Monday, March 29, 2010
The Highway
All of a sudden, in a gleam of headlights, he saw a figure standing on a side of the road, and judging by a size, it was a female. Screeching, the truck came to a full stop, and he saw in his side view mirror an attractive young girl coming up to the door. Something inside of him dropped. He couldn't believe what a lucky day this was for him: she was young, beautiful, and radiated innocence. She couldn't have been older than 19, and with his trained, experienced eye he could still see a fresh baby face even when it was covered by makeup.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Highway
The highway was singing him its song, lulling him to sleep with its hum, and making his eyelids lead-heavy. It was getting increasingly hard to withstand the Sandman's hand, but he had to be realistic about it, since with years of experience he knew what can happen if you close your eyes just for one moment. That moment usually grew into two moments, and before you know it, you were passed out behind the wheel, heading straight into the mouth of madness. Plus, he had his treasure in a trunk of his truck, something that couldn't wait. And that fueled his desire to get to the destination as soon as possible, even if it meant fighting Sandman face to face. He also knew that he had to be as careful as possible, as not to get pulled over by the patrol, since he doubted that they would understand the beauty of what was in his truck. But, the time was running out, and he couldn't let his trophies spoil in the trunk.
He kept himself awake by thinking of what he was going to do with all that goodness that he has acquired with such skill and physical labor and that was now awaiting a magic touch of his skilled hand. It was a big catch, much larger than all others, and it was definitely worth the risks and time involved. It was a hard task to do, and required lots of patience and manual labor, since the bodies were quite hefty, but he was a master at what he did, so it was all a matter of time. A matter of time before he could lay his large hands on the trophies he had so diligently stashed away.
Thoughts of putting his hands on that young, unspoiled flesh made them tremble with anticipation, and he could only dream of all the things he was about to do in a short time. The soft virginal skin, tender meat, sweet tasting much thought innocence that he could clearly taste in his mouth. The veil of sleep was slowly being removed from his face at those stimulating thoughts. He knew he couldn't get caught.
He kept himself awake by thinking of what he was going to do with all that goodness that he has acquired with such skill and physical labor and that was now awaiting a magic touch of his skilled hand. It was a big catch, much larger than all others, and it was definitely worth the risks and time involved. It was a hard task to do, and required lots of patience and manual labor, since the bodies were quite hefty, but he was a master at what he did, so it was all a matter of time. A matter of time before he could lay his large hands on the trophies he had so diligently stashed away.
Thoughts of putting his hands on that young, unspoiled flesh made them tremble with anticipation, and he could only dream of all the things he was about to do in a short time. The soft virginal skin, tender meat, sweet tasting much thought innocence that he could clearly taste in his mouth. The veil of sleep was slowly being removed from his face at those stimulating thoughts. He knew he couldn't get caught.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Snow (whole)
The snow kept falling and falling. Large, shapeless snowflakes were slowly and steadily making their way to the ground, creating a see-through curtain and covering everything with a sheet of virginal white monochrome. The cold winter sky was blending in at the horizon with a sea of whiteness while looming over the land in a solid layer of metallic gray, completely void of impurities and discolorations, and preventing any futile attempts of sunlight to get through. The trees, which just a day ago were desperately extending their bare skeletal limbs to the sky in a silent plea for vital sunlight, were now comfortably hidden beneath soft, bulky snowcoats, standing in orderly rows along the sides of a snow covered alley. In a complete silence, with which this bustling city was very unfamiliar, the time seemed to have stopped in its tracks, eternally capturing the world in a moment of frozen wonderland. All imperfections-chunky dull gray pavement, bits of colorful litter strewn here and there, graffiti on the fence, movie posters-were now completely covered and smoothed over, creating an illusion of an innocent and pure environment almost completely untouched by human hands. In tabula rasa the world was reborn.
The bus slowly pulled up to a bus stop after plowing its way through the freshly accumulated piles of snow and leaving deep tire grooves behind. The doors slowly opened, and a man carefully stepped off the rubberized steps onto the snow covered ground, making sure not to get snow inside his boots and cringing as cold winter air stung and pinched his face. He was in his late 40's, wearing a long dark gray wool coat that has seen its better days and a crumpled up black fedora that he pulled down almost to his nose. In his hand he had a black tattered leather briefcase with a large brass combination lock on the front. His attire, combined with a raised collar and a tucked in head, could have made him resemble a character out of 40's film noir, perhaps a spy or a secret agent, except for his miserable demeanor and less than glamorous walk. As the bus closed its doors and moved on like a steel dinosaur, huffing, puffing and plowing through more snow, the man looked around, as if adjusting to his new condition of being completely alone in this winter vastness, and started walking. He was stooping, cringing, and dragging his feet through the resisting snow in what seemed to be enormous amount of effort. He continued on his way down a what used to be an alley and now was only recognizable by the trees orderly arranged on each side, until he finally reached a gray concrete apartment building. It was industrial and depressive looking, with faded graffiti on a peeling wall and dark stains from fire still shading several top windows, making them look like ominous gaping mouths, especially on the background of this whiteness. He hesitated for a moment, and then turned a knob on a rusty greenish metal door with chipped paint all over it, entering the bowels of this architectural monstrosity. The door started to slowly close, screeching like an old hag in process, and then all of a sudden slammed shut.
The staircase reeked of mold, stale cigarette smoke and ammonia, combined with some other less recognizable smell, which he couldn't quite put his finger on. Moldy off white stained walls, dark brown floor tiles speckled with white paint and matters of various origins, and a dim light, emanating from a single lamp bulb which was originally a part of a wall sconce with a glass shield now missing, were all creating an atmosphere of unwelcomeness and discomfort. A draft created by a large crack in a windowpane in a space between a flight of stairs added to this general feeling. He slowly reached his floor, trying to avoid touching a filthy metal banister or the walls, and walked up to a door that said "506, Randolph" on it. He tapped his feet to shake off the snow off his boots, briskly ran his hands over the coat, took off his hat, tapping it on a knee, and walked into the apartment. As he turned on the light, a stream of warm air engulfed his senses; he was happy to be home. The room had a surprizingly cozy for a bachelor's abode feel about it It was reminiscent of Victorian times, with faded yellowish brocade wallpaper, a yellow light coming from a tall floral floor lamp standing by the window, a large brown leather armchair in one corner, and a wooden desk with a green library lamp on it in another. Along the wall, in between an armchair and a desk, stood a large bookcase filled with worn tomes of encyclopedias and classics. On the walls were framed pictures of various classic writers, historical landmarks, and quotes by ancient philosophers. By the looks of it this was definitely a home of a somewhat scholarly and educated person, and that's exactly who Daniel Randolph was.
After getting his Masters Degree in Classical Studies and Literature, he was promised a much lucrative and thought after career of an editor/writer for a big New England journal just to blow it off, complaining that "no matter how tainted my soul is, I am not about to sell it to those illiterate bastards." And on his way he went, keeping his soul but saying goodbye to a large paycheck, making living off writing random articles and reviews to magazines which were willing to buy them. He felt he was too complex and sophisticated for the main crowd and insisted on being much better off knowing that his talent would be appreciated by only the select few. Despite numerous claims of permanent insanity by his acquaintances and neighbors, who were wary of the fact that he was almost always confined to his desk and had a bizarre habit of talking to himself in a very audible manner, Randolph insisted on being in a superb mental state. That could not have been said of his physical state, which was of a man who suffered from migraines, colitis, two herniated discs, and a plethora of other undiagnosed conditions. He was a 48 year old man in a 84 year old man's body, and he refused to do a single thing about it, insisting that a soul without a suffering cannot live on and still continue to be creative, even if that suffering consisted of a mere toothache. He was a bachelor for almost twenty years, completely satisfied and content with this status and unwilling to change it any time soon, even if there was a woman somewhere out there which would have been willing to put up with his brimming ego and constant mood swings brought on by his ailments.
Aeons ago he was married to a young woman named Sally, which he met in college, but they both came to a conclusion that there was only room for one person in his heart, and that person wasn't her. He was forever married to his work, and that was the only thing he found solace in, much to the chagrin of people around him.
As he sat into his armchair with that tattered briefcase in his hands, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of extreme drowsiness and sleepiness, which was onset either by the warmth of the room or by something else. As he tried to fight off the sandman, his eyelids became lead heavy, eventually closing and submitting him into a state of deep slumber. His hands released the handle of a briefcase, and it fell on the floor by his feet with a dull thud, spilling the contents all over the rug.
When he opened his eyes, Randolph, still slouching in his leather chair, could not understand what exactly happened to him and how he managed to fall prey to this deep slumber. Often, while writing his articles or reading literature, the drowsiness would slowly creep in, chipping away at his alertness and attention, but it happened gradually, and he was always able to fight it off before finally going to bed after realizing that his productivity levels and comprehension were null. This time, however, it was different. He did not even get a chance to try and fight off this sleepiness since it came on so very strong and sudden; he did not know what to make of it. After a minute of disorientation and slight disturbance, he realized that there was a very strong chill in the room, almost as strong as the one in a staircase, making his skin cover with goosebumps. Randolph instantly glanced at the window and saw that it was slightly ajar, enough to bring in a winter night air. He could also see that there were sheets of paper strewn all over the windowsill, and some were already getting carried away into the night.
At a sight of fruits of his labor and imagination carelessly flying outside, Randolph immediately jumped up, swearing, and rushed to the open window, out of which the papers kept getting carried away into pitch black nothingness, picked up by the wind one by one like large wandering birds lost at sea. Panicking and desperately grabbing at loose pages that haven't made it outside yet, he was now struggling with the wind which seemed to now gain a demonic power once it met its opponent face to face. It was howling and smashing the papers against a windowpane, preventing him from getting a hold of them. Finally, when it appeared that most of the pages were picked up, he forcibly shut the window closed against the forceful tugs of the wind that was smacking him in the face and pulling the window away from him. Breathing heavily, he lowered himself back into the chair.
Blankly looking at the heap in his hand, he put it on a table and shuffled through the cold, damp pages. His novel...so many pages were forever taken from him by that gust. Not all was lost, however. The first, the most important page, was still there. The title was glaring at him off the page: The Snow, by John Randolph, December, 1952. "The snow kept falling and falling. Large, shapeless snowflakes were slowly and steadily making their way to the ground, creating a see-through curtain..."
Sally Randolph stood by a small gravestone, with her arms folded on her chest, looking down at the etched writing. It has been 15 years since John took his life by jumping under the bus, running into a busy street to be plowed head on by a moving steel dinosaur. One of the numerous witnesses said that he took a massive blow, and it looked like a bird hitting a windshield. His hat flew in one direction, while his briefcase flew wide open in the other, spilling out papers all over the road. Fifteen long years, since 1952, but it felt just like yesterday. She still remembered the rush of mixed feelings overwhelming her that day. Mostly they were feelings of surprise, shock, disbelief. But there was another one...a feeling of relief. She knew that his troubled mind just could not have sustained him any longer. His writing had taken over his life, and she dared not to get involved in this issue, which only she considered an issue in a first place. The signs were there: obsessiveness, depression, compulsive behaviors, but there was nothing she could have done. He was stubborn, and even if he needed help, it most certainly wouldn't have come from the outside world. But the help wouldn't come. He waited and waited, but the enemy, which was a writer's block combined with a mental disease, was much too strong.
The bus slowly pulled up to a bus stop after plowing its way through the freshly accumulated piles of snow and leaving deep tire grooves behind. The doors slowly opened, and a man carefully stepped off the rubberized steps onto the snow covered ground, making sure not to get snow inside his boots and cringing as cold winter air stung and pinched his face. He was in his late 40's, wearing a long dark gray wool coat that has seen its better days and a crumpled up black fedora that he pulled down almost to his nose. In his hand he had a black tattered leather briefcase with a large brass combination lock on the front. His attire, combined with a raised collar and a tucked in head, could have made him resemble a character out of 40's film noir, perhaps a spy or a secret agent, except for his miserable demeanor and less than glamorous walk. As the bus closed its doors and moved on like a steel dinosaur, huffing, puffing and plowing through more snow, the man looked around, as if adjusting to his new condition of being completely alone in this winter vastness, and started walking. He was stooping, cringing, and dragging his feet through the resisting snow in what seemed to be enormous amount of effort. He continued on his way down a what used to be an alley and now was only recognizable by the trees orderly arranged on each side, until he finally reached a gray concrete apartment building. It was industrial and depressive looking, with faded graffiti on a peeling wall and dark stains from fire still shading several top windows, making them look like ominous gaping mouths, especially on the background of this whiteness. He hesitated for a moment, and then turned a knob on a rusty greenish metal door with chipped paint all over it, entering the bowels of this architectural monstrosity. The door started to slowly close, screeching like an old hag in process, and then all of a sudden slammed shut.
The staircase reeked of mold, stale cigarette smoke and ammonia, combined with some other less recognizable smell, which he couldn't quite put his finger on. Moldy off white stained walls, dark brown floor tiles speckled with white paint and matters of various origins, and a dim light, emanating from a single lamp bulb which was originally a part of a wall sconce with a glass shield now missing, were all creating an atmosphere of unwelcomeness and discomfort. A draft created by a large crack in a windowpane in a space between a flight of stairs added to this general feeling. He slowly reached his floor, trying to avoid touching a filthy metal banister or the walls, and walked up to a door that said "506, Randolph" on it. He tapped his feet to shake off the snow off his boots, briskly ran his hands over the coat, took off his hat, tapping it on a knee, and walked into the apartment. As he turned on the light, a stream of warm air engulfed his senses; he was happy to be home. The room had a surprizingly cozy for a bachelor's abode feel about it It was reminiscent of Victorian times, with faded yellowish brocade wallpaper, a yellow light coming from a tall floral floor lamp standing by the window, a large brown leather armchair in one corner, and a wooden desk with a green library lamp on it in another. Along the wall, in between an armchair and a desk, stood a large bookcase filled with worn tomes of encyclopedias and classics. On the walls were framed pictures of various classic writers, historical landmarks, and quotes by ancient philosophers. By the looks of it this was definitely a home of a somewhat scholarly and educated person, and that's exactly who Daniel Randolph was.
After getting his Masters Degree in Classical Studies and Literature, he was promised a much lucrative and thought after career of an editor/writer for a big New England journal just to blow it off, complaining that "no matter how tainted my soul is, I am not about to sell it to those illiterate bastards." And on his way he went, keeping his soul but saying goodbye to a large paycheck, making living off writing random articles and reviews to magazines which were willing to buy them. He felt he was too complex and sophisticated for the main crowd and insisted on being much better off knowing that his talent would be appreciated by only the select few. Despite numerous claims of permanent insanity by his acquaintances and neighbors, who were wary of the fact that he was almost always confined to his desk and had a bizarre habit of talking to himself in a very audible manner, Randolph insisted on being in a superb mental state. That could not have been said of his physical state, which was of a man who suffered from migraines, colitis, two herniated discs, and a plethora of other undiagnosed conditions. He was a 48 year old man in a 84 year old man's body, and he refused to do a single thing about it, insisting that a soul without a suffering cannot live on and still continue to be creative, even if that suffering consisted of a mere toothache. He was a bachelor for almost twenty years, completely satisfied and content with this status and unwilling to change it any time soon, even if there was a woman somewhere out there which would have been willing to put up with his brimming ego and constant mood swings brought on by his ailments.
Aeons ago he was married to a young woman named Sally, which he met in college, but they both came to a conclusion that there was only room for one person in his heart, and that person wasn't her. He was forever married to his work, and that was the only thing he found solace in, much to the chagrin of people around him.
As he sat into his armchair with that tattered briefcase in his hands, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of extreme drowsiness and sleepiness, which was onset either by the warmth of the room or by something else. As he tried to fight off the sandman, his eyelids became lead heavy, eventually closing and submitting him into a state of deep slumber. His hands released the handle of a briefcase, and it fell on the floor by his feet with a dull thud, spilling the contents all over the rug.
When he opened his eyes, Randolph, still slouching in his leather chair, could not understand what exactly happened to him and how he managed to fall prey to this deep slumber. Often, while writing his articles or reading literature, the drowsiness would slowly creep in, chipping away at his alertness and attention, but it happened gradually, and he was always able to fight it off before finally going to bed after realizing that his productivity levels and comprehension were null. This time, however, it was different. He did not even get a chance to try and fight off this sleepiness since it came on so very strong and sudden; he did not know what to make of it. After a minute of disorientation and slight disturbance, he realized that there was a very strong chill in the room, almost as strong as the one in a staircase, making his skin cover with goosebumps. Randolph instantly glanced at the window and saw that it was slightly ajar, enough to bring in a winter night air. He could also see that there were sheets of paper strewn all over the windowsill, and some were already getting carried away into the night.
At a sight of fruits of his labor and imagination carelessly flying outside, Randolph immediately jumped up, swearing, and rushed to the open window, out of which the papers kept getting carried away into pitch black nothingness, picked up by the wind one by one like large wandering birds lost at sea. Panicking and desperately grabbing at loose pages that haven't made it outside yet, he was now struggling with the wind which seemed to now gain a demonic power once it met its opponent face to face. It was howling and smashing the papers against a windowpane, preventing him from getting a hold of them. Finally, when it appeared that most of the pages were picked up, he forcibly shut the window closed against the forceful tugs of the wind that was smacking him in the face and pulling the window away from him. Breathing heavily, he lowered himself back into the chair.
Blankly looking at the heap in his hand, he put it on a table and shuffled through the cold, damp pages. His novel...so many pages were forever taken from him by that gust. Not all was lost, however. The first, the most important page, was still there. The title was glaring at him off the page: The Snow, by John Randolph, December, 1952. "The snow kept falling and falling. Large, shapeless snowflakes were slowly and steadily making their way to the ground, creating a see-through curtain..."
Sally Randolph stood by a small gravestone, with her arms folded on her chest, looking down at the etched writing. It has been 15 years since John took his life by jumping under the bus, running into a busy street to be plowed head on by a moving steel dinosaur. One of the numerous witnesses said that he took a massive blow, and it looked like a bird hitting a windshield. His hat flew in one direction, while his briefcase flew wide open in the other, spilling out papers all over the road. Fifteen long years, since 1952, but it felt just like yesterday. She still remembered the rush of mixed feelings overwhelming her that day. Mostly they were feelings of surprise, shock, disbelief. But there was another one...a feeling of relief. She knew that his troubled mind just could not have sustained him any longer. His writing had taken over his life, and she dared not to get involved in this issue, which only she considered an issue in a first place. The signs were there: obsessiveness, depression, compulsive behaviors, but there was nothing she could have done. He was stubborn, and even if he needed help, it most certainly wouldn't have come from the outside world. But the help wouldn't come. He waited and waited, but the enemy, which was a writer's block combined with a mental disease, was much too strong.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Apple (downs)
He was staring with curiousity at round almond shaped eyes, wide bridgeless nose, and a perpetually grinning mouth of a teenager with Down Syndrome sitting across from him. Captured in a moment of terminal complacency, his face bore an expression of childlike naivete and virginal purity. How lucky one must be to live in a state of eternal bliss, unaware of any external factors that bring about stress and dissatisfaction, and oblivious to any woes and calamities that life dishes out on a daily basis. He also thought of what it would be like to have an existance filled with expectations based solely on mental capability, or incapability in this case; to have every step validated by a second party that is in charge of your well being. Mixed feelings overwhelmed him; should it be pity or envy? Envy of not feeling your sick soul mope around inside a fragile bony shell, awaiting for demons to be released; of not getting tortured by moral implications of any ill fated actions; not having to make decisions based on already corrupted and weak moral judgement.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
LUNAR (Whole)
She watched as transparent whirls of smoke slowly danced in a crisp winter air upwards towards the sky, changing shapes and patterns like ghostly apparitions, until finally disappearing into eternal nothingness.
She took a drag from a cigarette, and heard a light crackle as the amber tip lit up and let the smoke fill her lungs. She exhaled, letting out a new batch of smoke. The moon emanated its cold mysterious glow, making the snow covered field drown in an ocean of pure white.
She stood there, spellbound by this creature that was looking back at her, and her only, with its featureless round face, so many light years and miles away, so distant and yet so close, keeping her company at this lonesome hour.
She could sense it sending its lunar incantations into the air, pulsating with waves and invoking the spirits of the forest that stood like an inpenetrable fortress along the shadowed edges of the field.
From the safety of the lit up entrance of the hotel, she wondered what creatures might be lurking in those woods, creeping up to the light in feeble attempts to cross over, and disappearing back into the safety of the darkness once touched by the moonlight.
She stuck the cigarette butt into a snow pile sitting on top of a large flower pot decorated with dead tree branches and more cigarette remains, and went back inside to claim her seat at the front desk.
The echo of high heels on a tile floor disturbed the ambiance of a dead silence, and she almost felt like an intruder in this silent kingdom. Dim lobby lights and long, endless zigzagging hallways extending in both directions gave her chills, and she tried to fill her mind with happiness inducing thoughts.
Learning from a previous mistake, she made sure to close the door as quietly as possible, as to not annoy any presence that could be in there with a loud noise. Finally she was in the safety of a high wood and granite desk, barricaded from whatever could be out there by the phones, boxes, computers, and stuff that cluttered the space. Landing in a leather swivel chair, she looked to her left and saw a monitor of a surveillance camera.
The uncomfortable feeling came back. The screens were changing, going from one camera shot to another. Staircase 1, staircase 2, electrical room, back rooms. She was captivated by the surreal lifelessness of each room, nervously anticipating for something to bring it to life, to show up unexpectedly on a bleak staticky monitor, crawl out from under the stairs, or maybe slowly creep out from around the dumpster. Nothing, just the rotating scenarios of the same several rooms, repeating over and over.
She almost felt a slight disappointment at the fact that there was nothing worth telling people about, proudly bragging to friends, and proving someone wrong. As she went back to checking reports, something caught a corner of her eye, and made her head jerk in the direction of the movement.
And again, nothing out of the ordinary. "The column", she thought. "It could be hiding behind the column, for all I know." These thoughts made her extend her neck and peak out from the desk, beyond the comfort zone of, and get a broader view of the main column that was supporting the ceiling.
Finally convinced that her overly vivid imagination finally took a hold on her, she became irate with herself for letting it tamper with her sanity and overall well being. As she sat back into the chair and picked up the papers, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of extreme drowsiness and sleepiness, which was onset either by the warmth of the heater next to her, or by something else.
As she tried to fight off the sandman, her eyelids became lead heavy, eventually closing and submitting her into a state of deep slumber.
It wasn't until early morning that the housekeeper, accompanied with a blood curdling scream, found a body- completely devoid of any signs of life and visibly disfigured- in the farthest emergency exit staircase of the hotel.
The body was that of a young woman- a pretty blonde in her early twenties, well groomed and once elegantly dressed, with delicate features and a porcelain skin that most likely came with a high price tag.
In a striking contrast to her immaculate features, her face bore a grimace of uncontrollable horror, her mouth still frozen in a latent scream, and something unknown but positively terrifying forever imprinted in her sky blue corneas. With a face frozen in a death mask but still intact, the same could not be said about the rest of her body.
Her torso was covered with deep wounds which, upon a closer examination, appeared to be lacerations from a sharp, knife like object. However, a theory that an attacker had used a knife was disspelled by a bizarre nature of these wounds. The skin appeared to be torn and mangled around the edges, with chunks of flesh protruding to the surface, as if something had ripped into it with an incredible force.
While extremely gruesome in its nature, the most disturbing sight was the woman's neck. A large gaping wound revealed a shattered trachea, a part of which was sticking out like a shard of broken porcelain, wedged into a mass of dried up brownish burgundy blood.
One could only wonder whether this was done in order to prevent any audible signs of struggle, leaving the victim voiceless for the amount of time that she was still alive and undergoing vicious torment to the rest of her body, or if this savage mutilation was done after the life has already escaped her.
In any event, whatever she experienced and saw was most likely beyond our comprehension and imagination.
After the police was called and the crime scene was cordoned off, the hotel was evacuated and the police started questioning guests standing outside if they have seen or heard anything, but all to no avail. Everybody was shook up and freightened, and it became obvious that no of them were involved.
The majority of the people opted to check out and look for rooms elsewhere. Every nook and cranny of the hotel was inspected, but no signs of breaking and entering were discovered, nor were there any bloody footprints or any other evidence that the attacker ever left this locaton without a trace. Reviewing of the security cameras did not end in success either, since the grizzly murder took place outside of the view of the lens.
When finally the police got a hold of Her, she was visibly shaken up. The whole idea of being alone at night while this scenario was being played out made her sick to her stomach, and she wondered if that could've been her in a place of that young woman, be the latter in a different place at a different time.
She was terrified and puzzled at the same at the thought of a nature of the killer, at his ability to appear and vanish without a trace, and his brutal ways. After all, while they searched the whole place and have found no signs of the beast being there, they also did not find any signs of it leave the premises, and she thought of a possibililty of it being a master of disguise, doing what is has been doing best to avoid being captured.
It has been almost a month since the crime took place, and the hotel went more or less back to its normal routine, with extra security cameras installed in those blind spots where they weren't before. The employees have calmed down and there was almost no more talk about it, especially since a notion of an unsolved murder could have done some damage to the hotel's reputation. The matter was swiped under the carpet, which no longer had the blood stains on it after being carefully cleaned by an unsuspecting housekeeper, which was hired after the one that discovered the body had quit the same day.
However, the lack of satisfaction from the fact that the creature was somewhere out there on the loose and even possibly watching her every move was gnawing at her soul, making her grow progressively uneasy and fearful.
A thought of leaving has crossed her mind, but she needed this job, and knew that succumbing to fears and paranoia would be an irresponsible and childish move on her part. So she stayed, and she waited.
The darkness behind glass doors was now even darker, every movement from shadows falling from trees and bushes made her heart skip a beat as she felt that a grotesque creature might be ready to leap at her with full force. Every growl of an ice machine generator in the hallway, or the on and off humming of the heater in the back room made her jump. Every corner and turn now harbored something dark and ominous, watching her with its invisible eye and ready to assault when she was the most vulnerable, at the times when she was not paying attention. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that it was just her mind playing tricks on her,triggered by an already overactive imagination, the ever-seeing stalking eye was occupying her brain like cancer. She could not prevent herself from following the patterns of survival in this place. There was no way she could go to the back past the darkened office with menacing half opened blinds to get printing paper, or far down the dimly lit hallway to the main bathroom. She just knew that something might be waiting for her at any of those places, wanting to take advantage of her loneliness, and causing the same trauma it has caused to the previous victim. She had to be prepared to avoid it getting her.
Almost crouching at the front desk, she was scanning the surroundings around her, letting not even a minute detail escape her peripheral vision. Enveloped in waves of terrifying uneasiness, day after day she was being submerged into an ocean of deep and deafening silence.
Every night she was patiently waiting for the dawn, when the sun would break the spell of darkness with its rays, spilling its light into every crevice, exposing every nook and cranny that seemed so ominous and haunting before.
This time was no different, and she was sitting behind her granite fortress when suddenly a strange sensation came over her entire body, making every hair stand on end. She felt as if an electrical current went through her every limb, engulfing her in a sense of numbness and euphoria and eliminating any sense of discomfort and fear she once had. She felt the warmth run through her veins, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and felt her entire body relax for the first time. As she rose from her seat, she started walking slowly, as if in a trance, towards the front door, which swung open, exposing her to the dark and cold space of a clear winter night. The amplified sensation, which came somewhere from above, made her lift up her head and look up.
There it was, looking at her straight in the eye with its pale, round, emotionless face, and emanating its glowing loneliness. Hanging like a solitaire, all alone in an endless cosmos, it has found its soulmate yet again. As the lunar halo spread its lucent glow across sky, it was sending her its pulsating waves, trying to reach her core to reconnect and become one. They were looking at each other once again, two complete strangers, so far and yet so close, so silent but so understanding.
Suddenly she felt an extreme sense of hunger, and as she clenched her fists, she felt her nails dig deep into the flesh. The pain made her cringe and she bit her lower lip with her canine. As a thin trickle of blood ran down her chin, she licked it off with her tongue and smiled. Slowly turning around, her gaze fell on the lit up comfort of the lobby. Walking back inside, she felt the lunar glare with the back of her head, guiding her...
She took a drag from a cigarette, and heard a light crackle as the amber tip lit up and let the smoke fill her lungs. She exhaled, letting out a new batch of smoke. The moon emanated its cold mysterious glow, making the snow covered field drown in an ocean of pure white.
She stood there, spellbound by this creature that was looking back at her, and her only, with its featureless round face, so many light years and miles away, so distant and yet so close, keeping her company at this lonesome hour.
She could sense it sending its lunar incantations into the air, pulsating with waves and invoking the spirits of the forest that stood like an inpenetrable fortress along the shadowed edges of the field.
From the safety of the lit up entrance of the hotel, she wondered what creatures might be lurking in those woods, creeping up to the light in feeble attempts to cross over, and disappearing back into the safety of the darkness once touched by the moonlight.
She stuck the cigarette butt into a snow pile sitting on top of a large flower pot decorated with dead tree branches and more cigarette remains, and went back inside to claim her seat at the front desk.
The echo of high heels on a tile floor disturbed the ambiance of a dead silence, and she almost felt like an intruder in this silent kingdom. Dim lobby lights and long, endless zigzagging hallways extending in both directions gave her chills, and she tried to fill her mind with happiness inducing thoughts.
Learning from a previous mistake, she made sure to close the door as quietly as possible, as to not annoy any presence that could be in there with a loud noise. Finally she was in the safety of a high wood and granite desk, barricaded from whatever could be out there by the phones, boxes, computers, and stuff that cluttered the space. Landing in a leather swivel chair, she looked to her left and saw a monitor of a surveillance camera.
The uncomfortable feeling came back. The screens were changing, going from one camera shot to another. Staircase 1, staircase 2, electrical room, back rooms. She was captivated by the surreal lifelessness of each room, nervously anticipating for something to bring it to life, to show up unexpectedly on a bleak staticky monitor, crawl out from under the stairs, or maybe slowly creep out from around the dumpster. Nothing, just the rotating scenarios of the same several rooms, repeating over and over.
She almost felt a slight disappointment at the fact that there was nothing worth telling people about, proudly bragging to friends, and proving someone wrong. As she went back to checking reports, something caught a corner of her eye, and made her head jerk in the direction of the movement.
And again, nothing out of the ordinary. "The column", she thought. "It could be hiding behind the column, for all I know." These thoughts made her extend her neck and peak out from the desk, beyond the comfort zone of, and get a broader view of the main column that was supporting the ceiling.
Finally convinced that her overly vivid imagination finally took a hold on her, she became irate with herself for letting it tamper with her sanity and overall well being. As she sat back into the chair and picked up the papers, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of extreme drowsiness and sleepiness, which was onset either by the warmth of the heater next to her, or by something else.
As she tried to fight off the sandman, her eyelids became lead heavy, eventually closing and submitting her into a state of deep slumber.
It wasn't until early morning that the housekeeper, accompanied with a blood curdling scream, found a body- completely devoid of any signs of life and visibly disfigured- in the farthest emergency exit staircase of the hotel.
The body was that of a young woman- a pretty blonde in her early twenties, well groomed and once elegantly dressed, with delicate features and a porcelain skin that most likely came with a high price tag.
In a striking contrast to her immaculate features, her face bore a grimace of uncontrollable horror, her mouth still frozen in a latent scream, and something unknown but positively terrifying forever imprinted in her sky blue corneas. With a face frozen in a death mask but still intact, the same could not be said about the rest of her body.
Her torso was covered with deep wounds which, upon a closer examination, appeared to be lacerations from a sharp, knife like object. However, a theory that an attacker had used a knife was disspelled by a bizarre nature of these wounds. The skin appeared to be torn and mangled around the edges, with chunks of flesh protruding to the surface, as if something had ripped into it with an incredible force.
While extremely gruesome in its nature, the most disturbing sight was the woman's neck. A large gaping wound revealed a shattered trachea, a part of which was sticking out like a shard of broken porcelain, wedged into a mass of dried up brownish burgundy blood.
One could only wonder whether this was done in order to prevent any audible signs of struggle, leaving the victim voiceless for the amount of time that she was still alive and undergoing vicious torment to the rest of her body, or if this savage mutilation was done after the life has already escaped her.
In any event, whatever she experienced and saw was most likely beyond our comprehension and imagination.
After the police was called and the crime scene was cordoned off, the hotel was evacuated and the police started questioning guests standing outside if they have seen or heard anything, but all to no avail. Everybody was shook up and freightened, and it became obvious that no of them were involved.
The majority of the people opted to check out and look for rooms elsewhere. Every nook and cranny of the hotel was inspected, but no signs of breaking and entering were discovered, nor were there any bloody footprints or any other evidence that the attacker ever left this locaton without a trace. Reviewing of the security cameras did not end in success either, since the grizzly murder took place outside of the view of the lens.
When finally the police got a hold of Her, she was visibly shaken up. The whole idea of being alone at night while this scenario was being played out made her sick to her stomach, and she wondered if that could've been her in a place of that young woman, be the latter in a different place at a different time.
She was terrified and puzzled at the same at the thought of a nature of the killer, at his ability to appear and vanish without a trace, and his brutal ways. After all, while they searched the whole place and have found no signs of the beast being there, they also did not find any signs of it leave the premises, and she thought of a possibililty of it being a master of disguise, doing what is has been doing best to avoid being captured.
It has been almost a month since the crime took place, and the hotel went more or less back to its normal routine, with extra security cameras installed in those blind spots where they weren't before. The employees have calmed down and there was almost no more talk about it, especially since a notion of an unsolved murder could have done some damage to the hotel's reputation. The matter was swiped under the carpet, which no longer had the blood stains on it after being carefully cleaned by an unsuspecting housekeeper, which was hired after the one that discovered the body had quit the same day.
However, the lack of satisfaction from the fact that the creature was somewhere out there on the loose and even possibly watching her every move was gnawing at her soul, making her grow progressively uneasy and fearful.
A thought of leaving has crossed her mind, but she needed this job, and knew that succumbing to fears and paranoia would be an irresponsible and childish move on her part. So she stayed, and she waited.
The darkness behind glass doors was now even darker, every movement from shadows falling from trees and bushes made her heart skip a beat as she felt that a grotesque creature might be ready to leap at her with full force. Every growl of an ice machine generator in the hallway, or the on and off humming of the heater in the back room made her jump. Every corner and turn now harbored something dark and ominous, watching her with its invisible eye and ready to assault when she was the most vulnerable, at the times when she was not paying attention. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that it was just her mind playing tricks on her,triggered by an already overactive imagination, the ever-seeing stalking eye was occupying her brain like cancer. She could not prevent herself from following the patterns of survival in this place. There was no way she could go to the back past the darkened office with menacing half opened blinds to get printing paper, or far down the dimly lit hallway to the main bathroom. She just knew that something might be waiting for her at any of those places, wanting to take advantage of her loneliness, and causing the same trauma it has caused to the previous victim. She had to be prepared to avoid it getting her.
Almost crouching at the front desk, she was scanning the surroundings around her, letting not even a minute detail escape her peripheral vision. Enveloped in waves of terrifying uneasiness, day after day she was being submerged into an ocean of deep and deafening silence.
Every night she was patiently waiting for the dawn, when the sun would break the spell of darkness with its rays, spilling its light into every crevice, exposing every nook and cranny that seemed so ominous and haunting before.
This time was no different, and she was sitting behind her granite fortress when suddenly a strange sensation came over her entire body, making every hair stand on end. She felt as if an electrical current went through her every limb, engulfing her in a sense of numbness and euphoria and eliminating any sense of discomfort and fear she once had. She felt the warmth run through her veins, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and felt her entire body relax for the first time. As she rose from her seat, she started walking slowly, as if in a trance, towards the front door, which swung open, exposing her to the dark and cold space of a clear winter night. The amplified sensation, which came somewhere from above, made her lift up her head and look up.
There it was, looking at her straight in the eye with its pale, round, emotionless face, and emanating its glowing loneliness. Hanging like a solitaire, all alone in an endless cosmos, it has found its soulmate yet again. As the lunar halo spread its lucent glow across sky, it was sending her its pulsating waves, trying to reach her core to reconnect and become one. They were looking at each other once again, two complete strangers, so far and yet so close, so silent but so understanding.
Suddenly she felt an extreme sense of hunger, and as she clenched her fists, she felt her nails dig deep into the flesh. The pain made her cringe and she bit her lower lip with her canine. As a thin trickle of blood ran down her chin, she licked it off with her tongue and smiled. Slowly turning around, her gaze fell on the lit up comfort of the lobby. Walking back inside, she felt the lunar glare with the back of her head, guiding her...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
time
Time. I have always considered it something completely beyond human comprehension and even remote understanding. With a false sense of awareness we look at our clocks every day, assigning varius tasks for a certan period in our day that we associate with time. The fact is, we never do anything at the "same time", since it is impossible to repeat even a single second of it. If we pick a moment, every next moment will take us further and further away from the original one, and we will forever move away from it. Every single moment is like one of the atoms that our lives are made of. They are combined as close together as possble, and even though there are some spaces in between them, the continuum doesn't let us fill in those spaces.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
yahoo schnews
So apparently, according to Yahoo News, a "number of illegal meth labs has decreased in NC". I was completely unaware that there is such thing as a legal meth lab, but I guess they would know better.
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