moistwritings
MositWritings
This is mostly just a place where I post stuff I come up with. I try to make things interesting.
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Troubling Dreams in the pandemic age:
“Do you remember how you died?”
All I saw was a black void, but I could hear the voice asking me. It was innocent and it felt pity.
I remember my response, something I spoke but didn’t recall in detail.
“I was trying not to cough up any more blood.” I was alone then. I knew that much.
“May I ask you something?”
The voice again reached out to me. Despite seeing nothing and feeling nothing, I knew where I was supposed to face. I gave only a nod.
“Are you the type who wants to settle their unfinished business before you go?”
What she meant by unfinished business I did not know, but I didn’t feel like testing her patience. I took a deep breath, gathering the thoughts that scattered my mind.
“I suppose not. Once I have been laid to rest, perhaps it’s for the best I stay there. I’m tired, and I’ve been tired for some time now.”
I could feel her nod in response, despite her lack of a physical form.
“I see. I suppose We will talk more of this when it actually happens. I’ll see you in a few days.”
When I woke up I felt just as tired as the night prior. But the settled comfort of the bed allowed me to wake in relative peace, despite the event that took place in my subconscious mind still looming overhead.
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It’s a story as old as time, a warrior falls in love with a beautiful Princess. The storytellers of old always depicted daring escapes, wild beasts and dark villains, but they have never told the true story; the far less climactic story.
The Orc Warrior and the Beautiful Princess.
This story doesn’t begin with the two meeting on a field of combat or with one sparring the other. This story begins at a restaurant-tavern. Not a fancy establishment where the plates are lined with gold where elf chefs bake their dishes to perfection, but a regular restaurant.
At this establishment, the two did not meet as one serving another or while randomly dancing to the song of a Bard, but as two customers.
What the storybooks would say about the Princess was that she was a fair maiden with long, blonde, flowing hair that felt like the finest silk. And her eyes were as green as shining emeralds, and that they could light up a room when she smiled. What these storybooks would fail to mention, however, was that the Princess had a tendency to sound brutish, and was friends with lowly peasants.
The Orc, in contrast, would be described as a monster, fit with green skin and beastly features. And Indeed, this Orc had the strength of a hundred barbarian men with the scars to prove it. What they would fail to tell you, was that in more places than not he was considered a hero, fighting for the poor and unfortunate. That this Orc was fond of baking sweets when at home, and that he loved to read.
How they met that night was simple enough, the Orc was looking at other tables, to see what might taste good and provide substance. When he saw her, devouring a plate fit for a warrior, his heart skipped a beat. And indeed, she looked at him as well, as a proud warrior from one to another.
The two broke off from their groups, and began to talk of their lives, and what roles they played. They talked all the night away.
After days and nights, of talking and eating, both realized their love. Soon they spent time with one another, learning each other’s interests. The Princess found Joy in training, as did The Orc in talking politics of the highest levels.
And indeed, if the storyteller was cruel, they might tell you a lie. They might say that the Princess was forced to marry another, or that a revolution happened and the Orc Warrior found his love beheaded. Or perhaps, they might say that each abandoned their titles, and ran away. This however, is not the truth.
The two got married, and lived happy lives. And when the end came, they died at the same time.
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A Nightmare From Long Ago
I didn’t know who they were, but they seemed nice enough. Three young kids, a trio of friends. They’d moved into a new house. A big mansion with more than three floors. The day went by easy, with pizza and movies. But as night fell, I could tell something else was watching them.
Soon they went up to the beds, and I saw as an old witch pulled one of them into an old closet. He screamed for a moment with fear in is eyes. When the other two opened the closet in an attempt to rescue their friend, but all they found was bloodied bones. They stayed in that room the rest of the night, crying and screaming.
The next day they both vowed to leave the house to the old witch, and they bolted down the stairs. They ran as fast as they could, but as they ran past the kitchen to get outside, the cupboard opened and from it the witches hand grabbed the other young man. His friend grabbed his arm, pulling against the old monster’s bony grasp. The old witch grabbed an impossibly sharp knife and slit his throat, his friend letting go. The last thing she sees is her friend being sucked into the void, his eyes full of terror and tears, his mouth and neck gushing blood.
The last child makes it outside, but the once lush and lively forest is dead and quiet. The parents aren’t coming, there is no hope. The witch has won.
I had this one when I was 6, so it might not be that scary now, but it was back then.
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Gone.
I have always felt a certain way towards specific words. Whenever someone would say that a family member was ‘Gone’ it was an instant hollow feeling in my chest. Indeed, words can impact us in this way. But I now know that Gone is a place, a place I have been stuck for some time now.
Gone is a dream I have yet to wake up from. It’s a cement building of sorts I have never seen. It has just enough shelter to keep me from the rain.
It’s always raining, never too lightly, and never without the occasional distant sound of thunder.
I’ve been ‘Gone’ longer than I care to remember. The building has damage of sorts, but what from I don’t know.
Sometimes it looks like natural decay, other times I see the ash shadows where People might have stood.
It’s never too hard to find a fresh can of food, so long as you can look. There is always a fire in the left corner of the room to cook.
No matter how far down you go in a staircase, you will never reach the bottom: I have tried. The top is always just out of reach, a floor or two more.
There is always a new room, though the ghostly images might strain your gaze.
Gone is a place, yet I have never seen another Human face. There are no birds to sing or bugs to bite.
Jumping out of the open spaces will not help you, as you will just wake up in another room.
There are odd noises that call out into the empty hallways, never living but not quite dead.
Gone is a place, not just a word in your head.
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A bad idea for a video game:
You, are an exterminator. You are hired by an Island to kill the monsters infesting it. The catch?
Handsome/beautiful faces.
The spider den? Yeah, they have the varying hairy legs and bodies, but the head? A handsome and muscular man/woman face. And with each individual encounter they give you complements. Not as in “your an excellent fighter” or “you smell nice” but as in flirtatious complements like “your eyes are beautiful”
It doesn’t matter what sex you pick, they hit on you.
The vampires? They have their bodies as these terrifying masses, but their heads? Flawless.
That giant tentacle abomination? You guessed it. Handsome man face.
The spider eggs you have to burn?
Yep. Each baby spider has Jeff Goldblum’s smiling face on it.
The rabid wolves? Yep, handsome people.
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An old Joke.
Anarchy, perhaps the most fitting word for the state of the world. Now it’s a good anarchy, as the vaccine is released and people slowly make progress to living in cities again. But for seven long years it was just short of literal hell. Not everyone got out of this pandemic alive, in fact, a great many people didn’t make it past the first two years of the outbreak. Me, and a group of my pals ditched civilization just as it broke out in exchange for a secluded life in the forest. Back then It was around fifteen of us.
Back then everyone had a task to complete, from grabbing chicken eggs to setting up fences and blockades. It was far more simple than we were accustomed to, but overall we loved it.
Instead of bringing a T.V to watch current events on, we bought a small radio for us all to listen to on Sunday nights after a good dessert. After the virus spread from New York, we stopped that tradition. Hearing what it did to people was bad enough. My skin still stands up when I remember the horrified reporter describing the flesh breaking down on a victim, their eyes turning black before exploding into a red mist, all while the paitent was screaming.
The first casualty was that winter, as the Virus spread to Michigan. Jamie, I think her name was. Her family was in facility 43899, a living area that was supposed to be safe from the Virus’ grasp. As it turns out someone had snuck out and gotten infected, because of that the whole damn camp went down burning, screams of agony broadcasted nation-wide. After hearing that, she took one of the shotguns and blew her whole damn head off.
The next was during the spring months of the second year, his name was Hans. His mistake was a relatively simple one: forgetting to carry a weapon with you while fishing. A grizzly bear ripped him in half, and we only ever found out because we found a chunk of the upper half flowing downstream.
I don’t remember what the twins were called, but they passed a little after the second year had ended. A bandit camp had been set up two miles from us, near where the two would hunt. Both of them were lit on fire before being shot. We got our payback by burning those bastards a straight path to hell. We buried them the first day of August.
Tamera was one of my early childhood friends, so it hurt me the most when she ran off, exclaiming how she would be better off without us. Not a week later she wandered into our hunting area, infected. A pal of mine, Rob, put her down with a single shot to the head. If I recall correctly it was October of the second year.
November was an especially horrible month, as tasks to prepare for snowfall got increasing daunting. Donnie had decided that they had enough one day, and completely lost it. They killed Williams and Kimberleigh, and had begun to consume their skin. I was the one to plant a bullet in Donnie’s head.
The third and fourth year passed without any of us dying, but Rob was forced to kill a large quantity of bandits after more had wound up near our doorstep. He never admitted to just how many he wound up killing. He kept that secret for the rest of his life.
Year five was tough, not because many of us died, but who died and how it happened. We needed more canned food, with our estimated canned goods only lasting about another year or so. Quintin volunteered to go into the city, and scavenge whatever he could find. Each time he came back it was with more canned goods and a brand new horror story. We were told of the massive plague pits where bodies had been charred together. He could see their expressions of pain and terror, and it affected him deeply. Still, he made eight more supply runs before calling it quits. I found in a diary that his final straw was when he discovered the petrified body in one of the pits. He hung himself in the early hours of the morning about mid February.
A group of three left just after the suicide happened, apparently they were close to Quintin. We found them at the bank of the river after they had attempted to cross it. The ice had melted quickly that year and none of them managed to recover. I do not remember their names anymore.
Year six was lonely, as our once immaculate camp now fell into three people’s responsibilities. I took up drinking, heavy drinking, around about July.
December of year six it was announced that a vaccine would be available to the public in about four months. We threw a small party to celebrate, and even managed to make a small cake.
A rumor spread around late December that Washington already had the vaccine, I had paid it no attention but apparently Charles did. She left camp with only a note reading out the word “goodbye” from what I was able to gather she made it at least to Colorado. From there the trail goes blank.
Two days before the vaccine was to be released, a bandit gang attacked us. Rob managed to put them down, but got shot in his left lung and appendix. I tried to patch him up, honest. But he stopped me.
“I ain’t gonna make it. That’s fine. Just...let it be.” He said between ghasps of air and coughing up blood.
“My dad told me an old joke once, and I think I get it now.”
With those words and a melancholy chuckle, Rob passed away.
That is how my group of friends, my family, left me. It wasn’t eloquent or valiant. This is our story, told not just by me, but the ghosts of friends I’ve been forced to leave behind without saying goodbye.
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Shoes on the street
They began to throw shoes out onto the streets, getting ready to burn them when the time came. I glanced at them, at the people who were once so civilized. They were like startled animals, backing into their corner when they saw me approaching them. I grabbed the bodies, some which still wriggled and writhed. Their skin was grey and their pulse was all but gone. I had seen it a million times and then some. I hauled their corpses onto the wagon, a pile building so high that It was getting hard to see.
Through my beaked mask I saw a man emerge onto the street and stare at the shoes, of their variety and size. He looked down at them as he walked to work, perhaps quietly weeping. They all wept in time, either with what was left of their family or all alone. I felt my anger at them fade away knowing that now, knowing it with certainty. They called me a madman when I had begun stockpiling for this, preparing for this. I knew that it was only a matter of time. And now here it was, here I was. I could’ve been sitting in my shelter cozily but instead here I was helping them recover, after all they had said and done to me. Perhaps it was the human spirit, or perhaps it was just foolishness. I looked up at the sky which was full of smog, full of death. Was this really the beginning of the end?
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“Tragedy”
I walk to the church, my wounds hurt so much.
My intestines are leaking out, my neck is rotting.
I stumble and fall getting up the stairs.
I drop the heavy hammer and stakes.
I must pray one last time.
I cough from the smoke.
The fire is spreading.
My eyes shut.
“Forgive me.”
Nothing.
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The wall of corpses
“How could you!?”
Jess spoke as if I was the problem here. Honestly what in the sam hell was she expecting me to do? Crack out the wine and celebrate? This wasn’t no Fiesta.
“I’m Checkin’ for bites, Y’all ain’t no charabs.”
I had the liberty to check everyone, from my sister to her children. I didn’t have patience for formalities like a country greetin’. The time for that passed six years ago, when I was up here invitin’ family before all hell broke loose. I got angry just thinking about it, about everything that they’d ignored me about.
“Seven years. seven years ago I gave you the opportunity to be here. I gave everyone that chance. Not a single goddamn one of you answered, but here and now I’m spossed’ to act like that don’t matter?!”
I’d moved out here originally to be far from people. When I got word of what was happening with the pandemic it was natural to invite family, to hand out satellite phones, to apply the southern charm I’d been taught. Not a single goddamn one of em’ took me up on it. They all ignored me for seven years, most of em’ probably dead now: That was why they were turning to me. They were out of options. I decided to ask just to be sure.
“Why are you here? What reason after all this time are you suddenly here? You wantin’ to make amends?”
Jess got furious, talking to me like she had business bein’ mad at me for being careful.
“Do you have any idea what’s been going on out there? Cause’ I got a feeling you don’t. It’s always about you isn’t it? You don’t care about our problems, you just care about yourself!”
That remark pushed a button that shouldn’t have been pressed. It wore down my patience and forced a response faster than pullin’ the trigger on a shotgun.
“Where were you, when Regina got sick? You were off doin’ somethin’ in France. Where were you when Quintin went missin’?! Too busy to help look for him. Where were you when I hosted Una’s funeral? Where were you when I had to lower my Wife into her grave? Where was anyone in the family? Why did I have to put her there all alone?!!!!!? Because you were ‘busy’. You’re right. I don’t have a damn clue what’s been goin’ on down there. Lecture me about your damn problems, I dare ya. Answer my damn question or get the fuck out of my house.”
I felt fuming, like a nuclear reactor about to erupt. I grabbed my shotgun and racked a shell: I wouldn’t hesitate if it came to them or me. I felt nothing but anger towards them.
“You are on, some mighty thin ice. Answer.”
Jess gave in, perhaps thinking about what she made me go through alone. Her expression changed from anger to guilt, and I’d be willing to bet rethinking some of her life choices.
“We were in the fifty third quarantine zone, Vermont. It was supposed to be a safe haven, but infected got in. Whole thing got bombed to hell as the infected spread like fire ants. Happy now?”
I lowered the shotgun, taking a look at their faces. Their children were too young to know what was going on, probably around a year old. Her husband was quiet, but I could tell he was pipin’ mad. The man probably wanted to beat the shit outta me for bein’ an asshole, which was almost fair.
“Dinner at six, i’ll go over details and we can talk about livin’ arrangements. Guest rooms that way. Get comfortable.”
I pointed them to the left side of the house. My room was luckily on the other side, I guessed I had the intuition even as I was havin’ this place built. I went down to the basement to grab ingredients for dinner, somethin’ special for the occasion. I grabbed a bottle of Fireball and took a hearty swig, letting the warmth in my chest butter my joints and soothe my soul. I grabbed cans of beans, bacon, pork, tomato, carrot, and potato along with some broth cubes. I had an inside cooker but decided I’d enjoy the weather with a little cookin’ and Fireball. Slowly the mixture blended and the flavor danced, the heat of the fire making a beautiful contrast to the cold outside. After bout’ an hour some simple ingredients made some damn good eatin’.
I set down the bowls and gave each one a hearty fill. I didn’t wait for em’ to start. As I licked the bowl clean the clock read seven o’ clock. I was gettin’ ready to go to bed when I heard Jess’ husband speak.
“Excuse me… Look… I… Look, I'm sorry about what you went through. I am, but we’ve had our hardships too. Please don’t blame us for things that happened in the past, we were having a hard enough time moving forwards.”
I nodded, thinking about what it meant. I knew deep down I’d never forgive anyone for leaving me when I was so low, but I also knew I’d be gone soon enough: and God wasn’t gonna be sympathetic to my sufferin’ in comparison to his.
“What you’re tryin’ to say is live and let die. I get that. It’s been a rough day, so I’ll let y’all rest tonight. Tomorrow we’ll discuss what you’ll be doin’ so you can live here.”
I turned to go to my room as Billy grabbed my shoulder.
“What was that, what we passed getting here?”
I sighed, I knew what he was talking about. I didn’t really feel like explainin’ it to him, but figured it would be for the best to set them at ease.
“Well, it’s so damn cold up here that when infected come by, their joints freeze. I know they’re prolly mean mother hubbards out there where it’s hot, but up here they freeze up and become like a wall. ‘For you ask no, when they thaw out they don’t go back to bein’ like that, they just bodies at that point.”
Billy nodded and walked off. I felt tired, feelin’ really had it’s way of wearin’ me down like I was a pair of workin’ boots. I felt the Whiskey tuck me in as I got into bed, the warm covers shieldin’ me from my cold room.
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The Closed Door
Celia sat at the table, not knowing what time it was. Today the world around her stopped completely. Celia no longer knew what it was she was feeling, as it took the feeling of emptiness but it was so much more. Almost every door to every part of Celia’s house was open. Almost every window in Celia’s house was open, letting the cool breeze blow gently through her house. It was here she tortured herself, because there was nothing she could do. It took every ounce of her will to get out of bed and do this to herself, but she had to.
Jacob was her husband for nearly five years before he wound up getting deployed, leaving Celia with a child he would never see. She received the news of her beloved husband not too long after her son turned one. She named her child Henry, because it was Jacob’s favorite name, and his whole family loved it as well. Celia herself was an orphaned child. She remembered being abandoned by her parents: she was six when they left her all alone in a parking lot far from anyone she had ever known. It took everything for her to trust again, and Henry gave her the chance to be a better parent than hers ever were.
Henry, the name itself made her smile even now. No matter what happened, Henry would just keep on smiling. When he was five, he threw a party and invited everyone in the neighborhood that was his age: when no one showed up, he simply smiled and said
“I’m happy that I get to spend today with you! You’re my bestest friend!”
Henry and her would go out to the old apple orchard and read his favorite book, Ferdinand the Bull. Henry loved overalls and boots, because he felt like a brave little soldier. He often told Celia that he wanted to be a brave soldier like his father was. She couldn’t explain it to him at that time, but such things could wait. Henry had problems with reading by himself, but despite that he tried so hard to make all the letters on every page make sense. Whenever Henry had trouble sleeping, which was rare, Celia would give him a warm glass of milk and sing a song that she had listened to when she was very young. It was on a Nickelodeon show she couldn’t remember for the life of her, but the melody was sweet and smooth and it never failed to put Henry to sleep.
“Leaves from the vine,
Falling so slow,
Like fragile tiny shells,
Drifting in the foam,
Little soldier boy,
Comes marching home,
Brave soldier boy,
Comes marching home.”
If only she had known what cruel twist of fate would befall her, perhaps she could’ve changed something.
The day was beautiful, with a clear sky and a shining bright sun in the sky. Henry was in the first grade. Celia had dropped him off earlier that morning, not stopping to say goodbye like she usually did. Celia had a lot of paperwork to do that day and had a right mind to get it done quickly to celebrate Henry’s birthday after school. Celia hadn’t bothered to turn on the television: the cable hardly worked anyways.
When Celia had heard the door open and close, she was shocked as it wasn’t noon and Henry had school until two O’clock. She could hear him crying as he walked in, but couldn’t see from her upstairs office. She only realized something was wrong when he spoke.
“Mommy I don’t wanna be a soldier anymore.”
She rushed down and saw her little boy in overalls and boots. He loved those overalls. The denim was stained dark red and the bullet holes in his little body brought tears to her eyes. He cried so much, despite never crying at skinned knees or being pushed by bullies. She heard as his little voice grew fainter and fainter until it was hardly a whisper.
“Mommy please help me.”
She had felt his little body go limp, and it sent a cold shock throughout her body.
At the funeral she couldn't keep from constant tears at the sight of such a little coffin. She could still see his pained expression with his eyes closed as he gripped onto her. Her little soldier boy, gone.
Almost every window and door inside Celia’s house was open, all except the door that led to Henry’s room and his windows. It was too painful to pretend that he wasn’t just sleeping some days, this day especially. It was painful for Celia because every time she looked into his room all she saw was his little boots and all of his clothes, the homemade Halloween costume he never got to wear, and his wrapped birthday presents. Today she finally had to accept it, today she had to know that her little soldier was gone. Celia walked upstairs, and opened the door. An emptiness realized, memories too painful to bear. All windows and doors are open, and as flowers bloom under the apple orchard tree, a body decays bit by bit, all alone, in a house of open windows and doors.
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A foggy morning.
The sun was still sleeping by the time I had my things packed. The night brought horrible memories with it, particularly in the smoke which blew from down south. It was just at winter’s end, but the cold had it’s way by grasping onto the city. I could still see the fires in my mind, the people screaming and running as explosions went off all around us.
I racked myself for holding on; I knew that It did me no good. That world had ended some years ago, and I needed to continue on.
I loaded up the beasts with the things I was hoping to get good trades on, which included spices from the old world. The peoples up in “The Utopia” craved what knowledge they could find from the old world. To say that they resembled elves would be a massive understatement. They practically radiated with that fictional eloquence, well that and pretentiousness. Mannerisms aside, at least they paid well, and traded fairly enough.
By the time the sun did begin to rise, I had already been walking for about two or three hours. A thick fog began to manifest as I walked around the perimeter of a lake. I could hardly see a foot in front of me when the beast I walked beside stopped. I held an old rifle of mine up, crossing to the other side of the beast, which was facing the lake itself.
I hardly feared for the beast, as it’s body was thick like that of a bison. The beast’s face and mouth was very much like that of a grey wolf, and the beasts were clever in their judgement of other beings.
The beast turned with me to face the creature, which it had caught a glance of before stopping. I let out a brief sigh, a mermaid.
The half humanoids that lived in the lake spend the majority of the winter months in a catatonic state. The last month or so of winter was known as their “Proving” stage where all of them would face the bitter cold without water and warmth. The beast had stopped upon one that was shaking wildly, her tail slowly moving back and forth. The beast had began to lick her face, as if to notion for kindness.
I gave only a shrug before walking down the lane of beasts which had served me in exchange for food and decency. From a bag I wrestled out an old jacket and a few old blankets. Walking back, I also grabbed a sliver of jerky. The mermaid simply wrapped themselves up and nodded to me as I handed them the jerky.
In this new world I had little idea of what that meant, but still I didn’t keep my hopes up as if this would save my life later on. I simply assumed that it meant if I fell victim to one of their traps, she would grant me a fast death.
Finally, the beast relented and we went on our way, the sun now in the sky.....
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Backdrop
Hundreds of thousands of eyes on but a single organism, a shadow which follows just in the backdrop. Death, an old man who tells you to bear it no mind. Yet still he warns to not get too close, or else you’d have to join their distant choir. They belong to neither life or death. They whisper things, fears and desires alike. You know them, yet they have never truly gazed upon your soul. That is for the best. They are the blurred image of real life, those who are gone from life yet absent from death. they are beyond the hallowed phantoms and ghosts, because they always are, yet never were. Only in life has my gaze met them never to join. When I at last ascend, they shall finally leave me behind.
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