The Start of Something
I'm not sure what kind of story this excerpt could be the start of, but I think there's something there...wrote it on a whim and putting it out into the universe as I think of where to go with it next.
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Paige McCrea did not need saving. Not by boys or from her parents or anyone else. She had learned early on that if anyone was going to do the saving, she would do it herself.
**
On a winter’s day when Paige McCrea was seven years old, she eagerly made her way to the front entrance of school after yet another tedious day at as first grader at Thomas Culpepper Elementary. When she reached those familiar glass doors, she noticed a large group of classmates gathered around Ms. Shivone, the school's librarian whose resemblance to Ursula the sea witch - in both appearance and manner - was simply uncanny as far as Paige was concerned. She could not understand why anyone would want to be close to that woman, let alone her fellow children!
Why spend the first precious minutes away from the confines of the school day to keep talking to a teacher? And such a cruel one at that? If there was one thing that Paige McCrea loved, it was the first moment after the last bell when she knew freedom was just around the corner and came, quite literally, in the shape of a yellow school bus. I dare you to find a happier child than one Paige McCrea, comfortably collapsed into the first cracked leather seat of the number 5 bus, knowing that in just a few short minutes, she would be home with her best friend and consummate companion, Mo (who also happened to be the family dog).
But alas, today a curious group of pint-sized brown-nosers both literally and figuratively stood between her and sweet escape. So, Paige McCrea contemplated her options.
She had already said “excuse me” multiple times, but as the tiniest child in the class, her voice had a way of getting lost in the space between her mouth and other people’s ears. She wondered if she should scream “help!” or “fire!” and make a break for it as the children scattered, but she calculated that such a commotion might cause the buses to be delayed in their departure, and that would defeat the purpose altogether.
Just as she began to feel the prickling sensation of tears forming at the edges of her eyes, she spotted it. Paige McCrea saw an opportunity to squeeze into a gap that had presented itself between the oafy John Lemon and his ghoulish sidekick Kyle Henry. Normally, she would not have willingly put herself in such close proximity to these playground menaces who most often smelled of what could best be described as a mix of peanut butter, sweat and pennies, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Paige McCrea saw her opening and took it.
She crouched and ran, tucking her head as she made her way beneath the bottoms of their backpacks and narrowly missed getting walloped by John’s metal soccer ball keychain. And that’s when she spied it. The beautiful shine of the slick black number five painted on familiar yellow metal. It called to her like the siren's song called to many a weary sea captain.
Paige McCrea raised her head and fist in celebration. “Yes!” she hissed, just three short seconds before her Keds gave way on a patch of black ice, and she fell to the sidewalk with a sickening thump.
The Creature Lies
I look forward, yet I cannot see. Although reflected, I am blind to reality. I stare into myself, a stranger; this face is not a passerby or someone I will ever meet on the street. A stranger, I think, yet I am intimately familiar with her without ever having truly met her. The creature of my existence who puppeteers this stranger hides inside us, hiding behind the mirror. I look unto her in admiration, but the beast whispers lies until she is warped and misshapen. I am filled with disgust and must avert my eyes, turning away from the stranger who has become impossibly foreign despite my laying eyes on her everyday.
“She is the beast,” it whispers. “She is a creature of misfortune and misery. You must get rid of her.” It clutches onto my very being and digs its claws into the essence of my existence, flooding the train with thoughts of despair and messages of hate.
As time passes, it becomes quiet. The creature is pleasant. It’s always been pleasant to most strangers, but it wasn’t to her even though she’s the stranger we’ve known since the start of time. I’ve come to convince it. Granted it took time, but as the silence billows about the train, the creature is calm. It sees something it doesn’t like but has learned to forgive the stranger; forgive her for the skin she was born into, forgive her for the bones that make up her physique. I offer a soft smile to the creature in appreciation.
The stranger is her own undoing and salvation synchronically, but she couldn’t have known over the sound of the beast’s writhing and whispering. I sit across from her as the sun rises behind us and stare into myself. I do not avert my eyes, but offer a sigh. She is a stranger I am intimately familiar with, and I find myself becoming more fond of her each time we sit together in silence. We can only look at each other in the same instance, but that is enough to find her eyes and tell her it is okay as the creature quietly agrees.
I seriously considered the day behind me.
I mean—seriously—did the shrimpy, obnoxiously red Kia Forte have to jump in my lane at the last possible second, forcing me to slaughter my new brakes and throttle coffee into my chest? It’s not as though he didn’t have time to get his caboose into the lane behind me. Footballs fields of glorious empty roads stretched behind my own tail-end, but apparently that wasn’t action-packed enough for Mr. Forte.
Then, as I calmed myself enough to walk into the office, my ultra-serious boss decided to hold an ultra-serious meeting. His deadpanned eyes met my grim ones, his stern line of a mouth said, “I want you to give the presentation today instead of Wednesday. The big boys are here. Be ready in twenty.”
My day got a whole lot more serious. I nodded dutifully, nervously, and gravely. The presentation in question, at the moment had no slides, only verbatim. Minus the very important conclusion.
Those next twenty minutes were spent writing and drawing on scraps of poster-board within my office. My computer, the usual mechanism for slide-creation, was due for repairs on Tuesday; today was Monday. It was a very serious situation, but resulted in a less than adequately serious presentation.
My boss’s countenance assumed an uncharacteristic vermillion, a seriously agitated quality. “Why are your slides on poster board? This isn’t the elementary school craft fair!”
My voice ceased and lips began twitching; control over my expression was relinquished. I thought of the Kia Forte, risking life and death for a thrill.
“Merida! This is a very serious presentation, this is unacceptable…”
My voice decided to revisit me just then. “With all due respect, sir, you are a very serious pain in the…”
Driving home, newly jobless, I approached an intersection, cut in front of a Sedan, then totaled my car.
As I considered these events more seriously, my decision seemed less appealing. Perhaps some things, such as cars and jobs, were serious for a reason…
AlisonAudrey
I just moved in with my boyfriend and we have this lovely rooftop patio I like to read and write on - and take the occasional selfie on.
We live in Silicon Valley. He’s a techie at a big company and I’m a writer. We live happily with our (my) corgi.
But this isn’t a biography. It’s a picture, of me. And I’m happy. Happy to be here in sunny ol’ California.
As unhappy as my writing is, I’d like to say that I’m this picture, I’m beaming.
Making memories
It was the night before my son’s graduation from college. His fraternity, the second oldest at the university, had invited the parents to their house for an evening of merriment and revelry. My husband, my mother and I all ventured into the lovely old house with a bit of trepidation. He had lived there for two and a half years. We knew what to expect inside.
I mean, the house was well over one hundred years old and had housed some 25 young men every year for at least 100 of them. A house in such disrepair, they were in the midst of raising money to do a massive renovation. (They were successful!) A house that had a party every Saturday and a thorough cleaning before house meetings every Wednesday. (I never understood that delay...)
And we were going to spend time in the basement. A basement on which one fraternity brother had done an experiment earlier that year. Taking a sample of basement sludge after a normal Saturday night, he brought it to his professor’s lab. Some two weeks later, the professor said don't tell me where you got that from, but it is hazardous.
A basement that smelled like Clorox with a hint of I am going to be ill.
I guess all of that was in my mind as we entered the house and walked down the rickety stairs. My mother stayed on the stairs (in her mind, a little fresh air could be felt there, ha, and she still had a perfect view of the main room.) There were several offshoots from the main, and every room had a ping pong table.
All of those thoughts evaporated when I was persuaded to play ping pong.Or, rather, beer pong.
For the first time in my life.
It was a tournament: mother and son against mother and son. My son was the reining champion in the house. I, as I mentioned, had never played.
I got a crash course and the rules were slightly modified: I was allowed to not drink the beer on a missed shot (not a fan) and the boys were allowed to make us mothers feel better by not drinking the beer in the cups in which balls that had bounced on the wet floor were hit. (Vomit.) They kept cups on the side for the drinking. Lol.
Something you should know about me: I laugh a lot. Loudly. Also, when it comes to sports, I can be very competitive. And, when I play (or watch) sports, I scream alot. :-)
By the end of our match, all the players from other rooms had stopped their games to watch ours.
This picture was taken by another parent. An amateur photographer, that night, he took some of the best action shots I’ve ever seen. This is my favorite.
As you may be able to tell from my expression, my son and I won. And then he and my husband went on to also win in the dad/son tournament. And my husband and I both had the same winning shot. :-)
If I were to guess, I would say my thoughts then were very similar to the ones evoked every time I look at the picture: I have never had so much fun.
Things That I might Say
Damn It, Jim! I'm a Doctor, not a physicist!
Okie Dokie.
Whatever floats your boat.
Oh, snap!
Whatever is clever.
Do you think penguins taste like chicken or fish?
Hey, slut bag!
I love your face!
Oh my god! This character in my book just said “insert quote”
Tomatoes are an abomination!
I just want to cry.... and go to sleep.
Can I quit my job yet?
....yeah.....
Spark
I felt the cylinder slide into my hands. Hard, cold, dense. It was small, too small, but I’d have to make do. I paid good money for this.
“That’ll be six double-A’s,” says the hooded man.
I fork over the batteries. The last of my stash. If this flashlight ran out of light, I’d have no way to replace it. No way to replace the batteries, no way to buy another one.
Our economy used to be powered by money. That’s why most of us leaped at the change when Zenith began.
Zenith, a nonprofit electricity company. Providing free energy to everyone, everywhere. It took a while for us to accept it, too afraid of a catch.
But there was no catch.
Or so we thought, until that Halloween when all the lights went out.
At first, we thought it was a joke. We wondered why none of the houses in our neighborhood had lights. Why no one was giving us candy.
Yes, 16 is a little old for Halloween. At least, some people think so. In my opinion, you’re never too old for free candy and gory costumes.
It was the first nice Halloween we’d had since 2029. Most of our Halloweens here are brutally cold. Rain, snow, sleet, hail. The whole shabang. One year, we even had graupel. That was the year I learned what the world “graupel” meant.
Four years of horrible weather. So in 2033, when sun and mild temperatures came together to create the perfect day, I figured everyone would be out on Halloween.
But all the lights were off. No one sat on their porches. And I didn’t know why until me and my brother John got home, discouraged and annoyed.
That’s when Mom told us what happened.
“Luke, John, come into the living room.”
For the first time in my life, the TV wasn’t running. My mom always had the TV running in the background; she said it helped her focus. I think she just liked watching General Hospital reruns and Family Feud.
But today, it was off; as were all the lights.
Not just here. Everywhere. Even from countries like China, electricity was out. The company of Zenith, which powered our world, had simply vanished overnight, leaving us in darkness.
My brother John was afraid of the dark. At 15, he constantly got made fun of for it. Once the power went out...
He couldn’t handle it. Three days after the blackout, he committed suicide.
It only took a week for the monopoly to begin.
Day 1: The panic. We waited for government officials to respond, to find a solution, to help us.
Nothing.
Day 2: The death: almost everything with a battery died. Phones, computers, even flashlights. Everything, in total sync. Almost as if it were planned.
But that’s crazy talk. I can’t afford to think like that. I have to keep living. Keep surviving.
I have to stay sane.
Day 3: The riots: People rose up, angry and scared. Libraries were raided, books were stolen. But with no lights, it was hard to read.
Most of the books ended up burned in the streets, bathing everything in a hazy red glow.
Book Burnings.
That’s how every tragedy starts, right?
Day 4: The crash: It’s a miracle it took this long, but finally, the stock market crashes. Money loses all value. And we desperately search for an alternative currency. Something with value. Something real.
Batteries.
Day 5: The adaptation: Took us long enough, but finally, life settles into a post-apocalyptic rhythm. Still violence, still no word from the big guys in Washington (or from anyone, in any part of the world). That much hasn’t changed, and probably won’t for a while. But we have a routine. We wake up. We scavenge for batteries. We buy flashlights, conserve them, hoard them...
We have a routine, but we have no purpose.
Some people have a purpose. I heard there are people working to reinvent electricity. Build it up from scratch.
But a single spark isn’t enough to relight the fire.
Day 6: Yesterday, we heard the news.
The White House still had power.
They glowed like a light of salvation.
But there was one problem: the big guys don’t want to share their toys.
Just kidding. It’s not a matter of authority anymore. The White House has power, but there’s no one to use it. Washington is empty.
Why?
Above my paygrade. Everything is above my paygrade. I don’t get paid. And I haven’t found enough batteries to buy information. Not my problem.
I don’t care what happened to Washington. I’m too busy worrying about me.
Selfish? Old me would have thought so. Old me would have called me a selfish dick.
Old me died with the power. Old me died with my brother. There’s no trace of him left.
That brings us to today.
Today, I bought a flashlight.
And just in time.
Because today, the birds came.
Although I suppose they aren’t really birds. They look like birds.
But they flock to darkness.
As I sat in my dark house, trying to ignore the smell, I see the birds begin to run into my windows. Battering them down. Maybe they smell it too. The smell that comes from the kitchen.
The smell of death.
John died early enough that we could get him a proper burial.
But Mom...
Mom set the house on fire. When I doused the flames, using water from the melted ice in the fridge, she was a charred corpse. And that was only two days ago. Right as everyone else settled into a routine, Mom decided to end it.
And by then, it was too late to give anyone a proper anything. So I left her there. What choice did I have?
So I told myself that the birds were coming towards the smell, hoping for food. I couldn’t see them— it was too dark for that— but I could hear them, flapping their black wings and shrieking their black cries.
That’s how I knew they couldn’t be real birds. That sound, that horrible, horrible sound... it was less of a sound, even, more of a feeling. It was so loud that it became an overwhelming black, an all-consuming darkness.
I turned on my flashlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of their vile, twisted faces.
But as soon as the lights came on, the shrieks stopped. They stopped using their bodies as battering rams. They were nowhere in sight.
They were gone, vanquished by the light.
But I couldn’t keep the light on forever. I didn’t have the energy. I was out of batteries. But I’d keep it on. For now. At least keep it on at night. At night, when nightmares become real. At night, when darkness is everywhere.
Now I know why John was so afraid of the dark.
Maybe he knew. Maybe all along, he knew what was coming. He knew about the outage, he knew about the apocalypse, he knew about the birds. He always knew.
I should have listened to him. I should have been there.
I should have...
I woke up to a faint clicking sound.
chick... chick-chick-chick...
It was the sound of my flashlight flickering.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no-no-no.” I grabbed the flashlight and shook it.
How long was I asleep? I don’t even remember nodding off? How could it be out of batteries? It’s only been a day! It’s too soon! Too soon!
With a final “churk” sound, the light is off, and the birds are back.
No... I can’t accept this. I won’t be torn apart by these monsters. These aliens. These demons. I can’t do it. I can already feel it, their beaks pushing into my stomach, shredding my entrails, gobbling up my lungs.
their wings beat in a steady rhythm. flap. flapflapfwap. over and over again please make it stop.
its only a matter of time before they get in here. i don’t even know if anyone can read this anymore. my handwriting is shaking and looping and scrabbling just like my mind. i guess that’s what i get for turning my suicide note into a memoir. its too long. i need to cut it short. there’s more i need to say, but there’s no time. no time at all.
it’s too late.
the birds are only moments from breaking in.
This past week of my life has been one suicide after another. Bit by bit.
Now, I’m making sure that chain ends. Ends with me.
This will be the last suicide I ever have to witness.
I pick up the match and sigh.
Electricity and fire are so different, yet so similar. Both make light. Both can burn you.
And both start with a single spark.
Project Verity, the original cut. Housekeeping page.
First, New tag list. If you want to follow but not take part, let me know and I’ll add you. If you want to take part, ditto. I haven’t heard from Chacko, yet, in the call to arms thread, so, jump in if you missed it. bold names are those just observing.
@CalebPinnow @VerityMonet @MeeJong @AJAY9979 @Chacko_Stephen @Rob_Lee @Carissa @Buck_Ripper @spike1 @Roses311Sublime @WhiteWolfe32
Let’s things off on the first, eh? And give everyone a couple of weeks after that. If the dates clash with anything, let me know and I’ll rearrange.
Chapter 30: @Roses311Sublime
Chapter 31: @WhiteWolfe32
Chapter 32: @spike1
I’ve tried to be fair with this, putting the people who haven’t added to it yet, first. I’ll add more dates later. We might have more, and if that happens and they haven’t contributed, Carissa onwards, in my opinion, should be bumped down to later dates.
Let me know if I missed you out or you want in but haven’t said yet.
Let’s start with the chapters that have been written so far:
https://theprose.com/post/420725/prologue
https://theprose.com/post/421017/chapter-one-eloise-s-perspective
https://theprose.com/post/427386/nia-s-perspective
https://theprose.com/post/429289/chapter-three-the-world-outside
https://theprose.com/post/431146/chapter-four-the-first-interview-prague-2006
https://theprose.com/post/431422/chapter-five-to-kill-the-unliving
https://theprose.com/post/432944/chapter-six-missing-personalities
https://theprose.com/post/433856/chapter-seven-chapter-1-6-explained
https://theprose.com/post/438529/chapter-8
https://theprose.com/post/444606/chapter-9-wellick
https://theprose.com/post/447079/chapter-10
https://theprose.com/post/451336/chapter-eleven-the-cave
https://theprose.com/post/457576/chapter-12
https://theprose.com/post/458766/chapter-13
https://theprose.com/post/459942
https://theprose.com/post/463549
https://theprose.com/post/464170
https://theprose.com/post/467324
https://theprose.com/post/469217
https://theprose.com/post/478527
https://theprose.com/post/480015/chapter-20
https://theprose.com/post/483276
https://theprose.com/post/488433/chapter-twenty-two-drinks-shared-and-traps-set
https://theprose.com/post/563908/chapter-23
https://theprose.com/post/707689
https://www.theprose.com/post/759169
https://www.theprose.com/post/771088/chapter-26
https://www.theprose.com/post/798293
https://www.theprose.com/post/800907
https://www.theprose.com/post/809179/project-verity-chapter-29
https://www.theprose.com/post/814392
And now the “side posts”, where all the discussions outside the story have taken place. (If you can think of a term better than “side posts”, feel free to let me know.)
https://theprose.com/post/417498/book
https://theprose.com/post/417722/step-two
https://theprose.com/post/417832/like
https://theprose.com/post/418473/prepare-for-the-elections
https://theprose.com/post/417875/project-verity
https://theprose.com/post/418721/project-verity-phase-two
https://theprose.com/post/419303/project-verity-phase-iii
https://theprose.com/post/420813/out-of-reach
https://theprose.com/post/422995/here-i-go-again
https://theprose.com/post/423298/here-we-you-know-the-rest
https://theprose.com/post/422449/friendly-reminder
https://theprose.com/post/427617/let-me-explain
https://theprose.com/post/430949/schedule
https://theprose.com/post/438011/project-verity-the-original-cut-a-call-to-arms-legs-other-bodily-bits-but-mostly-fingers
https://theprose.com/post/438830/tag-list-and-schedule
https://theprose.com/post/457732/project-verity-the-original-cut-style-guidelines
Character Profiles:
Eloise Parker: https://theprose.com/post/431154/character-profile-eloise
Dr Eleanora Saavedra: https://theprose.com/post/431150/character-profile-dr-eleanora-saavedra
Harriet: https://theprose.com/post/431153/character-profile-harriet
Muntasher dwivedi: https://theprose.com/post/431156/character-profile-muntasher-dwivedi
Olban and Gareth: https://theprose.com/post/438629/character-profiles-olban-and-gareth
Wellick: https://theprose.com/post/459025/character-profile-updated-wellick
Wren: https://theprose.com/post/469337
Brian and Sarah Wilks: https://www.theprose.com/post/815541/character-profiles-brian-and-sarah-wilks
Squiggle
Where do I begin and end?
My brain has been bouncing around in an uncontrolable ball of squiggly feelings.
Why am I so sad?
Why can't I be happy?
Why does my brain chemistry have to be so much different from everyone else?
I hate the overwhelming feeling that squiggles bring. However, they have become the only and oldest friend I have. I can't remember a time when the tidal wave of thoughts and feelings didn't ravish my emotional body.
Letting everyone down is all I have ever done. I remember my mom telling me my senior year of highschool, after my second suicide attempt that she "would just thank God if I could graduate". Hell, "second suicide attempt" says it all. I couldn't even kill myself correctly. The squiggles make sure to remind me of that.
In a never ending loop of one. Two. Three. Four. After the fourth time I just gave up.
Those moments of clarity that jump rope between my bipolar mind reminds me that I miss them. I never understood why. I guess when you have major depression, and tend to swing that way on the bipolar teeter totter, when those feelings aren't there it makes you nervous.
When my squiggles are gone, I constantly feel like i'm walking on egg shells. waiting for the pin to drop. Things are going too good. something has to go wrong...It has to be one of the most parasitic one sided relationship I have ever been in...