Nicholas Warack's Blog - Posts Tagged "reedsy"
Reedsy Prompt #278: All Apologies
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #278: All Apologies contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Dreams Never Been"
Homestead Estates was a well-to-do neighborhood: gated, pristine, snaked with fairways, and inhabited by retired, blue-blooded Americans. On a crisp spring morning, Gerald Stevens's slippers scratched the driveway as he shuffled down in his Columbia University Law bathrobe. It was a long walk; all the Homestead Estate driveways were at least fifty yards long. He arrived at the mailbox and pulled open the latch. A short stack of mail sat within. Gerald slid them into his pocket and made the trek back to the house. As he ascended his front porch stairs, the door swung open. Brittany Stevens, Gerald's third wife and twenty years his younger, stepped out. The neon-pink Lululemon leggings showed a figure weathering the descent of a once taut shape from her college days a decade ago. She was still stunning, to say the least, but her eyes, hidden behind a set of Ray-Ban's, looked indifferently at her husband.
"Oh hey," she said in a mannerless way. Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but she continued. "I'm off to the gym."
"Oh, it's Saturday," he said. "Why don't you stay in, or we can go to that new cafe downtown that we always pass."
Brittany, keys dangling and fashionably pink water bottle in hand, remained at the top of the steps.
"A latte is the last thing I need," she said. "John is having me do an intense yoga session that he learned during his pilgrimage in East India. He only does these classes on weekends, and the girls at the country club said they should really take off these love handles I'm starting to get. I'll be back sometime after lunch."
Gerald nodded and scratched his pepper-colored whiskers. "Perhaps we can meet up for brunch by the gym, then," he said.
"I can't. He has the sessions in his backyard because the gym doesn't allow him to have his classes on the weekends, and his place is like really far."
Gerald furrowed his brow. "He has them in his backyard?"
"Ugh, I know. Isn't that annoying? But like, it's good to be in nature and all that for this, and he has like all of the authentic yoga paraphernalia that he got from meeting with yogis and gurus and like those kinds of people. He's super dedicated to the art, right?"
"I suppose. When will you be back then?"
"Sometime after lunch. I don't know."
Gerald continued to nod. "OK. I'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks! Love ya!" Brittany announced. She leaned over, kissed his wizened cheek, and climbed into her Range Rover. Gerald waved at her as the car sped down the driveway and disappeared around the gate. He entered the foyer of his stately home. The bottom floor had marble and oak throughout the rooms and vaulted ceilings with scaling windows. Most of the upstairs was empty, save for the master bedroom and bathroom. The remaining rooms remained hollow or functioned as storage for unpacked moving boxes and bags. Gerald entered the kitchen and sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the backyard window. He preferred it since he could see the golfers teeing off the twelfth hole past the pool and gazebo.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Stevens?" asked his maid.
"No, thank you, Juana."
"Perhaps a cup of coffee. I'll make it strong."
"That'll be fine. Thank you."
"Of course, Mr. Stevens."
Juana pressed a few buttons on the MagiCoffee Maker 3000, and a whirring sound of grinding, sloshing, and brewing started. Gerald sat his leg across his knee, placed his specs lowly upon his nose, and sifted through the mail. He stopped at the last one as he tossed the usual promotions and bills across the table. It was a handwritten letter labeled with a return address he had not seen since his twenties. It was his childhood home's address. A house that had been willed to him after his parents died in a car crash on the night of his prom. They were coming to pick him up from his high school when a couple of drunk classmates plowed through his parents' station wagon—splitting the car and his parents in two. After graduating from the Univerisity of Nebraska with a degree in journalism, Gerald sold the house. He used the proceeds to pay off his student loans and set some aside to travel across Europe for three months. When he returned to the States, he started to apply to law school.
The buyer's name was Jim Wallace. At the time, he was thirty, had two little girls and a wife, and used to work for Gerald's father's heating and cooling company before his death. Gerald kept in touch with him for several years but later lost contact with him. It would seem to Gerald that Mr. Wallace was still living there, for his name sat atop the return address on the letter. Gerald took a moment to recollect his association with Mr. Wallace and consider the reason for this unexpected letter. He concluded there was none. Gerald ripped the seal apart and withdrew its contents. A piece of paper with Jim's handwriting came out, wrapped around a frayed, shabby, unopened envelope. Gerald held the two paper items in each hand and looked between the two. He looked to the letter first:
Dear Gerald,
I hope this letter finds you well (if it finds you at all). First, before we get into the reason for this letter, I wanted to give you a little update on things here. Mary and I are doing well and still living happily in the home you most generously sold us all those years ago. We have made so many memories here. Jessica and her husband often bring the grandkids over; Molly just graduated from nursing school and will move an hour away to Omaha. Your dad's company is still going strong. We have a fleet of service trucks and thirty technicians on hand. I would like to think he would be proud of what he started when it was just him, me, and four other guys running this place out of the garage—you were barely up to my knee at the time. It's been a trip, but I'm glad to report to you that everything is going well here!
You may be curious about why you've received a letter from me, considering we haven't spoken for many years now. Just this past week, I received a letter in the mail addressed to you. Checking by the postmark date, it was sent around the time when you were in college. Also, it looks like it came from Europe. I'm unsure why or how it is arriving thirty years later, but I felt it was such a unique circumstance that I just had to get it to you. I managed to find your address online and figured I would give it a shot.
It would be wonderful to hear from you and to let me know how you're doing. Perhaps you can come back to your hometown sometime. I know your big-city lawyer career takes up much of your time (I think you're still practicing), but if you ever find yourself back here, do drop by the old house.
Sincerely,
Jim Wallace
Gerald read the letter over again, then turned towards the unopened envelope and froze when he read the name Lea Bauer at the top of the letter. A swell of forgotten emotions and feelings spilled into Gerald's being. A tingling shiver swept down his back, and his hand, still holding the envelope, started to shake. Lea Bauer, he read again. He recognized her penmanship upon the letter. During his European trip, Gerald found himself in the quaint city of Salzburg, Austria. Salzburg was a town from a storybook, with its old stone castles, churches, and narrow stone streets lined by folksy little shops, taverns, and dwellings. It was there that he met Lea. Lea was an aspiring photographer with a little studio above a pub. It was at this pub that Gerald laid eyes upon her. She had lacey blonde hair and fluttering brown eyes that seemed to shine unwittingly. She sported earth-tone cardigans and half-beaten jeans and only went somewhere with her camera case slung over her shoulder. Gerald changed from one side of the bar to the other in the seat next to her and asked her what she was drinking. That spring, they were inseparable. They bounced through the Austrian countryside from every hamlet, mountain village, and hostel. She introduced Gerald to her parents, dairy cow farmers in Tyrol. It was a whirlwind of emotions that have all but lied dormant until today.
The crippled fibers split as Gerald parted the envelope's edge. He unfolded the two pieces of notebook paper. In faded penciled letters, Gerald read the letter:
July 18, 1989
Mein Süß,
The city is much more lively now. The summer warmth seems to have invited more Salzburgers into its streets. Everyone is much more welcoming and friendlier at this time of the year, but I feel so lonely without you. These past three weeks feel like months have passed. My heart aches for your kisses and spirit, and my mind dwells upon you constantly. I've been taking my bike farther out, looking for newer places to shoot to keep my mind preoccupied.
I know you asked me to come back with you to Nebraska. You make it sound like such a dreary place, but I love how you describe it. It reminds me of that film, “The Wizard of Oz.” I imagine living on a farm with you with nothing but fields upon fields out our backdoor; I would come to you with freshly baked strudel as you lean over your typewriter, writing your reports and stories for the local newspaper. I love your words. I know you tell me that you would perhaps like to be a lawyer and "make millions," as you say, but I know your heart: It would not make you happy. You need an adventure, not a courtroom; you need words, not case studies. Do not deaden that tender heart of yours that has lost so much in the pursuit of wealth. The peace you seek is in your mind and, from there, in your words, which is why I wish to join you.
My answer is yes, Gerald Stevens. Yes, I will marry you. Whether it's in Nebraska, Austria, Cairo, Sydney, or the North Pole, I will be by your side. With your words and my photographs, we can make beautiful stories to tell our children (I know you want five of them, but we can negotiate that).
I am in tears writing this, knowing that we will never be apart again. When you get this, let me know where to meet. I'll sell my things here, get the plane ticket, and fall into your arms again. Ich liebe dich, Gerald Stevens. I feel something beautiful saying it aloud. I am yours, mein Süß, forever and always.
I wait for your word.
With love,
Lea
Gerald's hand slid off the table, knocking over his coffee mug. It shattered, and the coffee splashed across the tile.
"Mr. Stevens!" cried Juana. She scuttled over to Gerald and bent down to look into his eyes. They had sunk a bit and looked past Juana as if she was not there. His lip shook, and he tucked it in to steady it. "Mr. Stevens, are you alright?"
Gerald placed a feeble hand on Juana's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he said. The timbre in his voice had gone.
"Are you sure, Mr. Stevens? Shall I call you a doctor?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary. Thank you."
"Do you want me to call Mrs. Stevens?"
"No. Don't call her. I'll be fine."
Juana looked him over a few times more before ensuring herself he was in no need of serious attention.
"I will clean this up," she said. "Would you like me to make you another?"
"No," he replied. "I think I'll pass, thank you."
Juana stepped aside and started to mop up the spill. Gerald's blank stare held, and his mind fell into the thousands of thoughts and dreams that had never been and never came.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Dreams Never Been"
Homestead Estates was a well-to-do neighborhood: gated, pristine, snaked with fairways, and inhabited by retired, blue-blooded Americans. On a crisp spring morning, Gerald Stevens's slippers scratched the driveway as he shuffled down in his Columbia University Law bathrobe. It was a long walk; all the Homestead Estate driveways were at least fifty yards long. He arrived at the mailbox and pulled open the latch. A short stack of mail sat within. Gerald slid them into his pocket and made the trek back to the house. As he ascended his front porch stairs, the door swung open. Brittany Stevens, Gerald's third wife and twenty years his younger, stepped out. The neon-pink Lululemon leggings showed a figure weathering the descent of a once taut shape from her college days a decade ago. She was still stunning, to say the least, but her eyes, hidden behind a set of Ray-Ban's, looked indifferently at her husband.
"Oh hey," she said in a mannerless way. Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but she continued. "I'm off to the gym."
"Oh, it's Saturday," he said. "Why don't you stay in, or we can go to that new cafe downtown that we always pass."
Brittany, keys dangling and fashionably pink water bottle in hand, remained at the top of the steps.
"A latte is the last thing I need," she said. "John is having me do an intense yoga session that he learned during his pilgrimage in East India. He only does these classes on weekends, and the girls at the country club said they should really take off these love handles I'm starting to get. I'll be back sometime after lunch."
Gerald nodded and scratched his pepper-colored whiskers. "Perhaps we can meet up for brunch by the gym, then," he said.
"I can't. He has the sessions in his backyard because the gym doesn't allow him to have his classes on the weekends, and his place is like really far."
Gerald furrowed his brow. "He has them in his backyard?"
"Ugh, I know. Isn't that annoying? But like, it's good to be in nature and all that for this, and he has like all of the authentic yoga paraphernalia that he got from meeting with yogis and gurus and like those kinds of people. He's super dedicated to the art, right?"
"I suppose. When will you be back then?"
"Sometime after lunch. I don't know."
Gerald continued to nod. "OK. I'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks! Love ya!" Brittany announced. She leaned over, kissed his wizened cheek, and climbed into her Range Rover. Gerald waved at her as the car sped down the driveway and disappeared around the gate. He entered the foyer of his stately home. The bottom floor had marble and oak throughout the rooms and vaulted ceilings with scaling windows. Most of the upstairs was empty, save for the master bedroom and bathroom. The remaining rooms remained hollow or functioned as storage for unpacked moving boxes and bags. Gerald entered the kitchen and sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the backyard window. He preferred it since he could see the golfers teeing off the twelfth hole past the pool and gazebo.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Stevens?" asked his maid.
"No, thank you, Juana."
"Perhaps a cup of coffee. I'll make it strong."
"That'll be fine. Thank you."
"Of course, Mr. Stevens."
Juana pressed a few buttons on the MagiCoffee Maker 3000, and a whirring sound of grinding, sloshing, and brewing started. Gerald sat his leg across his knee, placed his specs lowly upon his nose, and sifted through the mail. He stopped at the last one as he tossed the usual promotions and bills across the table. It was a handwritten letter labeled with a return address he had not seen since his twenties. It was his childhood home's address. A house that had been willed to him after his parents died in a car crash on the night of his prom. They were coming to pick him up from his high school when a couple of drunk classmates plowed through his parents' station wagon—splitting the car and his parents in two. After graduating from the Univerisity of Nebraska with a degree in journalism, Gerald sold the house. He used the proceeds to pay off his student loans and set some aside to travel across Europe for three months. When he returned to the States, he started to apply to law school.
The buyer's name was Jim Wallace. At the time, he was thirty, had two little girls and a wife, and used to work for Gerald's father's heating and cooling company before his death. Gerald kept in touch with him for several years but later lost contact with him. It would seem to Gerald that Mr. Wallace was still living there, for his name sat atop the return address on the letter. Gerald took a moment to recollect his association with Mr. Wallace and consider the reason for this unexpected letter. He concluded there was none. Gerald ripped the seal apart and withdrew its contents. A piece of paper with Jim's handwriting came out, wrapped around a frayed, shabby, unopened envelope. Gerald held the two paper items in each hand and looked between the two. He looked to the letter first:
Dear Gerald,
I hope this letter finds you well (if it finds you at all). First, before we get into the reason for this letter, I wanted to give you a little update on things here. Mary and I are doing well and still living happily in the home you most generously sold us all those years ago. We have made so many memories here. Jessica and her husband often bring the grandkids over; Molly just graduated from nursing school and will move an hour away to Omaha. Your dad's company is still going strong. We have a fleet of service trucks and thirty technicians on hand. I would like to think he would be proud of what he started when it was just him, me, and four other guys running this place out of the garage—you were barely up to my knee at the time. It's been a trip, but I'm glad to report to you that everything is going well here!
You may be curious about why you've received a letter from me, considering we haven't spoken for many years now. Just this past week, I received a letter in the mail addressed to you. Checking by the postmark date, it was sent around the time when you were in college. Also, it looks like it came from Europe. I'm unsure why or how it is arriving thirty years later, but I felt it was such a unique circumstance that I just had to get it to you. I managed to find your address online and figured I would give it a shot.
It would be wonderful to hear from you and to let me know how you're doing. Perhaps you can come back to your hometown sometime. I know your big-city lawyer career takes up much of your time (I think you're still practicing), but if you ever find yourself back here, do drop by the old house.
Sincerely,
Jim Wallace
Gerald read the letter over again, then turned towards the unopened envelope and froze when he read the name Lea Bauer at the top of the letter. A swell of forgotten emotions and feelings spilled into Gerald's being. A tingling shiver swept down his back, and his hand, still holding the envelope, started to shake. Lea Bauer, he read again. He recognized her penmanship upon the letter. During his European trip, Gerald found himself in the quaint city of Salzburg, Austria. Salzburg was a town from a storybook, with its old stone castles, churches, and narrow stone streets lined by folksy little shops, taverns, and dwellings. It was there that he met Lea. Lea was an aspiring photographer with a little studio above a pub. It was at this pub that Gerald laid eyes upon her. She had lacey blonde hair and fluttering brown eyes that seemed to shine unwittingly. She sported earth-tone cardigans and half-beaten jeans and only went somewhere with her camera case slung over her shoulder. Gerald changed from one side of the bar to the other in the seat next to her and asked her what she was drinking. That spring, they were inseparable. They bounced through the Austrian countryside from every hamlet, mountain village, and hostel. She introduced Gerald to her parents, dairy cow farmers in Tyrol. It was a whirlwind of emotions that have all but lied dormant until today.
The crippled fibers split as Gerald parted the envelope's edge. He unfolded the two pieces of notebook paper. In faded penciled letters, Gerald read the letter:
July 18, 1989
Mein Süß,
The city is much more lively now. The summer warmth seems to have invited more Salzburgers into its streets. Everyone is much more welcoming and friendlier at this time of the year, but I feel so lonely without you. These past three weeks feel like months have passed. My heart aches for your kisses and spirit, and my mind dwells upon you constantly. I've been taking my bike farther out, looking for newer places to shoot to keep my mind preoccupied.
I know you asked me to come back with you to Nebraska. You make it sound like such a dreary place, but I love how you describe it. It reminds me of that film, “The Wizard of Oz.” I imagine living on a farm with you with nothing but fields upon fields out our backdoor; I would come to you with freshly baked strudel as you lean over your typewriter, writing your reports and stories for the local newspaper. I love your words. I know you tell me that you would perhaps like to be a lawyer and "make millions," as you say, but I know your heart: It would not make you happy. You need an adventure, not a courtroom; you need words, not case studies. Do not deaden that tender heart of yours that has lost so much in the pursuit of wealth. The peace you seek is in your mind and, from there, in your words, which is why I wish to join you.
My answer is yes, Gerald Stevens. Yes, I will marry you. Whether it's in Nebraska, Austria, Cairo, Sydney, or the North Pole, I will be by your side. With your words and my photographs, we can make beautiful stories to tell our children (I know you want five of them, but we can negotiate that).
I am in tears writing this, knowing that we will never be apart again. When you get this, let me know where to meet. I'll sell my things here, get the plane ticket, and fall into your arms again. Ich liebe dich, Gerald Stevens. I feel something beautiful saying it aloud. I am yours, mein Süß, forever and always.
I wait for your word.
With love,
Lea
Gerald's hand slid off the table, knocking over his coffee mug. It shattered, and the coffee splashed across the tile.
"Mr. Stevens!" cried Juana. She scuttled over to Gerald and bent down to look into his eyes. They had sunk a bit and looked past Juana as if she was not there. His lip shook, and he tucked it in to steady it. "Mr. Stevens, are you alright?"
Gerald placed a feeble hand on Juana's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he said. The timbre in his voice had gone.
"Are you sure, Mr. Stevens? Shall I call you a doctor?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary. Thank you."
"Do you want me to call Mrs. Stevens?"
"No. Don't call her. I'll be fine."
Juana looked him over a few times more before ensuring herself he was in no need of serious attention.
"I will clean this up," she said. "Would you like me to make you another?"
"No," he replied. "I think I'll pass, thank you."
Juana stepped aside and started to mop up the spill. Gerald's blank stare held, and his mind fell into the thousands of thoughts and dreams that had never been and never came.
Reedsy Prompt #279: Embrace the Unknown with IndieReader
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #279: Embrace the Unknown with IndieReader contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Man to Monster"
The bitemark upon my shin shined red with a purple hue outlining the teeth' indentations.
"No! No! George, please, no!" wailed my wife.
Her knees buckled, slamming against the wooden floor of the abandoned, looted home we had found short reprieve in God-knows-where, Michigan. My children, Meryl and Leo, stood behind their distraught mother. By the looks on their faces, they had not yet comprehended the severity of my situation.
It had been a week and a half since the outbreak—a lab test that had gone awry. The U.S. military thought they had created a superhuman drug, one that overrode the humanistic qualities of pain, reservations, fear, and the consequence of reckless abandonment. Simultaneously, this drug also heightened testosterone and adrenaline levels beyond their standard yield. The intent was, upon inoculation of the said drug, the soldier, Marine, fighter pilot, policeman, fireman, and any other form of military and first-responder personnel necessary for the safety and protection of the populace would become fearless machines that could enter any burning building, gunfight, and combat zone with the sole intention of completing their objective. Without the inhibitions of the typical human, one would think this was the beginning of creating the most fearless corps of men and women the world had ever seen.
From my understanding, the testing transpired in a northern Californian military installation. Volunteers of the U.S. armed forces participated in the experimentation with the promise of hefty compensation. At first, it seemed a success. News reports stated that the "super soldier" had been produced, stoking courage in our countrymen and fear in our enemies. Footage circulating the interwebs showed army men stepping through thick, boarded walls, swarming and cutting down artificial targets with precision and lethality, scaling walls at lightning-fast speed, and performing deftly feats on land, air, and sea. The Pentagon was still patting itself on the back when one of the test subjects had ravaged and gored his wife, child, and housepet. Not only that, another was at a house party and had cut, bit, and shredded some of the other partygoers with their bare hands. Worse, those affected by these sudden acts of acute violence had taken on the monstrous nature as well. The captured affected, now infected, were held against their will by scientists of the highest order. These experts revealed the drug's design had gone rogue. What best could be described as a feedback loop, the effects that made the drug successful had become indefatigable. The bodies of those with the drug in their bloodstream were unable to shake its domineering effects. It seemed to feed itself, making the subjects more fearless and tolerant of pain.
Moreover, its psychosis-altering capabilities had reached levels of deadly proportions. A ravenous desire to bite, claw, and eat raw flesh had become the deity of their souls and singular desire. They had become what we had called in sci-fi, fiction lore, and literary horror, now a reality, zombies.
When our little suburban outpost in Lansing had become overrun by these zombies, we, like millions of others across the country, made a break for safety. As to where that was, we did not know, but we knew to pack our things and take off in the minivan. However, that did not last long, as traffic and the onslaught of the infected stagnated vehicular mobility. We took on foot, crossing medians, abandoned interstates, through woods and fields, and anywhere where the screams of victims and wretched cries of monsters had subsided. Government proclamations were useless; assuring us to stay in our houses until protection arrived was akin to waiting in a burning house until rain clouds arrived. To top it all off, there was not even a whisper of a cure. We were at the mercy of this infernal contagion.
The zombies finally forced us out of a vacant barn we had stayed in for a few days. I hotwired an old pickup truck in a nearby garage and drove on some backroads until we encountered an abandoned neighborhood. With a machete I had collected in my hand, I had cut down all opposition in our way. A fully infected zombie, which still had the rigors of a merciless beast, also had severely debilitated coordination and reaction. My machete swiped and sliced through the susceptible flesh of the infected; a mere sidestep and a high school-level trained baseball swing proved sufficient. All seemed manageable, that is, until I passed a half-chewed corpse, severed by what appeared to be the teeth marks of a chainsaw. As I motioned for my family to hurry over an HVAC unit and through a busted-out living room window, the halved corpse snatched me by the ankle. With its clammy, gray hand, it yanked itself towards my leg and clamped its maw around my shin. I stifled my cry and hacked it away until it fell still. My wife, Erin, noticing the struggle, immediately turned her eyes toward the wound as I entered the abode, leading us to our current predicament.
She groaned and cried, knowing what was in store for me, for us. I could not help but try to comfort her. I bent down to collect her.
"No!" she shrieked, slapping my hand away. A sudden life beheld her, for she scuttled to our children and held them in her arms—a darkened complexion formed on her face. She snatched the machete and extended its edge toward me.
My initial reaction was to reprimand her for the hurt, but, conceding doom was at my door, it gave me hope. For even if the slightest bit of my bodily fluids entered her bloodstream, our children could fall too, devoured by filicidal mania. If my wife were willing to reject her husband, one she had been lovingly married to for nearly a decade, with such sharp rebuke, she must certainly have the perseverance to lead two of our four surviving children. My children, Meryl and Leo, had not fully understood the dystopian future before them. At the formative ages of eight and six, respectively, they knew something was unnatural about this new reign of terror. They had seen their elder brother and sister ripped to pieces, protecting them from the infected pursuants. When I found time to weep for my eviscerated firstborns, I did so liberally, but not in front of them. I will join them shortly, but I must put my mortal family in order first.
"Honey, Meryl, Leo," I said, kneeling to meet their eye level.
"Yes, Daddy?" uttered Meryl. She had her chin against her chest, and it quivered.
"That's a good girl," I said. "I want you to—"
A sudden pang shot through me. The side of my neck tightened, and my lower jaw protruded out, baring my lower row of teeth. The children gasped. My wife pulled them close to her and backed away from me.
"Back!" I shouted. "Get back!"
I was not sure how the transition would consume me, but I had certainly felt it. A raging swell of power spread within me. It was like a high, unlike anything I had experienced before. My strength seemed to surge; the forces of gravity were effectless. A ludicrous idea came over me that I could easily lift a car or thrust my knee through the wall. Subsequently, a craving for flesh had come. My mind started to obsess over the notion of sinking my teeth into a sumptuous piece of raw chicken. I thought about how my teeth would break the surface, diving into its tender structure and tearing it and consuming it, slaking my hunger. I slid my tongue between my molars to replicate the sensation. Then, my senses returned.
I must have fallen into a fit, for my family gaped at me with fretful eyes. I was on my side in a pool of sweat. I didn't move. If I could lie still and slow my heart rate, perhaps the effects of the bite would curb, leaving my family more time to flee so they could remember me before I succumbed.
"Sweetheart," I grunted. A pain was forming deep within the pit of my stomach. "I want you to—I want you to get to my parents."
My wife, clutching our children, replied with a tear-filled cry, "How? How, why, how?"
"Their cabin in Barryton. They have guns, land, it's isolated, it's ... Arrgh!"
The pain had reached an unruly state. My back arched, my limbs tightened, and I began to writhe and twist upon the ground violently. I froze, paralyzed by the locking measures of my muscles. I saw my son's leg—supple and bare—peek out from behind his mother. It was then that a sudden predatory inhabitant inside me overpowered my sensibilities. My fingers dug into the floor; I let out a roar, drool trailing from my jowls, and scampered toward my terrified family, ready to tear the flesh from their hides.
"Run, kids! Run!" my wife cried.
As my family started to flee, the fear of loss, my human quality, supplanted the monster that had hijacked my mind. My body eased, and I slumped again.
"Erin!" I shouted. She and my children were near the end of the hall. They turned around. I was dizzy, exhausted, and on the brink of fainting, for my body could not handle the sudden rise of the drug's power.
"What—what is it?" she shouted through sobs.
My head rolled to its side. I took in the sight of the beautiful family I had. The woman I had vowed to, the son and daughter I had watched grow and play, the family I carried in my heart.
"Take care. I love you."
Her chin quivered. "I love you, too," she said.
I breathed a sigh of release. "Go!" I shouted. "Get out of here!"
My wife nodded and sped around the corner. When the patters of their feet were out of earshot, I was at peace. The mental guards laid down their defenses, and the disease scaled the ramparts, displacing the man I was and becoming the monster I had feared. I let out a horrid, blood-fueled screech as I rose from the floor, tearing my clothes from my body. It was rage, it was fury, it was the lust to kill and taste the living. A waft of the odors left by my family slithered up my nostrils. I inhaled their flavor, turned towards the hall, and sped after them. The hunt was on.
"Aarrraagghhhh!"
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Man to Monster"
The bitemark upon my shin shined red with a purple hue outlining the teeth' indentations.
"No! No! George, please, no!" wailed my wife.
Her knees buckled, slamming against the wooden floor of the abandoned, looted home we had found short reprieve in God-knows-where, Michigan. My children, Meryl and Leo, stood behind their distraught mother. By the looks on their faces, they had not yet comprehended the severity of my situation.
It had been a week and a half since the outbreak—a lab test that had gone awry. The U.S. military thought they had created a superhuman drug, one that overrode the humanistic qualities of pain, reservations, fear, and the consequence of reckless abandonment. Simultaneously, this drug also heightened testosterone and adrenaline levels beyond their standard yield. The intent was, upon inoculation of the said drug, the soldier, Marine, fighter pilot, policeman, fireman, and any other form of military and first-responder personnel necessary for the safety and protection of the populace would become fearless machines that could enter any burning building, gunfight, and combat zone with the sole intention of completing their objective. Without the inhibitions of the typical human, one would think this was the beginning of creating the most fearless corps of men and women the world had ever seen.
From my understanding, the testing transpired in a northern Californian military installation. Volunteers of the U.S. armed forces participated in the experimentation with the promise of hefty compensation. At first, it seemed a success. News reports stated that the "super soldier" had been produced, stoking courage in our countrymen and fear in our enemies. Footage circulating the interwebs showed army men stepping through thick, boarded walls, swarming and cutting down artificial targets with precision and lethality, scaling walls at lightning-fast speed, and performing deftly feats on land, air, and sea. The Pentagon was still patting itself on the back when one of the test subjects had ravaged and gored his wife, child, and housepet. Not only that, another was at a house party and had cut, bit, and shredded some of the other partygoers with their bare hands. Worse, those affected by these sudden acts of acute violence had taken on the monstrous nature as well. The captured affected, now infected, were held against their will by scientists of the highest order. These experts revealed the drug's design had gone rogue. What best could be described as a feedback loop, the effects that made the drug successful had become indefatigable. The bodies of those with the drug in their bloodstream were unable to shake its domineering effects. It seemed to feed itself, making the subjects more fearless and tolerant of pain.
Moreover, its psychosis-altering capabilities had reached levels of deadly proportions. A ravenous desire to bite, claw, and eat raw flesh had become the deity of their souls and singular desire. They had become what we had called in sci-fi, fiction lore, and literary horror, now a reality, zombies.
When our little suburban outpost in Lansing had become overrun by these zombies, we, like millions of others across the country, made a break for safety. As to where that was, we did not know, but we knew to pack our things and take off in the minivan. However, that did not last long, as traffic and the onslaught of the infected stagnated vehicular mobility. We took on foot, crossing medians, abandoned interstates, through woods and fields, and anywhere where the screams of victims and wretched cries of monsters had subsided. Government proclamations were useless; assuring us to stay in our houses until protection arrived was akin to waiting in a burning house until rain clouds arrived. To top it all off, there was not even a whisper of a cure. We were at the mercy of this infernal contagion.
The zombies finally forced us out of a vacant barn we had stayed in for a few days. I hotwired an old pickup truck in a nearby garage and drove on some backroads until we encountered an abandoned neighborhood. With a machete I had collected in my hand, I had cut down all opposition in our way. A fully infected zombie, which still had the rigors of a merciless beast, also had severely debilitated coordination and reaction. My machete swiped and sliced through the susceptible flesh of the infected; a mere sidestep and a high school-level trained baseball swing proved sufficient. All seemed manageable, that is, until I passed a half-chewed corpse, severed by what appeared to be the teeth marks of a chainsaw. As I motioned for my family to hurry over an HVAC unit and through a busted-out living room window, the halved corpse snatched me by the ankle. With its clammy, gray hand, it yanked itself towards my leg and clamped its maw around my shin. I stifled my cry and hacked it away until it fell still. My wife, Erin, noticing the struggle, immediately turned her eyes toward the wound as I entered the abode, leading us to our current predicament.
She groaned and cried, knowing what was in store for me, for us. I could not help but try to comfort her. I bent down to collect her.
"No!" she shrieked, slapping my hand away. A sudden life beheld her, for she scuttled to our children and held them in her arms—a darkened complexion formed on her face. She snatched the machete and extended its edge toward me.
My initial reaction was to reprimand her for the hurt, but, conceding doom was at my door, it gave me hope. For even if the slightest bit of my bodily fluids entered her bloodstream, our children could fall too, devoured by filicidal mania. If my wife were willing to reject her husband, one she had been lovingly married to for nearly a decade, with such sharp rebuke, she must certainly have the perseverance to lead two of our four surviving children. My children, Meryl and Leo, had not fully understood the dystopian future before them. At the formative ages of eight and six, respectively, they knew something was unnatural about this new reign of terror. They had seen their elder brother and sister ripped to pieces, protecting them from the infected pursuants. When I found time to weep for my eviscerated firstborns, I did so liberally, but not in front of them. I will join them shortly, but I must put my mortal family in order first.
"Honey, Meryl, Leo," I said, kneeling to meet their eye level.
"Yes, Daddy?" uttered Meryl. She had her chin against her chest, and it quivered.
"That's a good girl," I said. "I want you to—"
A sudden pang shot through me. The side of my neck tightened, and my lower jaw protruded out, baring my lower row of teeth. The children gasped. My wife pulled them close to her and backed away from me.
"Back!" I shouted. "Get back!"
I was not sure how the transition would consume me, but I had certainly felt it. A raging swell of power spread within me. It was like a high, unlike anything I had experienced before. My strength seemed to surge; the forces of gravity were effectless. A ludicrous idea came over me that I could easily lift a car or thrust my knee through the wall. Subsequently, a craving for flesh had come. My mind started to obsess over the notion of sinking my teeth into a sumptuous piece of raw chicken. I thought about how my teeth would break the surface, diving into its tender structure and tearing it and consuming it, slaking my hunger. I slid my tongue between my molars to replicate the sensation. Then, my senses returned.
I must have fallen into a fit, for my family gaped at me with fretful eyes. I was on my side in a pool of sweat. I didn't move. If I could lie still and slow my heart rate, perhaps the effects of the bite would curb, leaving my family more time to flee so they could remember me before I succumbed.
"Sweetheart," I grunted. A pain was forming deep within the pit of my stomach. "I want you to—I want you to get to my parents."
My wife, clutching our children, replied with a tear-filled cry, "How? How, why, how?"
"Their cabin in Barryton. They have guns, land, it's isolated, it's ... Arrgh!"
The pain had reached an unruly state. My back arched, my limbs tightened, and I began to writhe and twist upon the ground violently. I froze, paralyzed by the locking measures of my muscles. I saw my son's leg—supple and bare—peek out from behind his mother. It was then that a sudden predatory inhabitant inside me overpowered my sensibilities. My fingers dug into the floor; I let out a roar, drool trailing from my jowls, and scampered toward my terrified family, ready to tear the flesh from their hides.
"Run, kids! Run!" my wife cried.
As my family started to flee, the fear of loss, my human quality, supplanted the monster that had hijacked my mind. My body eased, and I slumped again.
"Erin!" I shouted. She and my children were near the end of the hall. They turned around. I was dizzy, exhausted, and on the brink of fainting, for my body could not handle the sudden rise of the drug's power.
"What—what is it?" she shouted through sobs.
My head rolled to its side. I took in the sight of the beautiful family I had. The woman I had vowed to, the son and daughter I had watched grow and play, the family I carried in my heart.
"Take care. I love you."
Her chin quivered. "I love you, too," she said.
I breathed a sigh of release. "Go!" I shouted. "Get out of here!"
My wife nodded and sped around the corner. When the patters of their feet were out of earshot, I was at peace. The mental guards laid down their defenses, and the disease scaled the ramparts, displacing the man I was and becoming the monster I had feared. I let out a horrid, blood-fueled screech as I rose from the floor, tearing my clothes from my body. It was rage, it was fury, it was the lust to kill and taste the living. A waft of the odors left by my family slithered up my nostrils. I inhaled their flavor, turned towards the hall, and sped after them. The hunt was on.
"Aarrraagghhhh!"
Reedsy Prompt #280: Talk That Talk
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #280: Talk That Talk contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
The objective of this particular challenge I selected was to "Write a story that solely consists of dialogue. (No dialogue tags, actions, or descriptions. Just pure dialogue!)." So, I rely on you to author the scene, characters, and actions in your mind without my words.
My inspiration for this came from the song "La hija de Juan Simón", particularly from the Rosalía version. Click the link embedded in the title of the work below.
"The Daughter of Juan Simón"
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
The objective of this particular challenge I selected was to "Write a story that solely consists of dialogue. (No dialogue tags, actions, or descriptions. Just pure dialogue!)." So, I rely on you to author the scene, characters, and actions in your mind without my words.
My inspiration for this came from the song "La hija de Juan Simón", particularly from the Rosalía version. Click the link embedded in the title of the work below.
"The Daughter of Juan Simón"
