Hi. My name is Moura Johnson. If you’re reading this, then you already know about the apocalypse. You already know about the hundreds, thousands, maybe millions, of diseased zombies wandering the streets. Some call them Worms. Some say Stitchers. Some people call them by their scientific name, Movere Relatorium. Me, I call them Weavers.

It could be anyone. That’s all you need to know if you want to survive.

And most of you know all this. But what you don’t know is this story. The story of the Cutters.

Hi everyone! I’ve been working on a story centered around Moura and the apocalypse for a while now. I’ve just published the last chapter on Wattpad, so if you like what you just read above, check it out on my profile, WhiteWolfe3. I’ve published several works, some finished, some not. But if you want to read Weavers, I’ve posted a link to the first chapter here:

https://www.wattpad.com/847789909

Thanks for reading! Everyone have a great day!

Rakish man smiles

mercedes moon

spinning wheels

silvery waves

eyes dark

devious ebony skies

spirited lover

hovering in clouds.

Misted drapery opens

music plays

glistening petals drop

mouth of new moon

dancing in shadows

eyes on her.

Man paints moon onyx

with raspberry stars,

waltzing white swans

beckoning

in whispered secrets

magic potions.

White wine poured

cream crescent moon

he touches deep skin

with yearning light

opulence where

enchantment lies.

Kissing ocean’s reflection

entwining with sea

passionate alliance

with sun-glassed sun

moon holds sun

in egg cup of morning

spinning, spinning, spinning

We thought of creating

A world, together..

With my violets

And your blues.

Nothing’s left of us,

Just a shattered constellation,

Blinking pain,

Useless tattoos.

To build with you,

I broke myself.

I’ll pick up the stars now,

And go back.

I'll start from the nebula,

Not from the black hole.

Joseph curled up on the damp sidewalk, shielding his head with his arms to avoid the bombs raining down on him. “It hurts my head! The noise is going to crack my head in two pieces. My arm is gone! I can’t find my buddy! Oh there he is, what is left of him, shattered into pieces! It is my fault! I should have saved him.”

“You didn’t help your friend,” the voice said. “You can’t be forgiven. I am watching you. Listen to what I say. Everyone is against you and you will be punished. Drown your pain. Have a drink and take drugs until you have no feelings at all. It will feel a lot better - I promise.”

“Am I still there?” the homeless man pleads. “Am I still in Iraq? Is this all in my mind? I want to be left alone to wallow in my sorrow. I have no money and have no one to help me.” He was having a temporary lucid moment but soon would be back in the land of paranoia and schizophrenia.

Joseph was thirty years old and had spent the better part of the last six years on the mean streets of New York. He agonized, not realizing that he was suffering from mental illness. Sleeping on little pieces of cardboard and urinating on the sidewalks was a hellish practicality. He was terrified to seek out a homeless shelter seeking the freedom of no walls. He was also terrified of the people that frequented these places. With the flip of his imagination, they could become marauding soldiers out to kill him.

Joseph picked one of the festering scabs on his leg and imagined he saw little maggots sawing on his body. His hair was filthy and crawling with lice. The movement of these creatures drove him to distraction as he remembered the moldy, vermin laden food which he was forced to eat when his supplies ran out. He was positive that they still were eating through his insides.

The psychiatric facility that he had checked into once medicated him so thoroughly that he was in a drug induced haze. He felt he had lost himself for four days before he left the shelter, full of mistrust and fear that he was becoming nothing at all.

When it was cold, Joseph rode the subways or slept over warm grates. Sometimes he found shelter in the train and bus stations until he was rousted from his sleeping place. He was shivering and lonely and all alone. When his disability check stretched far enough, he drugged and drank himself silly, causing his cognitive abilities to become impaired. Under the influence, he became vulnerable on the streets to predators who stole what little possessions he had. He was not aware that he had post traumatic stress syndrome and also a brain injury, contributing to serious mental illness and substance abuse problems.

Desolation rolled in on threatening waves, adding to the drug use which threatened to obliterate him. He felt abjectly hopeless and alone. Oblivious to anyone else in his periphery, Joseph lined up his bags of clothing and items he had picked up on the street and laid his head on the dirty objects. “I’m not homeless. I’m waiting for my friend to wake up. He’s not really dead. He’s somewhere else and I will find him.”

It’s sad to say, but Joseph was one of the forgotten ones. His untreated condition was debilitating without the right medication and counseling. He was angry but didn’t realize the cause for his fury. He rationalized that his identification had been stolen by federal agents and that they were watching his every move. Tragically, he was beginning to feel a sense of satisfaction as he moved daily around the city, trying to avoid the stares of strangers.

Joseph had been so mentally beaten down that he could trust no one. Any encounters he had had with his family or former friends had been critical, judgmental and humiliating. He began to avoid intimate relationships and couldn’t establish a rapport with anyone in order to obtain the psychological help he needed. The trauma he had encountered had encouraged his homelessness which removed his ability to cope.

In spite of his hardships, Joseph remained remarkably resilient and even creative as he developed survival skills so he could function in a reduced capacity in his little world. Although he was ignored, he continued to attempt to express himself and shared his unorthodox views aggressively and assertively to all passersby who did their best to avoid him.

“If I don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist,” people told themselves. “He’s crazy and dirty and doesn’t belong in my universe.”

Since Joseph realized that they all thought he was insane, he acted even more irrational for dramatic effect. He would make snatching motions at their clothing, frightening them even more. Once in a while, a stranger would throw a few coins over his shoulder, without glancing in his direction.

Joseph’s psychological wounds were so deep that tears would roll down his cheeks in dirty little lines. He knew his actions were perceived to be strange and he heard voices that were not obvious to others. He felt someone was trying to harm him so kept his countenance angry and cross in order to frighten his ghosts away. His hands shook as he wiped the drool from his mouth. He felt rejected and mocked by others.

After all the flags, bands and parades, where is the Veterans Administration?

Will no one help this throwaway soldier? Is Joseph destined to remain a forgotten statistic?

I walk on stones

Like a madman.

A heartless song,

An empty can.

Measured mirth’s

Happy death

By the road

Pollutes my breath.

And someone picks up

The shredded rose,

I didn’t win.

But did I lose?

Desert roads,

Shadows long.

Where did I

Lose the song?

It was a flood,

But didn’t rain.

How do I own

My scars again?

And someone picks up

The shredded rose,

I didn’t win.

But did I lose?

Whet thy whistle and cherish

life is like soft peaks

swinging from frayed ropes

dangling from hot tin roofs

tapping wild bare feet

Whet thy whistle and savor

horses trotting on old brick roads

black eyed sunflowers bending

spirits hiding in gray mist

rushing wind on blushed ears

Whet thy whistle and witness

feverish tracks of strewn rocks

fingers rustling on silken grass

fingernail moons and froggy leaps

sun dances in waving winds

Whet thy whistle and listen

warm breeze piping

wetness whispers of wind

waving palms mid azure skies

thousand of tales murmuring

WANDER AT THE EDGE OF LIFE WITH EARTH AT YOUR FEET

Doctor became patient & vice versa

One engineer was going to an ENT specialist for hair fall treatment once in 2 months. Once in the course of speaking,

Doctor: The hair grows by 0.2 mm/day.

Patient: 0.1mm

Doctor got frightened, but without showing that,

“Doctor is me or you?”

Patient: It’s you only, I don’t deny. Just because you are MBBS & MD should I agree if you tell that donkey has 8 legs? Then if I tell the same thing to others, they will take me to the mental hospital. Is it not?

Doctor got frightened and changed the topic.

Engineer: On your hand some white patch is there. Shall I suggest some green medicine to you?

Yes.

************************

While passing by a river I saw the shallow portion and went to the river and drank some water and was coming back. The crow sitting on the tree screamed.

I am the watchman & watching the river for so long and how you took water without my permission? Now, pay me double. The river is mine.

For air which I am breathing also should I pay?

Yes

********************

Their filthy begging eyes... Begging for mercy.

Damn it! They don’t have the right to live. Rapists don’t have the right to live.

I’ve learnt it the hard way... And harder still when I stand in front of this witness box.. A lawyer engaged to fight for the victim. A rape victim, to be particular.

How the hell do these rapists petition for bail?? Looking up through fringed hair or maybe crew cut.. The beasts want MERCY. And I’m not going to give them that.

The fucking rapist sniffs, nods a little and softly cooes out- “I’m sorry.” "Your Highness," I interject.

-There is no question of a 'sorry' when the rape and torture and murder of a two year old girl is considered. Infant.. I emphasize.

...

The orders come out shortly.

There is no place for mercy... The order read.

...

Beg as much as you want.

Mercy? You won't get.

It snapped into two.

Right in front of you.

You didn’t care.

You didn’t hear.

It was silenced..

By the silence

Of your

Endless arguments.

Yet when it weeps

Blood red tears.

Did you ever see

The overflowing fears?

Without a bandage

Without nursing

It is enduring

Endless cursing.

When you said,“No”,

It was a very big “NO”.

I just said a

..A very small,” Oh!” .

When you helped yourself

With my closed up mind..

When you told me every minute

“FIGHT AND FIGHT”.

Against the tides

And against the storm.

I’ve fought every time

And lost... And came home.

Your non- chalantness

At my frequent mood swings

Your unrealistic wishes

On my ‘real’ fragile wings.

Your words were a slap

To my actions all the time.

Piercing through my heart

Your words weren’t sublime.

Tearing the flesh,

And scalding my veins,

Burning my arteries,

Your word always reigns.

This is what breaks me..

And breaks my heart.

When you stare at me,

And shout,“START ”.

This is not ‘Me’

I am not ‘Me’

For I’m being someone

What you thought me to be.

This is what breaks me..

And breaks my heart..

When every night

YOU DEEPEN THE CUT.