Any Day Now
They stroll arm in arm on the darkened, tree-lined street, speaking in hushed tones, laughing sporadically. They’re too absorbed in each other to notice me as I keep pace behind them, slipping silently in and out behind the trunks of the giant elms and remaining just close enough to observe.
They approach a corner, and in the streetlight, I get a better look at her. I see smile lines stemming from her eyes, as she gazes up at him, and gray hair starting at her temples. He expounds on something and waves his right hand for emphasis. He places his left arm around her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. She swings her right arm around the middle of his back and lays her head against his side.
In the second block, they approach a car that I recognize. It’s the one that has occupied a space around the corner from my apartment building, to avoid any connection with me, every Tuesday night for the past twenty months. She looks up at him lovingly as he holds the passenger side door open and gently closes her inside. I can imagine his satisfied expression as he circles the car and takes his place in the driver’s seat.
This is the shrew he’ll leave, just as soon as their daughter graduates—no, wait, she did graduate, months ago. It’s when they sell the house—one that isn’t listed on any known market—that he’ll be free. He’s had enough of her, after all, hasn’t touched her in years.
I finger the vial in my pocket as they drive away.
Tomorrow is our date night. I’ll meet him at the door with our customary cocktails, being careful to hand him the correct old fashioned. It’ll be Wednesday before the methanol takes effect and symptoms present, probably at the office. He’ll no doubt wonder what the trouble is as he doubles over in pain.
By the end of the day he’ll be totally free, just as he promised.
Blue
I've never cared much for chocolate cake.
It isn't that I have anything against it, not really. It's just not been one of those things I've ever loved. I'm probably turned off even more by the prospect of chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The combination is too much of a good thing for me.
A chocoholic I am not.
My mom used to take pride in hers, though. She made it all from scratch. No box mixes or tubs of icing were ever found in my house growing up. She could make anything with a little time and a cup of scratch, as the adage goes. At least, I think I heard that somewhere. It applied to mom's kitchen, anyway.
She used to have this sheetcake pan with a blue translucent lid. The pan itself was aluminum, but the lid struck me as super cool because of the particular shade of blue it was. When I was a kid, I'd look through it and the world took on a sci-fi hue. Once when I was probably six or seven, I stepped away from a partially eaten piece of that chocolate on chocolate cake, leaving my paper plate on the coffee table. I forget why I walked away, but when I got back, I found my dog with crumbs on his chin and a perfectly cleaned plate.
I laughed then, and I'm laughing now. He was a good boy, even if sometimes he'd steal from inattentive children. That dog was with me until well after I turned 16. He's the reason my mom never wanted another puppy; in her mind, there'd never be a boy as good as he.
She's probably right. I have a boy dog now and he's not as good as that first one. I've had some girl dogs, though, and one of them was better.
She died a couple of months ago, and recovery has been hard.
It seems silly, mourning like this. Mourning for a dog who was with me for 12 years, and now at the same time mourning for a mother who was with me my whole life.
I started saying goodbye to my last parent a long time ago, but I only had hours to say goodbye to my good girl. Her end was swift, hidden, sudden, and I can only hope for the same. My mother lived long enough to wither, and her passing was not kind.
Today sees me with intermittent sobs and a constant headache behind my eyes. Grief is like that, I suppose. Always waiting for idle hands.
My work is caught up and my hobbies are lackluster. Nothing on television holds my interest and I don't feel up to reading a new book.
So I sit here, thinking about desserts from yesteryear.
I never cared much for chocolate cake, but part of me wishes there was one waiting on me in an aluminum sheet pan with a blue lid.
My world could definitely use a different hue right now.
Imagination to Reality
I lean down and blow dust off an old covered table. The dust floats into my face, causing me to sneeze and cough. I yank off the tablecloth and find an old typewriter. The old creaky house groans and crackles as the wind outside blows. I spot a stack of paper and stick it into the typewriter. “Let’s see if this works.” I smirk.
I prepared the typewriter and set my fingers on the keys, slowly I push down. Clacking sounds as letters print onto the paper. I glance over my shoulder, checking to see no one crept behind me in this old, abandoned house. After turning back to the typewriter, I start typing.
“I, Sierra, am sitting at an old desk, in the abandoned Rickter house. Stories have this house is haunted, but I never believe any of those gossipers. I’m writing this from inside a spooky house on an ancient typewriter,” I pause, a whistling sound draws me out of my words.
It swirls around the room and I gulp. “Just the wind.” I whisper to myself, just the wind.
My fingers resume typing,
“This house is starting to give me the creeps, maybe I don’t believe the stories, but it doesn’t mean I don’t get scared.” Another sound makes me stop. The keys on the typewriter sit still, silence ensues me and the room.
The floorboards creak outside the attic, as though someone is walking out there. I ignore it, hoping it is my imagination, I continue writing.
“Everyone hates this home, I don’t know why. It’s only an old abandoned mansion. Some people say the ghost of Mr. Rickter resides here. It’s so ridiculous, but the whole town believes it. One person said he saw Mr. Rickter’s shadowy outline beside a window. I don’t believe it for a second. Rumors say he was buried somewhere near his house, and his spirit lives on. Everyone is insane if they believe such things; when someone dies, they die - they’re gone.” I swallow back a lump growing in my throat. My fingers fly across the typewriter, as everything around me seems to disappear.
“It’s also been said that he hid his journal somewhere in this home, I, being the only brave and sane person in my town, have decided to find it. My family even thinks this place is haunted. I came here tonight to prove it’s not. I am going to end this writing, shortly. I will search for his journal. It seems as though other have tried to find it. I’ve heard there’s a ghost protecting the journal and home. That’s why no one ever comes here. Of course, I think this is all ridiculousness, people believing such nonesense.”
A creak sounds behind my chair, I ignore it, continuing on. “His journal is said to hold precious information, about some treasure.” I feel warm air on the back of my neck, yet I continue on. “I don’t believe that part; the only reason I want to find it, is because I’ve always been intrigued by such things. The past holds history, it holds secrets, it holds things to help us in the future.” I take a moment to stretch my fingers, then I crank in a new paper, sit back down, and begin writing something else.
~*~
A slight shadow moves over the paper and I feel someone or something standing behind me. My fingers pause, I slowly turn in my chair. A person, dressed totally in black, stood behind my chair. I leap out of my chiar, toppling it into the person’s leg. A shrill scream escapes my throat as I scurry away into a corner, away from the person.
The person huffs and pushes the wooden chair away. It skids across the floor and lands inches away from where I am sitting. The floorboards creak as the person walks over to me, I shiver and bite my lip to keep from screaming again.
A hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me up, I yelp and struggle against the grip. Two hands now grip me tightly. I shiver, despite the dank, warm air trapped in the attic. “Hush!” A male voice hisses I am pulled up.
“Wh-who are you?” I try to contain my shaking voice.
No reply comes as I get pulled away from my spot. The man leads me to the attic’s exit and grips me tightly. I glance around, terrified.
“I can be either a friend or an enemy; it depends on you.” The gruff voice replies.
His words echo in my mind. I panic, my self defense instincts kick in, and I kick my captor in the shin. He releases me and howls in pain as I kick him once more in the knee. I turn and rush down the stairs. Heavy footsteps tumble after me. I slide to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, my heart pounds in my chest, it’s beat echoing in my mind.
The footsteps come faster, this man is determined to catch me. I move, suddenly twisting my ankle. “Aghh!” I screech as pain soars through my left ankle and leg. Limping, I grasp the wall and move away from the stairs.
“Where did she go?” I hear heavy panting near me.
I jump away from my spot and start half running, half limping. The man tackles me to the ground, I struggle as he knocks me down to the wooden floor. “I warned, you.” His hands press me down.
I pant, still struggling against his grip. “What do you want?” I try to free my arms from his iron like grip.
“You know where the treasure is; I want the treasure.” His hands move to my forearms and he pins them against the floor. Preparing to kick him off me, I pull my leg up close, bringing my knee to my chest.
The man notices and rolls his body off of mine, then suddenly locks my legs under his, holding my down. “Think you’re smart, do you?” He scoffs as he pins me down again.
I wiggle under his heavy weight and give up. There’s no way I can beat him in the postion I am in.
“Why do you think I know where the treasure is?” I grunt as he shifts his weight on my legs.
“I watched you writing on that old typewriter.” His voice becomes sly, dripping with suspicion and craftiness.
“I don’t believe in any such things!” I reply through gritted teeth.
He releases my legs and arms and yanks me up. I hobble for a moment, making sure I don’t apply pressure to my injured foot. “Liar!” His voice hisses into my ear.
“It’s the truth!” I shove him away, hard. He stumbles, falls backwards, and releases me.
I turn and run, ignoring the pain that pulses in my ankle with every move.
“She’s getting away!” His voice calls through the house.
I stop, that means he’s not alone. Panic surges through my body as I turn into a hallway of the old mansion. My heart pounds hard and loud as I crouch in the shadows. I try to slow my breathing, to make it quieter.
I slowly creep out of my hiding spot, there are no noises. I start jogging, but immediately stop when my left leg hits the floor. Pain shoots through my ankle and leg, I limp, trying to relieve the pain.
I suddenly feel myself being tackled from behind, again. I tumble to the floor, someone lands on top of me. It is the same man who tackled me minutes earlier. We roll a couple times before he stops us, holding me down. His hands move to my throat and he slowly starts squeezing away my air supply. “Where is the treasure?” He asks again.
I cough, wheezing as he hands squeeze my throat. “I-I don’t... know.” I pulled my arms up and placed them between his grip. He notices, but I move quicker than he can react. I smack his forearms with mine, causing him to release the pressure. Yet, he still holds my throat.
Footsteps sound by my head. “She’s a feisty one.” A gruff voice came from above me.
The man choking me nods, grunting as he shifts his position to keep me down. “No kidding.” He growls under his breath, “Didn’t think she’d put up such a fight.”
I cough again as he squeezes harder. “Hey, now, don’t kill her.” The man above us warns.
“I’m not trying to.” My captor keeps a steady, even grip.
I knee him in the stomach, he grunts but doesn’t release me. I gasp for breath as his strong hands keep their hold. I pull my knee up and knee him again, this time he releases me and rolls away. He grimaces in pain as I leap up and dash away.
“Get her, Keith!” My captor screeches.
The man that stood above us, Keith, takes off after me. I run up into the attic, grab the typewriter and paper and dash back down, tumbling into Keith.
His eyes peer at me from behind his masked face and he grabs my shoulders. “Not so fast.” His icy blue eyes lock me in place.
I lower mine and hide the paper I printed by discreetly crumpling and shoving it into my pocket. Keith grabs my shoulders and marches me down the stairs. “Got her!” Keith’s voice shouted.
The man who had tackled me walks up, his face is still hidden in a black ski mask. His dark eyes peer at me; they hold anger. I squirm under Keith’s grip, he’s stronger than his partner. His arms feel like two iron clamps, holding me down. “Good.” His friend sneers.
“What’re we gonna do with her, Nolan?” Keith asks.
“Get her to talk.” Nolan kneels closer to my height. I watch as he leans close to me. “Now: where. Is. The. Treasure.” He spits his words out like hard ice.
“I already told you, I don’t know.” I reply, in a matter-of-factly way.
Nolan stands, his lean body towering a good foot over me. Keith’s hands release me slightly, that’s all I need. I whirl around and duck under his arms, still holding the typewriter. Finally, I get out of the house and pant for breath.
Shouts come from behind me, Keith and Nolan are still chasing me. I start running, carrying the typewriter with me.
~*~
I lean back in the chair and sigh, my fingers ache slightly as I stretch them. “Phew!” I smile as I look at my finished piece of work. The paper sits atop the typewriter. I had allowed my imagination to grow wild as to what could happen in this old spooky mansion. Then, I wrote everything down, allowing the world to slip away, along with my problems. As I lean over the typewriter to create an ending to my story, I hear a creak in the floorboards. I laugh and shake my head, “There’s no way this story could actually come to life.” I chuckle, as I think about a good ending.
Much to my dismay and terrified self, I see a shadow move over my paper.
“Girl, your story is just starting to come alive.” A male voice growls behind me.
I gulp, “There’s no way this can be happening.” I whisper as I turn around, to face a man dressed in black complete with a black ski mask covering his face.
“Oh, but it is.” He takes a step closer as I scream and leap up, tumbling my chair into his legs.
Hope Ann
Where are you going to Hope Anne?
Why are you looking so fine?
Don’t you worry none Hope Anne?
I know you were never mine
You didn’t know the day I found you
Was the worst day of my life
My world had crashed around me
I felt the sharp edge of the knife
But you gave me your attention
And I held onto it tight
Like a light into the darkness
Like a becon in the night
Where are you going to Hope Anne?
Why are you looking so fine?
Don’t you worry none Hope Anne
I know you were never mine
I never took one day for granted
Because I knew one day you’d go
I kept the things you gave me
and I wanted you to know
You helped me through my troubles
You helped me through the storm
I’m on the other side now
Where I am safe and warm
Where are you going to Hope Anne?
Why are you looking so fine?
Don’t you worry none Hope Anne
I know you were never mine
Journal Entry 75
Today was a great day in the TTC (Teleportation Transportation Company) We managed to send someone exactly 10 inches to the left of where they stood. We wanted to start small, so we programed it for ten inches. It was the exct amount that we wanted. The subject said that he felt slighlty dizzy after the whole experience. But now we just have to figure out a way to increase the range. Hopfully one day, we can reach our goal of Teleporation Transportation for everyone, that is quick, easy, and afforable.
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.
Her Secret
I read people so well, I know their emotions before they even do. Those who are happy are whom I choose to spend my time with. There is one woman, she is there, yet she isn't. She seems to smile at all of the right times, she seems to laugh at jokes, she seems sad when something terrible happens; yet, she just isn't there. She doesn't have those feelings and I know it is all fake. Our group is small, she spends every day with us, she does what we do, follows the latest trends, she doesn't miss a beat.
From time to time, she is gone. Our group assumes there is a secret lover, just someone she doesn't want us to meet. The group doesn't pester, but they do tease about the secret lover. Then, she is gone again.
After a night away from the group, I come home and look in the mirror. Blood covering my face and clothes. I look in the mirror and I see her. The woman, the one who has no emotions. The woman who fakes it every day with her group. I see the woman I am looking back at me after yet another ruthless kill.
Courage
I realized I was a writer when I was a senior in high school. I'm 43 now, and am just now taking it seriously. I could never find the courage to even try because I was afraid of rejection. It wasn't until last year that I realized I needed to be writing for me. While we all love to hear positive feedback on our creations, that should not be your focus. Your writing is a part of you, who you are. You should be writing for you, and you alone. Who cares what other people think? Find your courage!
Prologue
Not everybody plans the day they’re going to die but Salem Snow did.
Death is a punch in the gut that chases the oxygen from your lungs. It’s walking down the stairs, shrouded in heavy darkness, and missing the last step. It’s standing on the edge of a roof and looking down at the busy streets below, filled with people who couldn’t care less about you.
And he knew all these things yet, to him, death wasn’t something that lurked in the shadows of his room at night. It wasn’t the monster that would reach from beneath his bed and grab his ankle. He knew what hid in the darkness and it wasn’t death.
As his grip on the railing behind him slipped ever so slightly, he forced his eyes to readjust, trying to pick out something in the distance, something to distract himself from the fact that he could fall but wouldn’t die.
It was tempting to try it again—to feel the rush of adrenaline as he plummeted to the ground over a dozen stories below and to hit the ground with a bone-snapping thud. But in the end, he would be forced to watch the empty sky mock him, laughing at his futile effort.
He inhaled deeply, the cold wind blowing through his curls and stinging his face. Something wet slid down his face and he held his hand out to catch a raindrop but nothing landed in his palm. Realizing, he wiped away the lone tear that had escaped and leaned back, the cold metal of the railing seeping through his thin clothing and making his skin crawl.
He looked down, blinking away any tears that had gathered in the corner of his eye, blurring his vision. The city roared with life but no distinct sound reached his ears. It was a symphony of car horns and shouts, of screeching bus breaks and squawking birds, the tread of drained people as they made their way home after a long workday. It was a continuous cycle, day in and day out, the same thing over and over again as if it were a song on repeat.
Ninety-nine years and everything had changed. Except him.