too.

Several flights of stairs later, Morgan stepped out the glass doors of his apartment building and headed across the street toward his car. The rain was coming down harder. What started as a light pitter-patter earlier that night had built into a full-on storm, thunder and lightning and all. Morgan cast a cursory left-right look as he crossed the street. This late at night the streets were mostly quiet, but all it took was a wayward drunkard behind the wheel of a car to turn a bad night into a worse one. Thankfully, tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Morgan squeezed past the security bar and made his way to his car, a secondhand gray VW Golf from sometime during the mid-90s. The car was cheap and beat-up with dents in the hood, scraps on the doors, a crooked side-mirror, and a myriad of other defects, large and small. Morgan unlocked the door and slid in. It was clean inside but for an old spiral-bound notebook and a stack of legal processes. The soothing sounds of late night talk radio came over the speakers as Morgan started up his car. As he passed through the security gate, his cell phone beeped and buzzed. He fished around in his pockets and flipped the phone open to read the words “Hurry up.” He sighed and dropped the phone into his lap.

Morgan took as direct a path he could toward Westbrook. Westbrook, along with the Bends and Wallingford, were located in Breaker. Breaker was considered the shitty part of town and Westbrook was considered a shitty part of Breaker. Port City was basically a giant donut with a chunk bitten out of the western side with a tiny donut hole of an island in the middle of the water. The city was split into four areas: The Hill, Staunton, Breaker, and Waterfront. The Hill was geographically the tallest part of the city and located the north. It was made only taller by its cityscape of skyscrapers. Staunton was the furthest inland and was mostly composed of residential neighborhoods. Waterfront and Breaker together made up the center of the city’s historic fishing and packing industries and were generally considered the shittiest parts of the city because of the smell. They were the oldest parts of Port City and had been there long before the rest of the city had been set up. Breaker was the central island connected to the rest of the city with bridges and was so known because of the turbulent waters that surrounded it, eroding the sides of the island.

No one really lived in Breaker. They all just sort of passed through. Breaker was the central connecting point of the city, sort of like a gigantic Grand Central Station without all of high ceilings and whatnot. The island was always fairly crowded and noisy, even at night. There weren’t any skyscrapers, expensive townhouses, or fancy restaurants here. Rather, one was more likely to find dimly-lit strip clubs, rundown motels, and masturbating hobos. It was a place favored by transients and people who wanted to stay close to a way out and didn’t really care where that way took them as long as it was away. Morgan liked to think of himself as a private investigator, but more often than not his jobs were to find and bring in bail jumpers or serving legal processes informing people of their court dates. This often took him crappy parts of town at odd hours of the day and night.

Even this late at night, there was still some traffic on the roads. Morgan didn’t exactly encounter traffic jams or anything. Most of the danger at this time of night came from drunk drivers and tired workers coming and going for late night shifts. Yellow and orange light shone down from lonely streetlamps as Morgan’s tiny car passed beneath them. A green overhead freeway sign reading “Breakers, right 1/4 mile” rapidly approached. Morgan eased his car into the correct lane and reached into his lap for his cell phone. He tapped out a quick message reading, “About to come off the bridge”. Several seconds later, a reply came back: “Meet me at Round Holes”. Morgan rolled his eyes. Even now, Julius needed food.

Round Holes was a 24-hour establishment known locally for its cheap coffee and good donuts that catered to the sort that would find a 24-hour location handy. It was plopped conveniently between a package store and an unmarked building Morgan suspected was a brothel. Morgan pushed past the glass and metal door, a tinkling bell preceded his entrance. He scanned the room before seeing an older black man sporting a red, black, and white plaid shirt and a visible paunch. The man looked up from his corner booth and waved him down. Morgan approached, saying, “I hope you called me out for something good.”

Julius Brown gestured at the empty chair. Laid out before him were a half-eaten burger, hash browns, some greasy sausages, and a large mug of coffee. Julius was a large, round black man with a shaved, waxed dome of a head and pearly white teeth that he somehow kept immaculate regardless of how much coffee he drank. He didn’t bother trying to hiding his overflowing midsection, instead choosing to wear dress comfortably in loose-fitting clothing. He took a quaff of coffee before reaching down to the seat next to him to lift up a beaten manila folder onto the table. He opened it, pulled out a couple choice pictures, and passed them to Morgan. “I thought you might find this interesting.”

Morgan squinted at the photo. “What’s this supposed to be?”

Julius rolled his eyes and snatched the photo out of Morgan’s hand. He gestured at a figure in the photo with a sausage speared on the end of a fork. “Mac Griffin,” he said simply. “The bail-jumper.”

In Port City, bondsmen paid between five percent to skip tracers who managed to get any information on bail jumpers and ten percent if they could track them down and bring them in. Five percent was good, but it wasn’t $500, and apparently Morgan’s landlord needed $500. Julius handed a photo to Morgan and bit into his sausage. Morgan grimaced at a spot of grease on the photo. It was a dark, unfocused picture of a white man staring out a window. His only defining feature was a shock of red hair. Everything else was blurry. “It’s a shitty picture,” he said. “You can barely tell it’s him.”

“It was nighttime and I didn’t want to use flash,” Julius managed through a mouthful of some hash browns.

After several seconds of silence, Morgan asked, “When did you take this?”

Julius swallowed. “Last night.”

Last night. Dark. Rainy. Morgan considered it. He really did need that reward money. He let out of a breath and said, “You remember the room number?”

Julius thought for a moment. “Room 213.”

Morgan nodded. “Alright, so when are we going then?”

Julius chewed for a moment before managing a muffled, “Let a man finish eating first,” between a mouthful of potato and sausage. A little bit of food flew out of his mouth and landed on the table. Julius deftly swept it off the table with a flick of his hand. Morgan stared at him for a moment before turning to the counter to say, “Can we get a doggie bag here?”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t just give me 5 minutes to finish my breakfast in peace,” Julius grumbled.

Morgan didn’t turn to look at Julius, instead choosing to continue staring out the windshield of his car at the squat, yellowish building across the street. They had parked Morgan’s little car in an alley off the street. Police in the older and poorer parts of the city like Westbrook usually ignored illegally parked cars as long as they were out of the way and weren’t selling drugs or guns out of them. He stared up at the second floor where Room 213 was. The room was dark and they hadn’t seen any movement. “You’re sure this is the right place?” he asked.

Julius rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, exasperated. He shifted his weight around. Fitting his bulky body into the comparatively small passenger seat was never comfortable. “My guys are good. If they say someone’s here, then they’re here.”

Morgan tried to suppress and a yawn and failed. His job often had him getting up and going around at odd hours of the day and night but he still wasn’t used it. Damn it, he liked getting at least six hours of sleep. “Tired?” Julius said.

“No,” Morgan said stubbornly.

“Get some sleep,” Julius said. “I’ll keep watch.”

Morgan didn’t need any more encouragement.

Morgan opened his eyes several hours later. The sun was out, its weak light filtering through a thick layer of gray clouds. He glanced at the car clock. 9:07. “Anything?” he said groggily, turning to look at Julius.

The larger man was sitting half-reclined in his car seat. There was an empty Styrofoam container in his lap and a large thermos in his hand. He yawned and said, “Nothing.”

Morgan glared at him and shook him roughly awake. Julius shivered and opened his eyes blearily. “Oh crap,” he muttered.

He shook the larger man awake. “Eh?”

Morgan stared at him. “I thought you said you were going to keep watch?”

Julius squinted. “Damn.”

Morgan stared at him for a moment longer before sighing and burying his face in his hands. “Damnit Julius I need this money,” Morgan said, his voice muffled.

“Sorry dude,” Julius said. “I just—”

“Whatever, okay here’s what we’re going to do.”

Morgan looked at the car clock again. “I’m going to go up to the room, you try to find the manager or whoever it is in charge of this place, find out if he checked out or not.”

He reached into the backseat and fished around until he found the manila folder of information that Julius arranged. “Find a picture of Griffin in here, it might jog his memory.”

Julius looked at the folder doubtfully. “I dunno man, people in Breaker… they usually try not to remember faces. Plausible deniability and all.”

“Just don’t make it seem like you’re the cops and we’ll be fine,” Morgan said. He opened the door and got out. Julius did the same, albeit with a bit more difficulty.

“Got an idea for a story?” Morgan asked.

“I’ll make something up,” Julius said.

“Right.”

The two of them crossed the street.  Julius went first. He looked around and then made his way to a ground-level room with a red “Vacancy” sign in the window. Morgan waited three minutes before making his way up the stairs on the side furthest from the front office. He didn’t like motels. Specifically, he didn’t like the fact that the hallways were open to one side. He didn’t mind it when he was the one spying, but he didn’t like it when he could be the one being spied on. More than one bail-jumper escaped because they saw people nosing around their hidey-hole.

Morgan’s eyes scanned the numbers on the doors. They started from 220 and counted down. He finally came down to 213. His eyes did a cursory once-over the room. The drapes were down. The door was slightly open. Morgan passed it. He stopped at the opposite end and leaned against the railing, staring out at the street. A couple minutes later, he heard Julius struggling up the stairs. The big black man settled next to him. “What’d you tell him?” Morgan asked.

“I said I was a friend of the guy in 213, his wife was looking for him, and some other bullshit.” Julius nudged Morgan. “What’d you find?”

Morgan looked back at Room 213. “The door was open.”

Julius sucked in a breath. It was never a good thing when a door that wasn’t supposed to be open was open. It invited trouble. “What do you want to do?”

Morgan turned back to look at the street. “Can’t hurt to look.”

Julius looked at him meaningfully. “It could.”

A moment passed. “Do you have your gun?” Morgan asked.

Julius nodded. “Right, well, good,” Morgan said. “Well, we’re going to find him if we don’t try, and we’re not going to get paid if we don’t find him.”

Julius frowned. “You don’t normally take these risks.”

“I need the money,” Morgan said. “My rent’s late.”

“I can loan you some,” Julius offered.

“$500?”

“I can’t loan you that much.”

“Well it’s settled then.”

Morgan pushed off the railing and walked swiftly to Room 213. He stopped and then rapped the door sharply a couple times. When there was no response, he looked at Julius. Julius had produced a revolver from somewhere in his pants and nodded at Morgan. Morgan stepped back and made as if he was going to kick the door open. He thought better of it and leaned forward to cautiously push the door in.

A sick, putrid air blasted him in the face. He turned away from the door. “Holy shit,” Julius whispered.

Morgan looked back. In the weak daylight, he could see blood splatters and… parts. He leaned over the side of the railing and emptied his stomach.

“I’m calling the cops,” Julius muttered. He buried his face in his coat and moved in to close the door.

Morgan sat in a small wooden chair in a small office. There were three battered-looking filing cabinets in one corner of the room. Sunlight streaked through the Venetian blinds. The desk in front of him was covered in papers, folders, pens, candy wrappers, empty sandwich bags, and the accumulated detritus of countless hours of work. A plaque sat on the desk with the words “Detective James Zhang” stamped on it.

Morgan stretched. It’d been at least two hours since Julius called in the police. They explained what they were looking for, but they had been brought down to the station anyways. Two hard-faced officers had escorted Morgan to this office and told him to wait until they could get the lead investigator. Morgan looked up at a clock on the wall. 11:30. He could feel his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten anything since last night.

The door opened behind him. Morgan stood up and turned around. A short, Asian man with short black hair and glasses stepped in. “Alexander Morgan?” the man said.

Morgan nodded. “James Zhang?” he said. The man nodded.

The detective held up a plastic Subway bag and a cardboard tray holding two drinks. “I thought you might be hungry.”

He moved behind his desk, set down the bag and tray, and motioned for Morgan to sit back down. Morgan sat down. The man was neatly dressed in a collared shirt, tie, blazer, and khakis. His hair was slicked back, and upon closer inspection Morgan could see flecks of gray. A golden band glinted on his right hand. “Do you prefer turkey or tuna?” Zhang asked.

“I’m sorry?” Morgan said.

“Turkey or tuna,” Zhang repeated. “My wife’s trying to get me to eat healthier and eat more fish and less red meat and whatnot. So, turkey or tuna?”

“I’ll take to turkey then,” Morgan said.

Zhang nodded. He reached into the Subway bag and pulled out two footlong subs. He unwrapped one, saw that it was tuna, and handed the other to Morgan, along with one of the drinks. “It’s just water,” he said. He paused for a second. “Oh right.”

The man reached into his desk and pulled two wet naps. He handed one to Morgan and wiped his hands with his own. Finished, he set it aside and gestured to Morgan’s sandwich. “Well dig in,” he said.

Morgan peeled back the paper wrapping and bit off a large bite. It was delicious. They ate in silence for a couple minutes. Morgan’s sandwich was half gone when the man began to speak. “So, as you may know, I’m the lead detective on this case,” Zhang said. “I’ve already spoken to your friend Julius Brown and you guys are pretty much in the clear. You’re not under suspicion or anything, so you don’t have to worry about what you say.”

Morgan nodded but didn’t say anything. Zhang set down his sandwich and sipped a bit of water from his cup. “Just for the sake of procedure, can you tell me what me you were doing there?”

Morgan swallowed his bite of sandwich and said, “I’m working for a bondsman. Arthur Goldstein. I’ve done a couple jobs for him before. He wanted me to find a bail jumper named MacDonald Griffin. That’s really all I know.”

“Do you know what he’s wanted for?” Zhang asked.

“I’m sure you do.” Morgan took another bite and swallowed. He looked up. “Something nonviolent. That’s really all I know.”

“Mmm.” Zhang took out a notepad. “When did you get the job?”

Morgan looked at the notepad for a moment. “Today’s what, Tuesday?”

“That’s right.”

“Mmm. Friday then, probably.”

Zhang looked up. “And you’re what, a bounty hunter?”

Morgan shook his head. “I do odd jobs. Some snooping, some process serving, and yeah, I track down people every now and then for Arthur. He pays good money.”

“How long have you been working for Arthur?”

“Two years, maybe. Maybe a little less.”

“And… these odd jobs?”

“About the same time. Maybe a little more.”

“Are you a private investigator?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you have a PI license?”

“No.”

“You don’t have a regular job?”

“I did. I got fired.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

“I came in late.”

Zhang took a moment to drink some water before continuing. “How did you find Griffin?”

“I didn’t.”

“So how did you get there?”

“Julius found him. He has his contacts, I have mine. We work together.”

“Mmm. Have you ever seen Griffin?”

“Only in pictures.”

“Mmm. Did you enter the room?”

“No.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Just the door.”

“Mmm. Good.”

Zhang slashed a line through the paper on the notepad, set it aside, and picked up his sub. “So what can you tell me?” Morgan asked.

“What do you mean?” Zhang took a bite into his sandwich.

“Well, since I didn’t see a body in there and I didn’t see a body be taken out, I’m assuming that Griffin’s still out there, and if he’s still out there, that means I can find him.”

“Why are do you need to find him?” Zhang asked.

“I need the money,” Morgan said simply.

“Bad enough to look for a guy who left a room painted in blood and human limbs?”

“Yes.”

“What, are you on drugs?”

“No, I need to pay rent.”

Zhang took a bite of his sandwich.  “Why don’t you just borrow some money?”

Morgan shook his head. “I don’t have anyone to borrow from and my credit sucks.”

“Mmm.” Zhang sat back. “Well, there’s not really much I can do. I can’t tell you to stop looking for him. We weren’t really looking for him with real urgency, but obviously the situation has changed. I can tell you that if we do find him, you’re probably not going to get paid.”

Morgan was silent. “You have to understand, I can’t tell my guys to slow down,” James continued. “But—”

“So, what, I’m screwed?” Morgan asked. “I’m going to get thrown out of my apartment?”

James let out a breath. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Could you sell your information to your bondsman?”

Morgan shook his head. “I only get paid if the guy gets caught using my information, and even then I’d have to split it. Julius got most of the information anyway, so I probably wouldn’t even get any money.”

Story About a Poor Person, Stuff I Want (THAT PEOPLE SHOULD BUY FOR ME)

So this is as far as I’ve gotten in one of my projects. It just sets up the character of the main character, so there’s not much happening.

————————-

Tyler Reese woke to complete darkness and the incessant beeping of an alarm clock. He sighed and rose from his bed. Shivering, Reese reached for a threadbare jacket. He looked at the alarm clock. 10 PM. That left one hour until work. Sighing, he turned off the alarm and shuffled out of his bedroom and into the connected bathroom.

The bathroom was small, yellow, and smelled vaguely of mildew. Reese slid the dirty frosted glass shower screen and stepped into the shower. He turned on the water, wincing at the initial cold blast. The water didn’t turn hot for a couple seconds longer than would be normal, evidence of the cold weather outside. Tyler eased as the hot water washed over him. He picked up a light bottle of shampoo, tried to squeeze out the last bits of liquid, and only managed to eke out two small drops. Reese sighed and palmed it into his hair. He finished washing and turned the water off. He stepped out of the shower, shivering slightly in the cold air. Once dressed, Tyler looked at himself in the mirror. He fingered his longish dark-brown/almost-black hair. It needed a cut. His brown eyes looked back pensively at himself. His hand then moved to his jaw, feeling several day’s worth of stubble. He frowned and began to shave and brush his teeth. Once finished, Reese grabbed a black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans from a basket of clothes and pulled them on. They were a bit wrinkled, but they still smelled all right, so Reese decided it was alright to wear.

Reese’s apartment was small, neat, and contained, if only because there wasn’t much in it. There was an old, boxy TV set on top of two blocks of cement. An assortment of

Old magazines and library books were stacked haphazardly on and around the coffee table. There was a small kitchen. He walked across his apartment and pulled a box of instant mac and cheese and a clean bowl from the kitchen cabinet. He poured some milk into the bowl and added a packet of dehydrated pasta and whatever the cheese powder was made of before putting the entire thing into the microwave and started cooking.

Reese heard his cell phone ring. He walked into his living room and picked up his phone from the coffee table. The caller ID read “unknown”. Reese sighed and placed the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Do you have the package?”

Reese frowned. “Who is this?”

There was sharp intake of breath. Then the phone went dead. Reese shrugged and put the phone into his pocket. “Wrong number, I guess,” he muttered.

He heard the microwave ding, and went back to the kitchen to eat his mac and cheese.

Reese pulled on a dark gray sweatshirt with the word “CHICAGO” printed across the chest and then added a heavy black coat. It was old and worn, but it was comfortable and familiar. Reese checked to make sure that he had his phone and his keys before leaving his apartment and started to look the door behind him. He stopped. Reese felt an odd feeling of unease and looked up and down the hallway. There wasn’t anyone there. Reese shook his head a couple times, locked his door, and moved down the hallway to the stairwell. He passed by several doors. This late at night, most people would’ve expected silence. Instead, Reese could hear the shouting of domestic disputes, things shattering against walls, and muffled sex moans and grunts. People who wanted silence should’ve paid more for better soundproofed walls. Used to it, Reese ignored the noise and made his way down the stairs and out through the security doors of his apartment building.

The South Side of Chicago wasn’t exactly the best part of Chicago. Aside from a more affluent bubble around the University of Chicago, the South Side was dirty, smelly, and although there wasn’t as much crime as there once was, it didn’t stop Reese from being worried about being mugged. Certainly not the best place to live, but that’s what made it cheap, and Reese liked cheap. Or rather, he could afford cheap.

Reese didn’t always live in Chicago. Originally, he had lived in the New England area, so he was used to cold, but there was difference between cold and Chicago cold. It was the wind, really. Reese grimaced as the wind whipped between the buildings, biting through his coat and sweatshirt. Reese didn’t have a car, so he had to take the bus or L train to work every night. Luckily, he could usually time it so that he didn’t have to wait long. A white bus rounded the corner and stopped right in front of Reese. The door opened. Reese pulled his transit card from his wallet and swiped it across the checker before sitting down.

The people who lived in the South Side weren’t much better. For the most part, they kept to themselves and didn’t bother each other, but there was always a sort of quiet desperation on their face. It got worse at night. Reese saw two women resting against each other, obviously in a drunk stupor. Both of them looked pale and sickly. Across the aisle from them, Reese saw a ragged old man dressed in mismatching clothes who was watching them intently. The old man looked up at Reese and Reese turned away to look forward again. Aside from them and the driver, there wasn’t anyone else there.

—————————–

Anyway, so that’s it. A bit boring, I know. There’s not much happening in it just yet, but there will be soon, I think.

Over break, I downloaded a bunch of new music and the entire “Honey & Clover” and “Cowboy Bebop” anime series. I’m currently watching episode 4 of “Honey & Clover”, a series about a group of art college students in Japan and their interactions with each other. It also has a really cool opening live-action sequence that manipulates food to act like human parts or people. I’ve read that the story progresses really slowly, but for someone who doesn’t have anything in particular to do (like me), it’s the perfect series revolving around real, human interactions. I quite like it. “Cowboy Bebop” is more well known, but I’ve never actually seen it, so I thought that since I’m still on break, it’d be nice to watch. Both series are only about 25-26 episodes long, and each episode is less than a half hour, so I can watch 2 or 3 episodes a day, and I’d probably be able to finish both by the end of break.

Incidentally, break ends for me on January 10th, which is the day I go back. I don’t know if I’m looking forward to going back. It’s quite nice to not have to do anything. It’s a feeling of… relaxation. I haven’t felt it for quite some time.

Anyway, I’m hoping to get a job during spring break. When I do, the first vaguely expensive thing I want to buy is either a black peacoat OR a pocket watch. Neither of those two are particularly practical, but I really want a pocket watch for some reason. Here are some of the ones I want.

http://www.steampunkattire.com/Steampunk-Jewelry-Watches/Steampunk-Watches

It seems like a decent pocket watch will run me about $40 to $60, plus shipment. I’ve seen some that are cheaper at around $20 to $30, but I couldn’t find anything that I like in that price range.

I also have a rather strange wish to have a regular flip phone like this:

I have an iPhone and I like how it can do a bunch of stuff, but for some reason I think I’d rather have a flip phone. I’m not really sure of the source of this wish, but oh well.

Anyway, that’s about it. There’s not much I have to say at the moment… haha… this post is a bit long.

Ending to Adam’s Story

I posted the beginning of one of my earlier stories from high school sometime last week, I think. I said that I wanted to post the ending too, so I typed it up in about an hour, and here it is. It’s not perfect, and it’s definitely a bit confusing but…

I think that if you read the beginning, you might understand the ending a little bit better. Have fun though!

——————————————————————————————————–

It was here somewhere. He knew it. He could feel the warmth.

Adam was sure of it. He couldn’t have come all this way for it not to be here. Where was it? He was sure of it. It had to be here. Otherwise, what did he come here for? What did they make all those sacrifices for?

He could hear the noise. They were coming for him. He was certain of it. They were coming for him. He had to find it before they got here. He couldn’t imagine what they would do with it.

Adam’s hands moved frantically along the rock wall. Where was the door?

There was flickering lights behind him. Adam ran further on down the hall. Maybe it was down here. He couldn’t be sure, but they were closing in and he was not about to be fail. Not again. Not when he was so close to God. He just had to find the door.

The clash of swords, the howl of magic, and the dirge of death played in his ears like a macabre symphony. He whispered a muttered prayer for Bryony and the others. He could hope that they would live through this day. Soon, soon it would be all over. He will find the door, and he will find God.

His hands slipped through a crack. His heart jumped. Was this it? The Oracle said that the Door would be here in the Hall. He could feel the heat in his chest. Adam plunged one hand into his bag and quickly drew out the Key. He fumbled with the chain and the key slipped through his fingers. Adam cursed loudly and dove down, his fingers scrabbling all over the floor for the key.

“Adam!”

Adam jerked his head up. It was Bryony. “Adam! They’re coming for you! I’m sorry! I’m so sor—”

The voice was cut down. All that followed was a short scream. Tears fell down from Adam’s face to mix with the dust of the Hall floor. Adam kept searching. He could hear the sound of heavy boots on the rock floor. He could feel the vibration in the ground.

He got it! His fingers clamped down on the key. Adam brought it up to the door, and slipped the key in. It turned with a quiet click.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, two tiny white lights traced their way down to the ground from the hall’s ceiling. There was a grinding noise as centuries-old machines turned for the first time. The wall seemed to melt away. White light peeked through, growing in brightness as the stone disintegrated. The warmth grew and grew as light broke through the wall. And then, Adam could see nothing else. He moved forward, and as he did, the heat inside him intensified until it burned like dragon’s fire.

Adam crossed the threshold. The light and the fire consumed him, and then—

—————————————–

I could hear the sounds of birds of chirping. It must be morning then. The sun would be rising. A light breeze would be blowing through the empty of the trees. Golden-brown leaves would be scattered all over the ground, blanketing the green grass beneath. Mist would be rising from the ground, giving everything a ghostly, ethereal sort of feel to it. Dew sprinkled on the grass would dance like brilliant diamonds in the morning sun. Morning really was my favorite part of the day. There was a certain magic to it, I think.

I smiled from the beauty of it. It was the biggest, widest smile that I’ve had it a long time. Tears ran down my face in twin streaks.

I was free. And life was good. Life was good.

———————————

The guard tottered on behind his cart on his morning rounds. He didn’t like doing rounds. Or, rather, it would be more accurate to say that he didn’t like his job. It was quite depressing, really.

The guard looked up at the door, and read the name, “Lambert, Robert”. He squatted down to get Bob’s tray and slipped it through the little flap at the bottom of the door before moving on to the next door.

“Monroe, Adam,” he muttered to himself. He frowned. He thought that Mr. Monroe wouldn’t be here for another day. Maybe something went wrong and he had to be moved in early. The guard shrugged and pushed the shutter on Mr. Monroe’s door aside to look in.

“Mr. Monroe,” he said inquiringly.

Monroe was in bed, staring up at the ceiling with a strange look on his face. It took the guard a while to realize that he was grinning a weird, unnatural grin. It looked like he was crying or something. The guard shook his head and closed the flap with a clack. He shoved a tray through the flap at the bottom of the door and moved on to the next patient.

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There you go! There’s probably problems with it, but whatever.

Vampire Story?

You know, after watching most of the first season of “Angel” again, I was reminded by how much I loved vampire fiction before Stephanie Meyer had to come and fuck it all up with her “sparkly vampire” bullshit. I remembered just how BADASS vampires could be in the pre-Edward Cullen era. Plus, with the eternally long-life and everything, it would be the ultimate study in existentialism. Seeing as how vampires have such a long life and yet no inherent purpose, I thought it would be interesting to see what they would when they have so much time and nothing that they really need to do (except drink blood, of course).

I’m wondering how much I ought to deal with morality in the story. Seeing as how that particular topic has been done to death in a variety of forms (i.e. “Angel”), I don’t think I really need to.

Anyway, I think it would be fun. I like the “Angel” series and I like the “Dresden Files” series. I’m less fond of the Anne Rice novels and I absolutely despise the Twilight series, if you can really call it vampire fiction.

You see, vampires aren’t central to the story… you could pretty much have substituted vampires with pretty-boy sparkling elves and elf girls and it would’ve been pretty much the same. There was no bloody violence to scare away the young teenage girls. But whatever. Hopefully it doesn’t live for very long…

Story from a LONG Time Ago

I had an excellent idea for a story, and I have the ending for it written as well. Basically, it’s about a writer who, through elaborate (and completely unscientific) audio and visual schizophrenia-induced hallucination, has become trapped in his own stories with his own creations. During the course of the story, he tries to find God, or the approximation of God. This opening bit has remained largely untouched since I wrote it… maybe a year and a half ago? It was definitely during high school… anyway, it should give you a taste of what my writing style had been back then… and how much better I think it was back then before I stopped writing for a long period of time… hahaha…

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Friday, March 21

The room spun.

“Adam.”

I stared forward. I did not turn.

“Adam.”

I watched the judge collected his papers. He did not look at me. I looked at the jury sitting at the bench. They did not look at me either.

“Adam!”

The voice was more insistent now. “What,” I said, more statement than question.

“Are you ready, Adam?”

“Ready for what?”

“The press. They’re waiting for you outside.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

“Then stand up. Let’s go.”

I stood. The room was smudged now, like a gigantic hand in the sky somehow blurred the lines of a drawing. The noises faded. I smiled and looked at my hands. I, at least, remained untouched.

The room shifted. A hand gently took my arm. The door rushed up to me. “Are you ready?” the voice said.

“What?”

“Are you ready?” the voice repeated.

The lines solidified. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

The noises rushed back.

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

The door burst open. Lights flashed, TV cameras turned, microphones were thrust to my face, and a cacophony of questions exploded forth.

“Adam Monroe, what are you plans now that the court—”

“—has given Adam a sentence of five years in prison, in addition to—”

“—what are your plans for your next book, now that you—”

“—best-selling author Adam Monroe was sentenced to five years in—”

“—do you plan to appeal—”

“—five years in prison on charges of—”

“—manslaughter—”

“—manslaughter—”

“—vehicular manslaughter—”

“—on charges of manslaughter. Mr. Monroe’s lawyers were able to lower his sentence—”

“—from fifteen years to five with a chance for probation—”

The hand at my arm moved to my back and pushed me past the microphone-wielding reporters towards the idling car. The lines blurred again. The noise deepened and slowed. The colours melted together.

There was a short girl with light brown hair. She stood on the street corner, wearing a white dress, white shoes, and white gloves. Too much white. She needed more colour. She waved at me.

“Adam?”

The girl turned and rounded the corner, disappearing. “What?”

“Why did you stop?”

“What?”

“Get in the car, Adam.”

I got in the car.

The prison cell was quiet. The walls were painted a stark white and bereft of decorations. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. There was a desk, a chair, and a small lamp in the corner. Light and fresh air streamed in from the open window.

I suppose celebrity has its benefits.

My lawyers told me that I wasn’t going to be sent to a maximum-security prison. I would have my own shower, bathroom, and meals. Apparently, they were taking the Martha Stewart-route in giving me a fairly decent place to stay.

Still, a prison’s a prison. I didn’t like the walls.

I laid myself back onto the bed and closed my eyes.

“Hi!”

I didn’t open my eyes.

“You’re Adam Monroe? I love your books!”

A bright-looking girl looked at me across the table with adoring eyes, hugging a book to her chest. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

“Thanks, I get that a lot,” I said, grinning.

“I just bought your latest book,” she said. “The Last Descent? I got the last copy from the bookstore and it made me soooo happy!”

I smiled and picked up my pen. “So, what’s your name?”

“Holly. Holly Reynolds.” She thrust the book she was holding towards me.

“Alright-y then.” I took the book from her, scribbled my name across it, and drew a tiny cat on it. After some consideration, I also added a smiley face.

“Here you go Holly,” I said.

She grinned. “Thanks, Mr. Monroe! I hope you keep writing.”

I smiled and said, “I will. Just for you, Holly.”

She blushed and turned to walk away.

“Have a good day,” I called after her.

Those who are dead are not dead, they’re just living in my head… Oooooh…

That should be a song or something. I’m sure I heard that somewhere.

————————————————————————————————-

Actually, I just added those last two lines when I got to the end. I’m not sure how this will go.

The main issue I’ve found with my writing is that I have a great ending/denouement; the problem is getting there. But really, there’s only so much I can do besides practice writing before I can get there. Maybe I should try writing a screenplay or something… I’ve heard that any competent screenwriter should be able to churn out a random script on command. Maybe I can do that with a zombie film or something… I think I’ll try to do that.

But, knowing how many times I’ve promised to finish a project here, it’ll just get scrapped or be left unfinished… haha…

A New Story/Project?

I had an idea.

What if a person was given three wishes? What if that person was like… this guy:

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“My name is Edward Whittaker. I am 29 and I live in a tiny apartment with two roommates and three cats. I graduated from Fordham in 2003, but I’m currently working as a taxi driver in New York.”

There was a very, very awkward silence. Usually, the point of speed dating was for two people to take for about five minutes or so. It’s not meant to be one-sided.

The girl sitting across from Edward didn’t look up from her cell phone. She frowned slightly and said, “I’m sorry, what?”

Edward cleared his throat nervously. “I said my name is Edward.”

“Right.” The girl continued texting.

Edward fidgeted a bit. “What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t say anything for a while. “Liz,” she said finally.

Edward nodded. “Alright Liz, what do you do for a living?”

The girl’s face twisted into a disgusted look. “Hold on, I have to make a call.”

She got up, clicked something on her phone, and held it to her ear. “You have got to be kidding me,” Edward muttered to himself.

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The story turns into a bit of a black comedy. I had originally wanted to name the character Edward Cullen and have him be a 40-year-old, balding, overweight taxi driver in New York as a bit of a huge “FUCK YOU” to “Twilight”, but I decided against it because it went against the feel of the story.

Sad and Depressing Story PART 2

This is a continuation of the story from my last post. Basically, it’s what I’ve written in the past 1 and a half… or so. I guess.

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Usually, it was just me and Lily for dinner. Our mom was usually gone because of her work for a fashion magazine and our dad was usually working late in research late. Lily and I would usually order out for Chinese because it made it feel like we were still kind of Asian. Sort of. Asian-American, at least. Most of our second-generation Asian-American friends were jealous of the fact that our parents were largely absent from our teenage lives, freeing us to the allures of alcohol, drugs, pre-marital sex, and substandard (at least, supposedly substandard for Asians) grades. Honestly, it didn’t really feel that much different to us because this was the way it had always been.

We ate in relative silence with the TV running in the background. Lily kept looking up like she wanted to say something. I refused to pay her any attention. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“What?” I said, feigning confusion.

“About Evy.” She picked around her food with her chopsticks. “I know you’ve liked her for a long time and that it must be hard to move on from that.”

“Mmm.” I shoved in a noodle in my mouth. It tasted deliciously greasy and MSG-y.

“I still think that you should give up on her though.”

“Mmm.”

A couple seconds passed. The garage door opened up with a loud rumble. Lily looked up to see Dad walk in. Dad sighed with relief. “Chinese again?”

Lily nodded. “That’s not healthy,” Dad said, grimacing, but he accepted the carton of processed noodles, limp vegetables, and questionable meat.

Lily shrugged. “You can cook something else if you don’t like it,” she sniffed.

Dad stuck a pair of chopsticks into his food and sat down at the kitchen computer to look at the state of the stock market. He began to eat, and then turned around as if he had suddenly remembered something. “Tyler, did you submit your early applications in yet?” he asked.

Crap. “Uh, yeah, I’ll get on that,” I said.

“Hurry up!” Dad said sternly. “You only have a week left to go. What are you waiting for? You should do everything as soon as possible.”

I waved my chopsticks impatiently. “I’m just editing the essays,” I said. It was a total lie, but whatever.

Dad made a disbelieving noise, but he turned back to the computer. “I don’t care, it’s your future,” he grumbled.

I rolled my eyes and kept eating.

——————————————-

I was laying in bed listening to Coldplay over my computer speakers. If I ever made a movie of my life, I’d have Coldplay in the soundtrack. I couldn’t go to sleep without music. I didn’t like waking up to silence.

So. Tomorrow. I’d have to go back to school tomorrow. It’s not like my dad would let me stay home for something as trivial as being rejected by a girl. A pretty girl. A girl I liked. Nope, there was absolutely no chance of that.

I sighed and went to sleep.

A New, Somewhat More Depressing Story

Okay, so basically, I’ve had the idea of writing a high school drama/romance novel for quite a while now, that is, if romance can be translated into complete and total FAILURE, which it totally can! Although failure is a cold, hard mistress who doesn’t put out… At least she doesn’t have STDs. ^_^

Anyway, it’s partially inspired by what happened in my last year of high school, in feeling, atmosphere, and spirit if not in factual events and whatnot. Names have been changed to protect my person. Fun fun fun…

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It was quiet. The clock tick-tick-ticked. A drop of water fell from the spout and spattered in the sink with a heavy plop. A group of teenagers walked past the closed double doors of the empty orchestra room, happy in the knowledge that they were past yet another boring day. The buses outside the school rumbled. Light rain fell outside. Like I said, it was quiet.

It was dark too. The lights were off. There were no after-school clubs  in this room, and it’s not like any of the orchestra members were going to come back to get their instruments. What were they going to do, practice? Preposterous.

Evelyn finally looked up. The weak afternoon sunshine caught in her hair, brightening the light brown to a dark reddish color. It shone in her eyes too. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I really am, Tyler.”

Ah. Well. This isn’t going well. I opened my mouth to speak, and then closed it, realizing that there wasn’t much else to say. I nodded. I tried to arrange my face into a neutral expression, but it’s not like disappointment and utter failure isn’t going to show. I settled for looking up at the ceiling.

A couple seconds passed. “I should go,” Evelyn said.

“Oh that’s right, you have practice,” I said, eagerly biting on this new conversational direction. I moved aside.

She walked past me, opened the door, and then looked back. “We’re still friends, right?” she said.

I looked at her and forced of a smile. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”

Evelyn nodded. “Bye Tyler.”

I waved weakly. “Bye.”

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“So you finally told her?” My older sister, Lily, paced back and forth before me.

“That’s kind of what I said, isn’t it?” I flopped down on the sofa, a Pepsi in one hand and the TV remote in the other. “And can you get out of the way? I’m trying to watch Scrubs.”

“And she said no…” Lily said this slowly, as if trying to comprehend her own words.

“No, she said yes, and we’re having a baby in nine months,” I said.

“You see, this is why I’ve always told you to use condoms,” Lily said absent-mindedly. To her, repartee was instinctive. She looked down at me. “She definitely said no? Like, it wasn’t an ‘I’ll thinking about it’?”

“She was quite clear on the topic,” I said, craning my neck to see around my sister. I popped the tab on my drink. Lily heard the sound of the can being open, promptly stole it from me before I got take a sip, and then plopped down next to me.

“Oi, gimme that back,” I said.

Lily looked at the drink, then looked at me, and then took a huge gulp from the Pepsi before getting up, presumably to get her own. I swilled the drink a little bit. It felt like she drank half the can already.

“I say you give up on her,” Lily called from the kitchen. I heard her pop her can open. “There’s not much you can do about now, is there? You’ve been hung up on this one girl for, what, two years?”

It was four, but I wasn’t about to tell her. Lily returned from the fridge with a cold (full) Pepsi. “That’s a bit long for a crush, isn’t it?” She drank loudly. “I’d even go so far as to say ‘stalker-ishly long’.”

“Well it’s good to know that my sister supports me so much.” I flipped the channel to Spongebob. Scrubs was being evil and depressing when I wanted lighthearted JT and Turk shenanigans, not depressing patient-dying stuff. Spongebob was nicer. He was always getting into shenanigans.

Zombie Short

I spent a couple hours last night writing random stuff, and this is the beginning of a zombie short story.

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“Pete! Wake up!”

My eyes snapped open. “Wuh?” I said into the darkness.

I felt strong arms dragging me out of bed. “Come on, we’ve got to go!”

Panic gripped me as I felt a sudden emptiness under me. I fell to the ground and landed hard on a beanbag chair with a hard whuff. “ARGH!” I yelled. “For fuck’s sake, that hurt!”

I felt myself being dragged up off the ground. The light flicked on and I was temporarily blinded. I recognized my roommate, Steven, running around the room, an aluminum bat in one hand and backpack in the other. “Get your shoes on,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Like, now. They’ve broken through the barricade.”

I stood there and looked at him dumbly. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Get your shoes on!”

I tossed his bat at me and it hit my shin. The pain jolted me back to life. I stooped down under the bed, grabbed a messenger bag that I had already filled with anything I needed, and I fumbled with the laces on my sneakers. Now armed with a headless lacrosse stick, Steven waited impatiently by the door. “Okay, I’m good,” I said as I threw the messenger bag’s strap over my shoulder.

Steven nodded, opened the door, and thrust his head out. He looked quickly to both sides before motioning for me to follow him. The hall was in a flurry of activity. There were a couple people going from room to room waking up their occupants. I could saw one person being carried bodily out of her bed, screaming. I looked away. As we walked quickly down the hall, he said, “They broke the barricades on the first floor, but we managed to throw a couple shelves down the stairs. That seems to be holding them for now.”

I jumped at the sound of a sudden crash. “Shit,” Steven said under his breath. We quickened our pace until we had reached the end of the hall. The door to the end room was open and a rope ladder in the open window led outside to the night air. The light in the room was off, probably to hide our escape. There was a loud boom back in the hall. Steven glanced nervously back into the hall. He shouldered his backpack and gingerly lowered himself down the ladder. I watched Steven through the window and began my way down as well when he was halfway there. “Are we just going to leave the others?” I whispered.

“We’re meeting up at the third floor in the main library,” Steven whispered back. “It’s just across the street, so it’s pretty close, and I think it’s still safe.”

I looked back up at the window. “Alright, let’s go.”

Steven nodded. He motioned for me to follow him around the corner of the building and into the bushes in front of the dorm. As we made our way through the cover of the front bushes, I realized just how dark the campus was. The lights that were usually on in main library were off. The streetlamps were still powered, so at least the grid was still active, but they seemed weaker than usual, although that could’ve just been me. Several cars were being used as barricades on the right end of the street outside our dorm, but it looked like one of them had been shoved away. I guess that’s where the zombies forced their way in. In the dim light, I could see shambling figures bent over a couple fallen bodies in the street. It looks like some people hadn’t gotten under cover in time.

“Aren’t they going to see us?” I eyed the zombies. I could’ve sworn that I saw one of them rise its head.

“No, I’m pretty sure they’re too busy eating,” Steven said back. “If we’re fast, we shouldn’t have any problems.”

He looked up and down the street. “Ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

Steven rose and began sprinting across the street. In unison, the zombies raised their heads to track the moving figure. “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, but the zombies’ attention didn’t stop me from following Steven.

“Go, go, go,” I hissed as a passed him. “ ‘Too busy eating’ my ass!”

Steven threw one look over his shoulders. The zombies were now following us. The only saving grace was that they weren’t that fast and the library wasn’t that far anyway. We could see the broken windows of the main library that people had thrown rocks at to get to shelter. Steven slowed to a walk and looked for a window with fewer glass shards before walking in. I was less fortunate and cut my leg on a jutting piece of glass. I hissed in pain, looked down, and saw that my left leg was cut. I clamped a hand over it as a followed Steven further into the library.

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DUN DUN DUHNNNNN…

A Modern Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

This started out as a story about vampires, but I think it’s turned into something more like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This, obviously, is the Mr. Hyde part. It’s quite disturbing. I wouldn’t recommend that you read it.

Btw, I’M NOT CRAZY. ^_^

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We embark now, dear Reader, on a Journey. A Journey into the diseased world we live in. Observed, by the ever impartial Observer, ME!

Dear Reader, you ask, who am I? I am me, me I am, me am I.  Am I me? I am not sure. Are you sure? Are you you?

Oh well. Idle questions. I don’t care. Not about you at least.

Shall we turn our attention to the night it all started? Perhaps. Perhaps we should.

It ‘twas the night before… ah, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? All through the house, no one was alive, not even a mouse. Why? BECAUSE I HAD KILLED THEM! BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Humorous, is it not? I think so at least. Anyway, their entrails were laying in the sink with no care, in hopes that the police would find them there. The children were huddled up in their beds, while blood and splattered brain matter danc’d upon their heads. And Mama in her ugly crap, and I with my ax, had just settled our bodies for a necrophiliac nap. When out on the front lawn arose such a clatter, and I sprang from the rug to see what was the matter.

Fuck it, I don’t feel like rhyming anymore. The cops had come. Guests? Oh I love guests. I suppose I should give them a gift. A gift? A gift! I love presents! Yay presents! But what to give? I snapped my fingers. I have the perfect gift.

I picked up a head of one of the children, hefted it, and threw it through the window. Glass spilled down with a beautiful tinkling sound. I love that sound. Not nearly as much as I love screams, but it’s a close second.

One of the cops screamed. Oh how I love terror! Excitement was in the air! Blood was in their hair! What wonder! What splendor! I picked up another head, peeked outside the window, took aim, and let fly the head. Off with their heads, I say! Off with them! I watched it sail through the air. The face of the head flashed through my eyes. It spoke volumes, absolute volumes, of endless terror! TERROR! I DEMAND TERROR!

INVECTIVES FLEW THROUGH THE AIR! The cops swore. The cops cried. The cops screamed. WHAT WONDER! I MUST HAVE MORE OF IT! I AM A COMPOSER, AND THEIR HORROR IS MY MUSIC. I SHALL COMPOSE A SYMPHONY GREATER THAN ANY THE WORLD HAS EVER HEARD!

I jumped out of the window and onto the lawn, landing on my feet lighter than a fawn. The cops raised their guns. I shout no! I do not like their boomsticks. Their sticks go boom boom and my heads go ouch ouch. It’s not nice. Not nice I say! Birds of pain struck me. I do not appreciate your chickenshit! WARGH! I leap forward. My hand slices straight through corpulent belly, mixing my flesh with his flesh into a wonderful strain of awful. I wriggle it around. He cries out in pain. I revel in his pain. I pick him up and send him flying the air. He lands with a crunch. Cap’n Crunch! Crunch-itize me Cap’n! The other cops start to run away. Oh no, I can’t have that, can I? I capture one of the retreating ducklings. She is pretty. And young. I like that. I find them to be delectable. The fat one before had too much fat. Too fattening. Not good for my digestion. This one is LEAN MEAT! Like turkey.

She cries. I bare her neck. I lean down. I bite. I feel her screams on my teeth. IT’S AMAZING! THE SENSATION IS BETTER THAN ANY IN ALL THE WORLD! Her blood flows, it squirts, stains my front, stains my mouth, and I LOVE IT! I CAN’T HAVE ENOUGH OF IT! I feel her energy! I feel her, I feel it, and IT FEELS WONDERFUL! I drain her. She is EMPTY. I OWN HER. SHE IS MINE, SHE IS ME, AND I AM HER. SHE IS NOTHING, VOID. LIKE ME! NOTHING BUT AN EMPTY SHELL, A HUSK, A SKINBAG. AHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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HA! This dude would totally kick your shiny-ass vampires. Still disturbing though.