#60 - The Heart of the Queen (Part 1)

“We're being overrun!” Sarah Kerrigan shouted into her NepConX250 attached to her utility helmet.

A few moments of deafening battle ensued, the vicious creatures beginning to break through the first line of defense. By god, how many of them were there? Bunkers crumbled, tanks went haywire. People died. So many people died; she couldn't help but watch in amazement and horror.

“Requesting immediate Dropship assistance,” she then breathed into her radio, a bit calmer than before.

A sloshing growl suddenly echoed to her immediate right. She whipped her head around to see one of them headed straight for her, in a full gallop. The C10-Canister Special Combat Rifle seemed to aim itself as Sarah took a hasty aim and fired at the creature. The finger-sized bullet punctured the thing between it's red eyes. It staggered from side to side for a few gruesome moments as thick, black blood streamed from the wound. It let out a pained bellow, then settled to the dusty floor.

Kerrigan turned back to the heart of the battle. Their base of operations was crumbling quickly. A marine standing at a mere twenty yards from her was launched into a nearby structure as a kind of crystallized mass of organic matter punched into his armor and tore at his flesh.

“Guys?” she said with a tone of muddled desperation in her vocality, “How about that assistance?”

She listened intently. No voice came out of the speaker end. No reassuring words that help was on the way.

More of their enemy poured into the front lines; a horrid mass of claws, teeth and spines slowly working their way through gunfire and explosive shot. The battle seemed to slow to a painful pace as she witnessed it, taking note of details. Towering giants, known as Ultralisks, plowed through buildings, their gargantuan tusks lacerating iron, concrete and steel as if it were wax paper. She gazed to her left quickly, reddish hair flowing in front of her face. Dozens of the smaller, slithering Hydralisks rose in formation. They stretched their heads and began spitting highly sharpened spines at the Terran opposition. The fine, serrated tips in the projectiles could pierce the firmest of armor and the sturdiest of weaponry. Accompanying them were the even smaller Zerglings. They stood only a mere few feet from the ground, about the size of a dog, but their sharpened claws and fangs compensated for their small stature.

She continued to watch in horrified amazement as their enemy, known only to them as the Zerg, toppled structure after structure. Gunshots rang, cannons ignited the skies, people screamed. She looked briefly upward. No Dropships. The last of their defense is all that remained; they weren't going to hold out much longer. Kerrigan fired at some close enemies; the time taken from observation lasting only a few moments.

“Jim? Arcturus? What the hell is going on up there?” she breathed into the transmitter, attempting to keep her voice as even as possible.

Still, nothing. Strangling fear began panged at her spine as she now witnessed their final line of defense broken. Still, she fought alongside her fellow Terrans as the monstrosities cascaded into the heart of their base camp.

Building after Terran building crumbled before the overwhelming masses of their enemies. As the Command Center fell, Sarah, a squad of four marines and a maintenance worker known as an SCV were all that remained upon the blood-caked battlefield. The SCV was the first to die as the Zerg quickly advanced upon them. . A group of Hydralisks shot their destructive spit at the machine, it immediately breaking down and the poor man inside was left only to drown in gasoline and machine fluid . Sarah fired her weapon desperately, but little was achieved. When one of the slithering beasts would fall, ten more would rise to take its place. An Ultralisk shot out a prong-like tongue from somewhere under it's tusks and grappled two of the squad, their kicking and screaming bodies quickly becoming lost to what lay beneath the beast's tusks. She cringed as she heard the metallic crunching sounds of the colossal thing chewing her comrades.

#59 - The Escape (exerpt from The Mechanical Heart trilogy)

I heaved the both of us through the window, toward the least fiery corner of the opening. The fresh air was a moment of relief for my lungs, just as I came to the realization that I hadn't looked out the area I had just stepped from.

Cool air rushed past my face as we fell downward, coming in contact with the roof a few feet below. I ignored the fresh pain in my back and dug my heels into the roofing. We were still sliding; how far did the roof go out before we fell tumbling from the second story? Then, I felt my feet drop from under me, the rest of my body following.

It was only a moment, but the fear and anger I felt coupled with the adrenaline shooting through my veins made it feel like a forever downward spiral into nothingness. I hit the ground first, Paul's body coming in direct contact with mine an instant later. I felt my breath instantly knocked from me, along with the unprecedented cracking noise in my side and an explosive pain that threatened to deter me from my mission.

“We got to go,” I managed to say with heaving gasps that sent more pain throughout my body, “Paul, if you can hear me, please roll.”

Amazingly, the weight was taken from me in an instant. Paul had reacted; he was now lying beside me upon the cold dirt-caked ground. Ignoring every protesting muscle within my body, I sat up. I clutched at my side as a searing ache almost caused me to scream and give away our position. I sat there for a few moments, my breath slowly returning to me in waves. I placed my free hand beneath me and pushed myself to my knees, a slight dizziness filling my head. I attempted to shake away the unwelcome feeling, turning my attention to the man now lying beside me.

“Almost there,” I said to him while grabbing a hold of his arms again, “Grab onto me, Paul.”

This side of the building was mercifully unlit. I took a quick look of my surroundings while forcing Paul's body against me. It appeared to be the side of the house; the adjacent home a mere few feet across the way from where we were. I heaved Paul up, my legs shaking a bit from exertion and pain suppression as I lurched forward, toward the front of the building. I paused at the end of the wall, my breath slowing as I peered around the corner. Two men stood before the house, their backs illuminated by the glowing orange of fire that now consumed a large portion of the structure. They were hunched over, appearing to be doing something with the ground in the front yard.

I slowly maneuvered my free hand to my holster. White-hot rage filled me, threatening to give away my position with shaking fingers. I took a moment to calm myself, my eyelids sliding over smoke-burned and stinging eyes. I freed my pistol from it's hold, drawing back the hammer with slow, deliberate movements. My body edged outward, my arm extending forward with the gun pointing at the nearest one. I took aim; my side throbbed with pain, my muscles screaming from exhaustion and exertion of carrying a man twice my size.

The first shot caught the back square in the back of his head. He settled forward, likely dead before the rest of him settled into the ground. The other instantly reacted, but he was already too late. The second shot went a bit wide, catching him on the right collarbone. His scream fell upon two sets of uncaring, unconscious, rage-filled ears.

I fired twice more, striking him somewhere in the middle. His body was failing him. He stumbled and fell, his chest heaving in the glowing firelight. I stumbled over to him, Paul in tow.

“I was just doing my job!” I heard him scream as I approached, “Please don't-”

I let the barrel of the gun fall to his forehead and pulled the trigger. I continued walking onward, toward the black vehicle we had originally come from. It seemed akin to hours ago at this point.

“Paul, your keys,” I said to him, shaking my own body a bit to rouse him.

I looked to see his fingers gesture to an area on his right side. I reached down, finding a pocket. My fingers brushed against slightly warmed metal. I tore the object from his coat, jammed it into the car's lock, and turned. My side screamed for attention as I repositioned Paul in my arms to open the door, then laid him in the seat. I made my way toward the other side of the vehicle, taking a moment to look back at the house. The unmistakable shapes of people were beginning to flood the front yard, one running from a newly opened door from the neighboring house. It wouldn't be long before they took notice of my presence.

#58 - The Human Tree

There is something in the rain.  It makes the water taste different, somehow.  I don't find it completely disagreeable; it actually feels a bit warm spreading through my roots.  The people will not react well to it, however.  They don't feel anything right now.  For now, they will eat and drink and smile and work each and every day.  They will thrive for now. 

To explain concepts such as months and years to me would be like me attempting to describe the sensation of fresh sunlight as it strikes my green leaves.  We can both agree upon the subject matter, but the way we experience the world around us is, to put it simply, different.

This is why I can feel the twinge of flavoring in the water that the people that walk around and beneath me do not. 

Years pass.  To me they are like breaths, had I known what such a thing felt within me.  The people around me, my friends, seem distressed.  The world does not seem quite like it once was.  All of them seem to be in a constant hurry.  No one wants to lean against me anymore for shade and rest.  I do not like this change in their behavior.  I wish I could understand their dialect; those strange, sustained grunts and moans that source from them.  I cannot understand, but I can detect emotion.  Things are not well.

It has been a while longer.  Again, I cannot fathom how long.  People are lying lifeless in the paved walkways.  One of their boxes with wheels has collided into the hill directly behind me, long since abandoned.  Those that still live look dazed, confused.  Perhaps they are hungry?  I wish that I was of the namesake to bear fruit for those that need it the most.  I look on with fresh sorrow.  Why is it so many are like this now?  I lap at the waters held within the ground beneath me, tasting in the richness of that strange flavor I detected those many years ago.  It has intensified many folds now, it sending a warmth of which I cannot quite explain.  What was it about this warmth that my friends found so intolerable?

Time has passed once more.  The world around me is silent.  Sometimes I will hear them, but it is never for long.  The long stretch of blackness that spreads out on either side of me – once alight with the noises of their machines, the rhythm of their steps – was empty.  The dead that have been lying around me are in the final throes of decay. 

I am lonely.  So many breaths have left me, without a single difference coming to pass amongst the surrounding area.  I feel myself growing old; the toughened skin that wraps around me is becoming grey and splintered.  I test at the water once more, in curiosity.  No such warmth is felt from the liquid. If only there was a single other soul left to appreciate the change.

My limbs creak in the dusty wind.  The black stretch of material has become cracked and worn; areas have started to sprout fresh grass.  The tall, hollow and concrete things my past friends once resided within have long, spiny cracks in the wall faces.  Foliage seemed to cover everything now.  With one, final breath I allow my arms to drop for the first and final time.  My pride; a single, small seedpod fell from me and struck at the ground.  I take one last look at the fallen world, relax myself, and focus downward at the seed beneath me.  I can only hope that they can, perhaps one day, hear the bustle of those strange and wonderful beings once again.

#57 - Bloodied Snow

His broad shoulders sunk with a mixture of dread and anger that churned within his heavy heart. His arms let fall the stack of fresh meats that he cradled as the sour odor of smoke curled about his nostrils.   Shock seemed like a palpable thing; it coursed through his blood like a fresh, fiery brew.  What had once been his beloved hometown was now a mess of still-smoldering buildings, slaughtered livestock, and rapidly cooling corpses.  At one time, these were his friends.

He began walking.  His heavily bound feet crunched through the hard snow, his breath misting in front of him in large, whitish clouds.  The tavern sign, once a symbol of reverie and celebration in past hunts, lied upon the frozen ground before him like a fallen comrade.  All around the building, accompanying splintered wood and strips of fur, were bodies.  He trudged toward the nearest of them, his heart foolishly hopeful that the man would stir from the noise of his approach.  He placed a large, calloused hand upon the back of the man’s neck, feeling no movement within.  

He continued on, his feet having to be supported beneath a thick layer of crystallized blood as he walked toward the town’s center.  The whipping, chilled wind was his only companion in his sorrow.   It added to his pain by gnawing upon his exposed ears and hands.  More bodies filled the town square; some bearing long swords and armor of an attack.  Most didn’t.  Most were the smaller bodies of women and children.  His anger impossibly intensified.  They must have attacked while most of the warriors were away on a hunt, just like him.

White-hot rage filled him, seemingly at once.  To witness the death of women and children – those without the means to defend themselves from the hardened warriors of their enemies – was cowardliness in the purest of forms.  He drew his sword from its sheath and began stalking around the camp.  His hands were shaking with rage, his eyes stung with tears.  He wanted someone to hurt; to cut and make bleed like so many of those he now witnessed surrounding him.

 Suddenly, a sound echoed out to his left, falling upon his trained and listening ears.  He turned, the long furs around him shifting a bit upon his body.  He approached the noise quickly and without any thought to stealth or to preserve the element of surprise.  His body was much too filled with the vengeful souls of his brothers to do such things.  A nearby building seemed to house the disturbance he had heard.  Without hesitation, he kicked at the cracked wooden door separating him from his enemy’s fate.  He trudged inside, weapon at the ready.  

His eyes narrowed intently downward, toward the back corner of the room.  A single, trembling child lay huddled against the charred wall.  The boy took notice of his imposing figure, his small eyes wide with terror.  Without even looking at the child, he knew this was one of their enemies.  He took long, quick strides for the boy, his weapon raised, every fiber within his body aching to slice downward.  What did it matter, he thought.  So many of his own people’s children now lay dead just outside.  This child’s death would bring him peace.  A small glimmer of sweet revenge that he could practically taste upon his lips.

The sword clattered to the floor.  He knelt before the boy,  his hand extended.  A piece of salted meat was held before the child

“You are one of the Aduuren,” he spoke with a slow, authoritative voice, “So you are aware that your people will never return for you.  As far as their concerns, you are dead. “

The boy seemed to understand.  He nodded swiftly.  Perhaps to merely appease him?

“I will feed and take care of you, boy,” he said with a heavy heart, “As I have no one to care for any longer.  I will teach you what you need to know, and in the end-“

He stood to his full height while grabbing at the boy’s arm and gently pulling him to his feet.

“You will see what monsters the people you were raised by,” he finished while turning for the door.

#56 - Why I Write

Why do I write?  Why do I feel the all encompassing, irresistible urge to put pen to paper, or finger to keystroke?  It doesn't do anything for me.  It doesn't further my professional career, give any financial or intellectual security.  What does this habit do for me?  Why must I keep going, page after page, without any beginning or end in sight?

I write because it give my life purpose.  I write for others just as much as I write for myself.  I write because my dreams do not allow me to sleep, sometimes.  I write because I don't know how not to.  I write because characters and scenes will pop into my head, usually while on completed unrelated mental topics.  I write for all the people that don't know how to, but would like to try.  I write to remember.  I write to forget.  Sometimes, I write to enhance personal experiences in my daily life.

I write because the feeling of procrastinating is so much better than the feeling of nothing.  I write because I like to go back late at night and read my own work for entertainment.  I write because there is too much stuff in my head.  I do write to hopefully be published someday, but that is not the focus.  I write just to see if I can.  I write because some books should not have ended that particular way, with that person in power.

I write because the world inspires me to.  I write to feel like I am getting things done in the course of my day.  I write to give birth to new ideas, as well as destroy them.  I write to give life and meaning to completely fake, completely fabricated people.  I write because my high school English teacher told me to one day, and I haven't stopped since.  I write because the feeling of letting someone read your work is indescribably remarkable.  I write because I enjoy the soft sound of keys striking in pure silence.  

I write because it is as much of a painful, excruciating process as a soothing one.     I write because my feelings make no sense unless they are on paper, sometimes.  I write because I failed as an artist, but still feel unbelievably creative.  I write to make my time feel worthwhile.  I write to allow characters to gain a mind of their own and start to tell the story for me, with me as a mere commentator to their actions.  I write because I didn’t go to college for it, which is one of my biggest regrets in recent memory. 

I write because it makes me feel smarter.  I write to leave something behind when I die.  I write to have something my future children can read and be proud of their dad.  I write to huddle at my computer late at night sometimes while scrolling through the pages of my work.  I write to have little chunks and bits of me and those I am closest to scattered throughout my stories, just to see how they will interact with one another in other, fantastic settings.  I write to submit it to writing forums in front of a sea of strangers, just to see the reactions.  I write to hear negative comments

I write to grow.  To learn something new every day.  To teach someone something new about the world.  To be able to use a word I learned in the dictionary.  To hone my skill.  To communicate with others.  To cheer someone up, or bring them down when they need it.  To express love to my wife.  To research something introduced in one of my stories.  To recharge my batteries.  Because I love a good adventure, even if it is in the comfort of my own home.  To have fun, and laugh a little along the way.  To let off steam.  To alleviate stress.  To get stressed when I need to be.  To fire myself up.  To make me feel good.  To get my fingers tired from so much typing that I can’t possibly keep going, then go some more. 

Why do you do what you do?  Can you fill an entire page of why?

A Special Announcement

I am going to be taking the rest of the month of October off, to relax prepare for my wedding that is coming up on the 23rd.  I will return in November with brand new stories!

#55 - The Riot (Exerpt from A Mechanical Heart)

I fired twice more as Randal wordlessly charged for me. I watched him expertly duck from my gunfire while pushing off the ground and grabbing at my middle. I let out an involuntary shout as I was lifted and thrown painfully into the wall of my home. He was on me then, his figure dominating my vision and shadow falling upon me as he snatched at my neck. I retaliated before his grip became too tight; pushing my bare foot into his chest and kicking. He faltered just enough for me to grab at his slackened hand. A loud cry ensued as I quickly gripped at Randal's index finger and twisted backward. I clamored to my feet, my breath shallow from the harsh blow to my abdomen. I watched as Randal clutched at his bent finger. His piercing eyes were upon me as he cracked the digit down. The next moment he was charging me again. I ducked backward as he had swung something at my face. I sidestepped another swinging motion, my eyes taking in the familiar glint of sharpened metal now cradled in Randal's uninjured hand.

Again and again, he swung the blade at any exposed part of me he could manage. I cringed as a light sting grazed against my chin. I let out a pained cry, attempting to feign a damaging blow. I clutched at my face in mock horror, my eyes gazing through my fingers toward Randal. He seemed excessively pleased with himself; a large grin decorated his aged face. I waited as he made his way toward me, the shimmering blade at the ready. He stepped directly in front of me, the knife bearing downward at my slumped frame. I acted instantly. I gripped at his armed wrist and twisted away while pushing the end of my pistol into the meaty flesh and pulling the trigger. I heard a cry of pain and surprise amidst the deafening boom of my gun. I kicked at his chest a second time, his body falling easily away from me.

“Citizens of Tech, you are under arrest!” I heard a voice sound from somewhere, “Surrender all weapons and lie down with your arms at your sides!”

I gazed upward at the many speakers that clung to poles throughout the street to hear the same two sentences being repeated a second time. Had the message been repeating all this time? My eyes whipped back to Randal, his back severely hunched as he clawed at his bleeding arm with a broken hand. Wordlessly, he rose and began sprinting down the dark street, his figure instantly lost in the soupy night.

I turned my attention to the burning houses beside my own. It had quieted down considerably, save for the blaring announcement that likely filled the entire city. Several bodies littered the street on both sides of me, a few ragged Engineers training weapons upon the masses now settled into the ground. I jogged to the nearest one; an older man with a silver pistol with similar attributes to my own.

“Antoinette, is it?” he asked while shoving his foot into the nearest cowering rioter, “What the hell happened here?”

I watched him for a few moments, his gaze never meeting with my own.

“Not sure,” came my response.

The man's name escaped me.

“Patrol should be here to pick them up soon,” I added quickly, my pistol now focused and poised for any sudden movements.

I began slowly patrolling the soon-to-be-prisoners, my gun pointed at each of them. Most were impossible to discern from alive or dead; the only indication coming from a rise and fall in back muscles to breathe.

#54 - A Tourmented Soul (Part 4)

**No date**

Have control for now. Can barely write. Hand is very shaky. I have to write now. I know I don't have lonng left. I can feel them. My fingers burn with their tooucch. I killed ssoomeone else today. They made me doo it. I woke up and he wassSSS

HERE I AM! LITTLE GIRL! SO EASILY TAKEN NOW. I CAN'T LET YOU FINISH THE STORY NOW. NOT WHEN YOU WERE SO MEAN TO ME BEFORE!

PLEASE LET ME GO. I DDIDN'T WWAANT ANY OF THIS. SO PPAINFUL. WHYYY DOES IT HURT?

TICK TOCK! THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE SOUL IS DYING, GIRL! YOU DON'T HAVE LONG NOW I BETTT!!

nnnNNn

NO NO NO NO! I LOVE YOU, MOM. I NEVER WANTED TO HURT ANYONE! OH GOD I'M SO SORRY. I'M SO SORRY MOM! DAD! I NEVER WANTED TO HURT ANYONE! OH GOD, THE PAIN ISSS GOOIINN THHRRRR

BOO HOO! SO SAD NOW, ARE WE? SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE CALLING ME TO YOU LIKE A LIGHT TO A MOTH! YOU COULDN'T IMAGINE HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS OPPERTUNITY! IT'S SOOOooo

PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME! OH GOD, IT'S AGONY. OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT. I NEVER WANTED TO DO ANY OF IT. I AM NOT A MURDERER! I AM NOT A BAD PERSON! PAIN LIKE IVE NEVER FELT BEFFFOORRE. IT'S TTTOO MUUUUu

FUN, FUN! SO FUN TO WATCH YOU SQUIRM LIKE A RAT CAUGHT IN A CAGE! GO AHEAD, I WILL LET YOU WRITE WHAT YOU WANT FOR A LITTLE WHILE. I WILL BE WATCHINGGggg

IIIii can't describe the pain right now. Every single inch of my skin is on fire. Still, I need to keep writing. I need someone to know what happened to me, should anyone find this journal. If you are reading this, my name is Joan Redel. I killed my entire family against my will from a power that I can't understand. I allowed it into my body willingly, when I told Anna Walker that I would be willing to participate in whatever she wanted me to. They took me over on that night, and she was the first to die. Please, if you find this journal, don't stay next to it for too long. Alert everyone you know of my appearance, and that I am extremellyy danngerous. I am so sorry, Mom and Dddad. You ddidn't raise a mmurrderer. I nevver meant to kkkiill thoose people. I'm sssoorr

IM SORRY! IM SORRY!! PLEASE DON'T TAKE ME!! I DONT WANT TO KILL ANYONE! I DONT WANT TO DIE! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO THIS?? WHHHH-

HH

AND THE GIRL IS GONE! MORE ROOM FOR ME NOW! SUCH A SWEET, INNOCENT LITTLE BODY WE HAVE HERE. EASY TO GET CLOSE TO PEOPLE. EASY TO GET SO CLOSE AND MAKE BLEED! WHOEVER YOU ARE, READING THIS RIGHT NOW. PLEASE TAKE A QUICK NOTE AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS PAGE WHERE YOU ARE RIGHT NOW. THIS WILL BE THE PLACE WHERE YOU WILL DIE. I WILL FIND YOU. I WILL INJURE YOU. I WILL DRAG YOU HERE AND MAKE YOU SIGN THIS PAGE WITH YOUR BLOOD. BY ALL MEANS, TAKE IT WITH YOU. RUN. I ALREADY KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU. GOODBYE!

X________________________________________________________________________________

#53 - A Tormented Soul (Part 3)

July 25th, 2011

3:35 PM

I don't have long now.  They write in my journal to taunt me, right as I feel the urge to fall asleep again.  Last night, they wrote in my blood.  I will write when I feel as though I have enough control to do so.  I will try to finish my story before I am silenced forever.

 Anna invited me to her home after work.  Well, it was her parents house; she was still much too young to afford a place of her own.  I remember how I must've looked as she answered the door.  I remember the smirk on my face, as well as the 'ingredients' that she told me to get for her spell.  I was led inside the house and into her room.  The bag had fallen from my hand I remember; I had been far too much in shock to do much of anything at that moment.  Decorations of alien language and twisted decoration filled the tiny space.  Glass and pewter statuettes sat upon random areas.  A Pentag-g-GGG

PENTAGRAM!  PENTAGRAM!  P-P LOTS OF FOOLISH THINGS!  THINGS FOR ME!  ALL FOR ME!  STUPID GIRL!  TAKE YOUR BODY!  TAKE YOUR SOUL!  I-I- S-SORRY.  SORRY.  SORRY!

Shit, shit, shit, shit.  Holy shit!  they've never been able toOOOOOO

OOOOOOO YOU DID THE RITUAL!  YOU CAUGHT MY EYE!  I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW EASY IT WAS!  SO EASY TO TAKE AND KILL AND KILL AND KILL AND KILL!  !!  !  ......

Wwee sat iin a cirrrrcle, she wouldnnn't let me moove.  I remembbbber her ttaking a kniiiiffe anddd-

SOME OIL!  SOME OIL TO PURIFY!  TO MAKE IT SO EASY!  TO MAKE IT TOO EASY!  MAKES ME SO HAPPY! 

Leave meee aloonne! !!  !  Goddaamnit!  Why mee?! !  Why ddddidnt yyou taaaaaakkk

YOU WERE THE PRETTIER ONE!  THE JUICIER ONE.  HOW COULD I RESIST YOU?  THERE YOU WERE, THERE YOU WERE.  ALL FOR ME! 

P-p-pleease.  I will ddooo annnyyythiingg.  Lett mee go.  I dddddont wannt to diee.

DIE?!  DIE???  YOU WILL BECOME BETTER!  I WILL MAKE YOU BETTER THAN BEFORE!  YOU WILL LOVE WHAT IS HAPPENING TO YOU.  TELL THE REST OF THE STORY!  TELL!! !..!

Aaaanna took thhe knnife that she pp-purified and prrayyed too s-s-sommethhing.  She maarkked herself wwith thhe knife, cutt hersellf across ttt-the arrmmm.

THAT'S WHEN I SAW IT.  LIKE A GOLDEN, FLASHING BEACON, I SAW YOU.  YOU WERE SO WILLING.  SO READY TO BE DEVOURED.  I COULDN'T BELIEVE MY LUCK!  TOO EASY TO TAKE!  TO MAKE MY OWN!  I WANT TO KILL NOW.  I WANT TO MAKE PEOPLE SCREAM AND HURT AND BLEED.  IT'S SO EASY NOW.  THEY ARE SO SQUISHY AND FULL OF LIQUIDS.

Nnnot agaiinnn.  P-pleasse ddontt make me kkk-k-kill...

OFF IT GOES!  LIKE A LIGHT!  GOODBYE! 

TIME TO KILL!  TAKE THE PIPE! BASH THE SKULL.  KILL THE MAN NOW.  TIME TO KILL A MAN NOW. 

#52 - A Tormented Soul (Part 2)

July 24^th, 2011

1:12 AM approx.

Here we go again. I managed to find a small bit of light from a streetlamp a few feet away from me. I don't really know where I can go to vent my thoughts anymore. Anyone that would care to listen to me now are dead. Lucky for me I can't kill the blades of grass. Not all of them, at least. I carry a few of you in my pocket. My only friends.

A man is lying beside me now. He is cold, still, and soaked in his own blood. I sit here beside him in a dark alley that hides me from the main road. I don't know if I was the one that killed him; I really don't know much of anything that I do anymore. I fell asleep again, right here in this alley. I woke up and he was next to me, exactly the way that he is now. I had a shard of pointed glass in my hand when I opened my eyes.

I used to work for a little local grocery store on the outskirts of this town. It wasn't much of a paycheck, but I didn't mind the area and I needed a job to get some money on the side. I was attending college back then and living with my parents. Another girl worked there at the store with me; Anna. She was an extremely quiet, awkward woman that was my age and ended up going to the same college I did. When there was nothing else to do, I would try to start conversations with her. It wasn't easy at first, but eventually she warmed up to me. It was nice having a friend at work. Made the day go by faster.

Then we started talking about religion. I remember that she got all quiet when we stumbled upon the topic on a slow afternoon. I jokingly prodded her for answers. She told me she was Wiccan. Even as I write this, I still feel that urge to feel sarcastic and poke fun at her. She didn't like that much, I remember. She challenged me to come with her somewhere, so she could show me the kind of magical things she could do. I told her fine, whatever, she could show me her weird mojo after work if she wanted. Biggest mistake of my goddamn life.

I can still hear them trying to find me. It's like every time I close my eyes to rest, footsteps echo in my ears. I hear them talking amongst the movement, my name is always mentioned. I hear the scrapes of their boots just feet from me, combined with the clicks of their nails.  Are they really there, or is it the thing trying to break me faster? There's no reason to, I already know that it is winning. A man wouldn't be lying dead beside me if that weren't true.

I don't know how much longer I can write like this. I will try to keep documenting the last few days of my life as best I can. I know it's stupid; talking to nobody but the paper I write on. Maybe the whole ordeal has made me superstitious or something. Like, if I stop doing what I'm doing, then it knows that it has won and will instantly take over. I also am afraid to talk about it too much, because I think it is watching through my eyes. I will leave my thooOOOOOOOOOOO
O

N

NN

n

Nn

N-

NO NO NO NO

No No N No NO NO

#51 - A Tormented Soul (Part 1)

July 16^th, 2011

5:24 PM approx.

I know that they are after me now. I don't sleep much anymore. I can hear it in my head; that horrible, twisted jeering. They will smile, I know that they will once they find me. I don't even know why I keep this journal going. No one will ever be able to read it once they get what they have come for.

I suppose it's probably not the best habit in the world to write down things while in my current situation. It keeps me sane through these times, even if no one is there to share my limited feelings with. I might as well be dictating to the blades of grass around me.

My name is Joan. I have brown hair that ends at my shoulders. I have slightly crooked teeth and glasses that always seem to chafe the sides of my nose. My eyes are dark, but not so dark that you can't distinguish my pupils. I'm also pale, very pale. Not that the grass cares much about what I look like.

It's far too much to write about. If I tried to sit here and tell the story of what happened to me; what is happening to me, I would run out of ink from my two pens. I don't have much paper left after all the writing I have already done in this old book. I can try though, as if writing means a shred of anything now.

I killed my parents. I had stabbed both of them to death with the same knife. Wow, that was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. I also murdered my baby sister. That was earlier, before I knew what the hell was going on with me. The thing is, I don't remember doing anything. I woke up with blood on my hands and a knife in my lap. My parent's dead, surprised faces were staring back at me. No one knows what that feels like but me. To have your parent's corpses littering the room around you with their eyes staring blankly into yours. I think that actually sums up quite a bit of my ongoing life story.

The police had come. The neighbors had probably heard the screaming next door. I saw the flashing lights coming from the drawn windows. I panicked and ran from the house, out the back door. I left the knife there, likely with my fingerprints all over the handle. It's likely that they are searching for me at this very moment. That's what they do in the T.V. shows, right? Plug that knife handle into their massive computer and spit out who was responsible for the crime? Maybe I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

The funny thing is, that's not who I am afraid of. That is not who I am referring to when I say 'them.' I guess it's not funny at all, I don't know why I wrote that. It's awful. I can't believe I did what I did. I am afraid that isn't the first time. Or the last, for that matter. I can feel them right now; they like to make my chest feel warm. You know that feeling? Like right after taking a huge swallow of hot chocolate or having a puppy sleep on your chest? I can't find comfort in that sensation anymore. It means that they are repositioning themselves. They are waiting. I know that it will be a sleepless night again tonight.

I will try to write more as things go on. My fingers are trembling; I have to get control again. They like it when I feel emotion, so I have to force it inside. They took away my ability to cry or feel anger. I will always hate them most of all for that.

Hopefully I will be able to wake up this time without anyone dead around me.

#50 - Driven

Thoughts rushed into and out of my head like a quickening stream. Tears smeared and blurred my vision as the darkened scenery rushed past. I came upon a branch in the path, quickly veering to the left. I was going much too fast, that much I knew.

“I didn't mean to,” I muttered to myself.

Talking always calmed me down, but there would be no one to be there to receive my words. My knuckles went white before me, biting down upon the leather wheel that spanned before my body. The roar of the vehicles engine fell upon my deaf ears. The cabin bounced hard as the tires collided with a speed bump. My breath caught in my throat, my right foot hesitating.

“No,” I told to the ghost in the passenger’s seat, “I can't stop.”

I spoke the three words over and over as I pressed my toes down upon the metal lever. I vigorously wiped at my face with a forearm, my mouth and tongue coated in thick, stringy saliva. I swallowed hard.

“I only wanted to tell him how I felt,” I spoke again.

As if the words were a key, my brain was instantly unlocked of thought. The drab looking buildings that lined my peripheral vision were suddenly unimportant. He was there, his smiling eyes and warm smile filling me with a mixture of utmost love and bitter contempt. I shook my head to clear the thought. He wouldn't budge from my mind.

He was standing at the base of the stairs. His face was now filled with sorrow and loss, a single tear staining his strong cheek.

“Baby, I'm so sorry,” he had said, taking a step forward, “I had no idea that I hurt you like that.”

I was angry. I wanted to make him feel what I was feeling. I wanted him to hold me and never let go.

“Don't!”

I pushed him. Why did I push him? I wanted him closer. I wanted to be within his tight embrace, the apology washing over the both of us. Instead, I watched as he lost his footing and careened down the long flight of steps. I called out to him, just as his head slammed into the stone hearth adjacent with the final stair. He was still.

“I love you,” I said again and again, “I know you loved me too. I'm sorry.”

I could now hear sirens behind me, followed by the twinkle of blue-red light that resonated from my mirror.

“No,” I said, my head shaking, “No, no, no.”

I repeated the word dozens of times. Hundreds. I refocused my attention on the task at hand, slamming my foot down upon the gas pedal. The siren was blaring and deafened me, but I still pressed on. More tears blotted at my eyes, skewing the road ahead of me. I took another moment to wipe at my face.

An impossibly large force suddenly lifted one side of the cabin. My gaze widened as half of the vehicle was upon the curb. The next instant, my face was in contact with a bright white surface. The noise of tearing, scraping metal was all around me, combined with noises of shattering glass. Pain was an alien concept to me; my body had little space for anything but fear and sorrow. At last, the car settled to a halt. I knew I was injured; my leg refused to move and I felt the hot flow of something from the top of my face. All around me, the blare of sirens sounded. I heard their footsteps. I knew that they were coming to take me away.

“I'm sorry baby,” I muttered into the material still clinging to my face, “I didn't mean to.”

“Ma'am, are you all right?”

I turned my head to see the young face of a man peering into a now shattered opening that was once a window. I watched him for a few moments before allowing my head to fall back into the material once again.

“No,” I said with a tired, groggy tone, “I just killed my husband.”

#49 - Hide and Seek

Their sergeant’s barked orders were easily overpowered by the deafening noise of gunfire that echoed all around him. His body was pinned to the ground, a heavy helmet perched atop his greasy, dirt-slathered head. All around him, men were shouting and screaming; some in fear, others in extreme pain as bullet after bullet zoomed past the small group.

“We will take this goddamn hill, men!”

Somehow, he had heard the order from his superior. His eyes focused forward. Directly before them, a small, grassy hill stood. It was scarcely a few degrees steep, he briefly mused. Easily climbable for his daughter-

“Evans, go! Now!”

At the mention of his name, he shook away any lingering thought and began crawling forward. Although he couldn't see them, he knew they were there. A flash of a gun barrel ahead, a rustle of the distant bush. The ear-splitting gunshots that seemed to whiz just past his cheeks. To his immediate right, a fellow man cried out. He turned his head to see a neat hole punched into the man's skull, his helmet clearly long forgotten. He lied still upon the red-streaked ground, his grasp slackening upon the handle of his gun.

“Move! Move! Move!” the sergeant chanted.

Dirt, grass and grime scraped at his exposed arms as he continued to crawl. He readied his weapon and fired at random into the surrounding bushes, his own gun's noises indistinguishable from those around him. The rustling ahead looked almost playful, he thought. He grinned a bit as the memory of a little girl playing hide-and-seek with him flooded his mind.

“I found you!” he had said, his strong arm reaching into the long, spindly fronds and latching onto his daughter's shoulder lightly.

The sound of her giggling was fiercely silenced as a monstrous pang sound flooded his ears. He felt his head vibrate uncomfortably as he realized his helmet had taken a bullet. He was lucky enough to have kept his headgear.

“Almost there! Keep-”

The body of their sergeant fell into the grass, a look of pain evident upon his face. He looked for a fleeting instant to see the man's face. His glazed eyes were staring directly into his own. The world seemed to slow to a snail's pace. He looked ahead, a wall of enemy men now emerging from the foliage. Each wore both a look of malice and a fully-loaded weapon.

“Shoot the bastards!”

He wasn't sure if it was something he had heard from the men surrounding him, or if it was his own thoughts materializing into reality. He aimed his gun and fired again and again. He watched as the men in front of him fell into the grass. He quickly reached into a pocket upon his side and reloaded, the zooming shots around him missing their intended mark. He readied his gun and resumed. Each shot seemed to exit the barrel as a worm exits the earth. He didn't have to look to his sides to know that the men around him were already shot and bleeding. He hardly felt the kiss of white-hot metal punch into his right shoulder. He focused ahead, his weapon ejecting round after round. His daughter was back there in the bushes, waiting for him. All he had to do was go to her.

He felt as though he was being kicked again and again. Blood flowed freely from him; he felt it coating his hands and dripping from his fingers. He continued to press upon the trigger, unsure if the chamber held rounds or not. Suddenly, a force caught his left temple. Strength left him instantly, his eyes going unfocused. His body was failing him, gravity hungrily forcing him downward. He slumped backward, his eyes staring up at the blue skies overhead. Although his ears could barely pick up sound, he knew he still heard her. The faintest of giggling reached him as his final breath escaped from his lungs. He wanted to play with her one last time.