3WW CXCII

Also, thanks to Bunnygirl's suggestion, I've chosen to submit this to WWR. I hope I did it right, I think I might've misunderstood the directions. My advance apologies if this is the case.


This is my first 3WW contribution. I know I end up using an element that is quickly becoming hackneyed, but I couldn't resist. Enjoy! :) Oh, and I lovelovelove comments and constructive criticism.

He lied on the hill, hands tucked behind his head. The soft blades of grass tickled the back of his neck. He looked skyward, dreamily watching the blue-grey clouds skulk across the light grey sky. The air smelled like rain. A soft breeze blew through the meadow, causing the leaves of the trees to dance lazily. A single bird cried out as it streaked across the sky. The boy, no older than thirteen, closed his eyes and inhaled, a reluctant smile curling on his lips.

Peaceful days like this were hard to come by. So much fighting…the smile faded to a frown and his brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind and return to the tranquility the field offered. The cool, damp earth blanketed by lush grass stretched out, and he’d been lying there for so long that there were small depressions now forming under him. For the first time in days, no weeks, he’d let go of the worry, the anxiety, the all-consuming preoccupation with survival.

It hadn’t always been like this, the boy had been told by his father a few years before…he left. When the boy was but a baby, the cities had been bustling. Cars filled the streets, drowning out the sounds of nature with their awful engine drones and blaring horns. People spent the vast majority of their time in this virtual world called the Internet. Oh, the wonderful stories he knew about the Internet and computers! How millions of pieces of data, whatever those were, could be sent through the air, or through cables, at lightning fast speed! It was incredible. Nothing like that existed these days, and hadn’t since his own infancy. Because then, something went terribly wrong.

People began to get sick. And not like back in the village where old Helene could cure just about anything with a mixture of herbs or maybe a poultice. No, his mother said they were very, very sick. And they were violent. Both his mother and father said that nobody was sure what it was that caused these ill and dying people to lash out on others. But the boy had his own theories. Once, in the cellar of a friend’s house, he had watched Dawn of the Dead. It had seemed quite likely to him, and spoke to his parents of this theory. But as soon as he had uttered that word, his mother’s hand had clamped over his mouth and she’d shushed him. His father had barked at him to never, never, under any circumstances, say that word. "Don’t even think it," he’d growled.

And the boy complied. From that day on, he avoided that word and everything connected to it. Until now, of course. But his father would never know. He’d left. Not that long ago, but long enough for the boy. He was beginning to forget how his father dressed and carried himself, the sound of his feet clunking up the stairs, the way his voice could be jovial and fluid at one time, livid and gravelly the next. His mother assured him that the boy was his father’s spitting image, but for one reason or another, the child was never fully convinced. Maybe it was his older brother, who acted just like their father. Taciturn, sort of clumsy. He obviously looked like their father, while the boy knew he possessed his mother’s sandy hair and plain, brown eyes, though hers had dulled with the absence of his father…oh, how the boy missed him….

A crack! in the distance. The boy’s eyes opened. He knew that sound well. It wasn’t an animal lumbering around, but it wasn’t a firearm. He sat up, attempting to trace the sound to its source. He could see nothing. He swallowed, the blood in his veins rushing. This could be very, very bad. He took a breath and closed his eyes again to remain calm. It was nothing to worry about, he tried to convince himself. It was probably someone just like him, tired of dealing with the constant danger of the world.

Another crack. This time, there was also a rustling of leaves and of underbrush. And he could have sworn he heard a feral snarl among the line of trees. He stood up, it was best not to take chances. Even if it was a harmless animal, or an angry human…he was unarmed. And that was just like begging to be killed, or worse. As he stood up, the weightless feeling of fright and determination made getting his bearings awkward, combined with the lack of the familiar weight of his crowbar. He looked around, assessing how much time he had to leave before whatever was causing the racket would get to him. Another crack came, but this time, much to his chagrin, he had a visual.

It was a person alright. One of them. The ill, the mad, the inhuman shells of former humans who plagued his town, state, and world. He’d never seen one in real life before. Only in black market books and movies his friends had stolen, or had traded a great deal of gasoline or food for.

His only thought, while rooted in place, The illustrations were wrong. They had no exposed brains, vocal cords, or bones. No, they looked merely like greatly beaten, grotesquely feverish, hovering-on-death humans. This one was a female, maybe a few years older than him at the most. She was bruised and had gashes everywhere. Scabs oozed a substance, but it wasn’t the sickly yellow he’d been accustomed to seeing. It was a strange brownish-greenish, with tinges of black. The color reminded him of mold. He frowned in disgust. Dried blood, among other fluids, stained her once white sundress. Her long black hair hung in matted clumps, twigs and leaves, and undoubtedly bugs tangled throughout. She had several bald spots, a few of which were bleeding. One of her eyes was missing, as was a pinky. Oddly, her teeth were intact while her lips were torn to shreds.

He could no longer stomach facing her, her stench was creeping toward him, to where he stood. He looked around again, knowing that if he ran the exact opposite way of her, he’d be able to make it. These things, though viciously relentless, were slow. Which was no disappointment to him. He began to walk, so as not to alert the being of his presence more than he already had.

Not even six paces later, he heard another low moan. But this wasn’t from the female. One, it was lower, and two, it was to his right. She was behind him. The boy’s eyes darted to the direction of the sound, gaze met by another creature. This one an older male. The boy swallowed. He had to get out. Now.

He bolted. His legs pounded against the earth, thankfully the thick grass muffled the sound of his boots. His arms pumped smoothly, and his breathing became even. He thanked whoever was left in charge of his godforsaken life for his running ability. His mind calmed as he focused on the path ahead. Soon, he’d reach a road. From there, it was a right turn, then a left on a dirt path. Three hundred yards along this path, the first watch towers of his village would emerge from the dense foliage.

Then, he’d be safe.

He continued to run, inhaling and exhaling, allowing his mind to blank. He focused on his body parts. Legs, arms, lungs, eyes. Ears. He stayed alert to his changing surroundings. The moans and cracking and shuffling were closing in on him. He felt like an idiot for daring to leave the village without any protection. Trees and bushes, rocks and weeds, flashed past him as he sprinted to the road.

He wouldn’t allow himself to panic. This kind of stuff happened all the time now, anyway. Just last week his friend was ambushed by a couple of them. But then again, he was armed and was able to take them down, then run. The boy wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly face them without being mercilessly torn apart, or some how infected. At least with his crowbar, he stood more of a chance of surviving, or at least taking some out with him. He continued to curse his stupidity and lack of foresight the rest of the way home.

He reached the village, and didn’t notice that the watchtowers were empty. He just ran, the muscles in his legs and arms, and sides now shrieking in pain, and his lungs crying out with each exhale.

He slowed down and jogged to the small, squat house he shared with his family, all thought processes erased. He just wanted water, a rest, and his mother. The fright he’d blocked until this point crashed into his consciousness. It hit him like a brick and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was pinned to the spot, the only thing he could think, I’m just a kid. And I’m going to die. I’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodieI’mgoingtodie.

He scanned the village. It was silent. Everyone must be locked up in their houses, they must know of them. He proceeded to his door, finding it unlocked. He stepped inside, cautiously. Silently. Everything was as it should be, and he filled with relief. He walked further into the house. He heard something.

Shuffling. Scraping. A groan.

He ran up the stairs, throwing caution to the wind, bellowing and beginning to cry, “MOM!”

#219 Superhero/heroine

I'm trying out Sunday Scribblings, let's see how this goes!



It’s 2 am on a Thursday morning of final exam week. My best friend Ryan is lying stomach-down on the floor of the living room, poring over a new-ish comic. I honestly don’t know whether it’s been published by Marvel or DC or some indie company, as I’ve always been more of a manga fan myself. I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, gazing through smudged glasses at my laptop’s screen. I play a flash version of Space Invaders and sip absently at a Red Bull. That show about firefighters with the really catchy theme song drones in the background on my television, but neither of us are watching.

Ryan and I have been crashing at each other’s places for the last week or so, because it’s the last week of high school, and we’re seniors. Which means graduation. And then college. Ryan plans to head off to MIT to become and engineer of some sort. I leave for Boston University’s communications school later in the summer. So in a way, this is our last week together before we face The Real World. And face it alone. I know how badly this hurts me, but I would never admit it. Not to anyone, and least of all to him, I think as I move my little eight-bit character across the blacked out screen, the little pew! sounds of the tiny gun making me smile despite how low I feel.

“Audrey,” Ryan throws a gum wrapper at me, managing to hit my shin. I look down at him, his face tilts up, his newly short hair sticking up slightly, and my stomach leaps. I curse my stupid body silently and pick the wrapper up, tossing it back.

“Yes…?” I take another sip of my Red Bull. I know what I want him to say, and I attempt to use any latent telepathic powers I have to send this message to him.

“Got any more Red Bull?” he nods his head in the direction of mine, which now sits on the coffee table. Of course, the telepathy completely failed. But then again, if it had worked, I don’t think I’d react very well.

“Uh, yeah. In the fridge, dude,” I frown subconsciously at him, and watch him as he goes to the kitchen. He absently runs a hand over his hair.

I turn back to the kitchen, and wonder at myself. How did I go from hating him in kindergarten when he stole my Pikachu doll, tolerating him in elementary school, gaming with him in middle school, to now, the week before graduation, being his best friend in the world, and I’m about to blow it. Because I’m in love with him.

My mind blanks, as if it’s processing this information and it’s unsettling. I love him. And I know it’s not the silly high school puppy stuff that fades long before it becomes, “Facebook Official.” I care about his feelings and his opinions, and moreover, his happiness. Which is why I haven’t said anything, and fully supported his choice of MIT, though I knew what implications it would have on our friendship, and my little “l-word” problem. Because that would make him happy. And knowing that his best friend, the one who is just as obsessed with Bruce Wayne’s Batman as he is, loves him and would want nothing more than just to be around him, would most certainly not make him happy. If anything, he’d probably run away screaming and never talk to me again. I couldn’t live with that.

But I can’t live with this either. This pounding feeling whenever he’s near, the fact that I now notice every little thing he does and it just makes me love him more, and the fact that he doesn’t even know is maddening. He’s so oblivious it makes me want to just blurt it out so that I can get over it. Let’s face it, there’s no way he’d ever feel the same way. I mean, he has his pick of any girl, any guy, anyone. No way he’d ever go for someone like me. Caffeine and music addicted with a terrible penchant for all things Japanese.

No, no, no, I chide myself, shaking my head as he returns. He sees this and cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. I have to tell him. If he doesn’t feel the same way, at least I can begin to move on. And adopt some cats, comfortably settle into my life as a spinster…because I already know this is the end of our friendship. At least I’ll never have to wonder why, right?

Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster, I wish I was a super-heroine right now. Able to save the day, make things right, and end up with the guy.

“Ryan!” I suddenly exclaim as soon as he’s settled.

“Audrey!” He responds with equal enthusiasm, smiling slightly. “Yeah?”

I can feel my stomach flipping and my palms becoming all gross and sweaty. “Uh…I have to-to tell you…something,”

“Okay,” Ryan says, facial expression unfathomable.

I take a deep breath, and take the plunge. “Ryan I know we’ve been friends forever and only just recently become really really good friends and trust me I don’t want to jeopardize that because I really love what we have and I can trust you more than anyone and you’re super cool and smart and you’ve seen me at my worst and haven’t judged me for it and I know how rare that is but I’m going to risk having you hate me for life or think I’m a complete and utter loser because the truth is Ryan, I can’t avoid this anymore, but I love you. I--I’m in love you, Ryan. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I’m so sorry.”

Stinging drops of salty water form at the corner of my eyelids, but I do my best not to cry as I watch my friendship crumble around me. And it’s all my fault. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? I close my eyes and the tears spill out, fat drops that trickle down my cheeks. But I don’t let out a sob. I will not let him know how much that took out of me.

As I try to find my happy place, I feel him move to sit beside me. Ryan wraps his arms around me, so that my head is against his chest. He lifts my chin up so I see him, and he wipes my tears with his thumb. It’s sweet, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Shouldn’t he be running in terror now?

He smiles at me and kisses my forehead. “Audrey….” he murmurs in my ear. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

I dare to smile. I didn’t need to be a super-heroine after all. I saved the day, I made things right, and against all odds---I’ve had the guy longer than I even knew. And in this moment, everything is okay.