Noah
The car screeches off the bridge. Sam jumps out mere moments before it goes over. Sparks fly as metal is slung around, concrete spewing in every direction. Lights bursting from the impact make the sky go dark. People in their own cars pull to the side to watch in horror at the brutal scene in front of them. Sam’s body is bloody and bruised, but still alive, scrambling to get up. His ankle almost backwards as he makes his first attempt to stand up. It fails. He tries again, this time more desperately, and it fails. He slowly tries to drag himself towards the side of the bridge, trying to blend in and hide against the wall. Flashing lights approach as Sam crawls away. People are being forced to the sides, told to move out of the way as officers make their way through the midnight crowd.
The police manage to push past the crowd and lose view of Sam. The scene suggests Sam is there, but he’s nowhere to be seen. A small blood trail is dragging across the road, showing signs of crawling. Then the trail turns to drips every few feet until the red stops. The police barred off entry to the bridge, directing traffic to go around. The people who are already on the bridge and out of their cars are instructed to get back in. They are not allowed to leave until the police can run through some questions and do checks to try and find the man.
Sam manages to hide under one of the cars, hand over mouth, trying to control his desire to scream out in pain. He is able to hop on his other foot to move faster, running only on his adrenaline. But that is starting to run out. The need to scream, cry, and faint is all that’s coming to his mind. What feels like hours pass before Sam sees his way out. Through black spots in his vision, he sees that the cars are lined up, giving him the perfect escape on the side of the bridge. He needs to get off of there before he passes out and knows he only has one shot. He shakes his arms and head, trying to wake up, to feel something enough to make it there. He slides out from under the car and first attempts to stand up before realizing his legs don’t have the will to. He chose to crawl instead, hands and knees scraping on the concrete. It’s too dark for him to see his own blood dripping as he crawls, but he could feel it. The warm wetness on his knees shedding onto the concrete as he drags across it.
He’s almost halfway there before he sees one of the bystanders peer at him through their car window. Startled, he raises his hand to put it up to his mouth, trying to signal to them to be quiet. In doing so, he slips; the one arm on the ground gives out from the pressure of his injured body. His face hitting the ground gives him a new scar, but also a rush of adrenaline. Using this, he scurries, making it to the end of the bridge before seeing police officers with flashlights approach the car he was at before. They talk to the people inside and show them some sort of picture. They respond with something, but Sam can’t hear them through his own throbbing heartbeat. The police walk away, off to interrogate another car, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief before trying to go forward. He knows that he has to get further away. Off the side of the bridge, under the minimally guarded police barrier, there is the forest that Sam knew like the back of his hand. He just has to get there.
Sam crawls under the police barrier, still running off the rush from his head hitting on the ground. It takes him a while, but he makes it through the barrier and behind a nearby tree. On the verge of passing out, Sam tries his best to stay awake. He fails.
After an unknown period of time, he awakes. All his blood’s been cleaned up, but he feels sore. Everything aches: his arms, his legs, even his ears ache. Throbbing pain is what he feels, but nothing sharp. He couldn’t feel any of the cuts or bruises he should have had. It took Sam this long to realize he’s back where he was earlier that day. He’s back in the hospital and hooked up to a bunch of tubes, all of them beeping different pitches of the same noise. It drives him insane. He is ready to get out again.
“Is he going to be okay? I can’t stand seeing him like this anymore!” the woman cries. “My son, my poor son!”
“Mrs. Staton, he will be alright; the drugs this time are a higher dosage, and he should relax.”
“But why is he doing this? It’s the drugs, right? It has to be the drugs! Why are you doing this to him? Stop it! Let him out! Let him see me; I can help!” Mrs. Stanton’s onslaught of words confuses the doctor. She keeps going. Yelling at him turns to mumbling to herself before it stops. She stares at the doctor, tears pouring from her eyes, forehead red from worry. She’s shaking.
“I understand your worry, but he will wake up soon. He may be a little out of it; the drug sometimes has that effect on people,” the doctor says, trying to calm her down.
“I shouldn’t have signed that waiver; he was never this." is bad before this.
“It’s effective in calming the person, but it can sometimes make them forget themselves; this is one of the first runs on an actual person, so some hiccups are to be expected.” The doctor says shrinks to the side a bit, preparing for the rage of this boy's mom.
“Hiccups? A small hiccup wouldn’t make my poor boy forget his own name!” Mrs. Stanton cries out in anguish, “My poor Noah! Does he even remember his own mother?”
“Ma’am, please try to calm down; everything will be fine,” the doctor, scrambling to think of anything to say, says, “You can go in and see him right now, I think.” The last part he mumbles to himself.
Sam is preparing his next escape, away from the people in lab coats. He knows they’re trying to do something to him. He can’t let them. Sam begins ripping out the tubes; liquid spurts out of the busted needles, and so does his own blood. Sam ignores any pain he may feel and pushes on. He bursts open the door to see a lady crying and yelling at him; next to her is a man in a white coat. A man he has to get away from; they will put him back. Sam tears out in the opposite direction, down long, sharp-cornered corridors. He doesn’t know if he’s being followed; all of his attention is focused on moving forward and not tripping. He turns, dodges, and turns again; that’s all that’s flowing through his mind.
He finally makes it to the exit, passing others in white coats who are probably chasing him now. He sees others, others who look like him. They also have tubes, are lying down, and all of them are bruised. Not full of cuts and blood, but bruised.
He made it outside again before finally turning around. The world’s spinning and moving away from him; he feels a sharp pain as his feet give out. His knees quickly follow. His head smacking onto the ground now a familiar feeling for him. Everything is whirling around him, eyes going spotted, hearing washing out.
“Noah! Are you okay? Noah, Noah!”
Who is Noah? Is the last thing he thought before it all went dark.
“I can’t keep waiting like this for him! Last time it was a whole month until he woke up again; I can’t take this anymore! I want my son back." Mrs. Stanton is over being upset at this point; she’s angry with the doctors, angry with the world, and angry with herself. Why can’t she see her son? What is she supposed to do with her life?
“Right now he’s in a medically induced coma to see if we can stop his outbreaks. We should only have to keep him under for a few days more; he’s almost healed and in a better physical condition. It’s still the same doctor from before; they couldn’t find anyone sane enough to take his place.
“What about his mental state? Is he going to know who I am?” Mrs. Stanton asks.
“We have stopped the drug, but his old symptoms could come back. As I’ve said before, this is one of the first times we’ve used this drug on an actual person; we don’t know its effects for sure. The doctor is checking his charts to see if any other results have come in about this drug’s effects on others.
“It seems that no one else has had these types of side effects. There has been only a small sample size due to no one really needing this drug,” the doctor says, avoiding eye contact with the fuming Mrs. Stanton.
“If I come back here next week, will I get my son back?” Mrs. Stanton is pleading at this point.
“Only time can tell,” the doctor replies.
Sam reawakens once again, and this time, he’s strapped down to the bed. He’s very groggy and out of it; the throbbing pain of his head makes it hard for him to see out of one of his eyes. Trying to lift his hand to rub his eye fails because of the restraint. Sam starts thrashing around trying to break out; the bed trembles under him. Every muscle in his body twitches through the pain. He is able to loosen one of the restraints on his arm enough to wiggle it free. Using his one free hand, he pushes himself out until he can sit up and undo the rest of the restraints.
Sam tries to stand up; he needs to look out the window, do anything to plan his escape. He doesn’t know who Noah is, and he doesn’t want to. After a few more attempts, Sam manages to stand up and hobble over to the only window in the room. The window itself is unlocked. Sam looks through it; seeing he’s on the second floor, he’s about a 20-foot drop from freedom. It is dark outside once again; he’s in the same hospital that’s somewhat near to where he was before. His attempts before the car failed just like his most recent ones. Sam knows that to be free he has to make it to those woods.
Sam decides that before he can be caught again, he has to get out through that window. Sliding it open, Sam climbs through and sits on the ledge. His plan is to jump out, land on his feet so they can take the brunt of the impact, before rolling to keep with the momentum. And he does just that. Sam lands on his heels while tucking in his knees and rolling forward. He made it a few feet off of the momentum before landing on his posterior. Sam feels a little dizzy but stands up. As his head is clearing, he sees flashing red lights just before he hears the sound of sirens and people approaching.
Running now, Sam heads for the bridge again. He passes the old hole now filled in and off color, yet to be repainted. He keeps running; Sam figures it is easier to hide on foot if the car is too obvious. The sirens and the lights follow him, now with a new song and blue and red flashes. Sam sees that lady again chasing him; she’s yelling and screeching and screaming, but Sam ignores her. She sounds like the wailing of a broken record. Shriek and high-pitched, but so does everyone else. No one sounds like they are talking; it’s all tones of squeaks, no distinct voices.
Sam doesn’t look back; he keeps going forward, towards the forest, out of this place. He makes it to where he passed out before, just passing the tree where he was caught. Screeching, crying, and pain are all he could hear. He doesn’t know if it’s his own or if it’s coming from somewhere else.
Sam takes one look behind him, slowing a bit to make sure he doesn’t fall over. He sees the man in white, the lady, and police chasing him on foot; they had given up the car when Sam started weaving between the buildings. Sam sees them, mouths wide open, wailing out an inhuman sound. Sam takes that as a sign to keep running. He sprints over roots, between trees, and under branches. He can see the other side; the thin barrier that separates him from it has a grayish hue. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it through, but he’s ready to try.
Having no time to slow down, he slams straight into the barrier. The gray transparent film warps around Sam. Slowly, he phases through it, first his hand, then his other, then his torso and both of his legs. All except for his left foot. The chasers’ hands reach out, diving and grasping for Sam’s ankle. Sam turns around to shake them off and sees something. They’re not human. That lady screaming for Noah turns into a grotesque, uncanny-looking thing. Black liquid dripping from its eyes, a hole where its nose should be, and it is holding onto Sam backwards. Shoulders bent a little too far, holding onto his ankle. The other things looked the same. All of them some kind of off-putting, uncanny thing. No longer human.
Sam shook them off desperately. He could hear himself screaming. He failed to shake them off with his leg alone and chose to throw his hands back in instead. Sam’s arms break back through the barrier, thrashing and hitting. It hurt his fist more than it hurt those creatures, but he keeps trying. They started to pull back, digging their long, sharp nails into his skin, tearing his tendons, and trying to pull his foot off of his body. Sam is being dragged back. His fists do nothing to stop them, but one of his attempts to shake them off seems to get a reaction. Sam hit it straight in the place where its nose should be. It released its grip and flew back, hands covering its face. Sam does the same thing to the rest, hitting them in the same spot. They all release their hands, following the same pattern as the other who’d let go before. Sam, turning, sprints away from the barrier as fast as he can with a limp. Thanks to his adrenaline, he couldn’t feel his ankle, but that doesn’t make running any easier.
Sam ran for a few minutes before slowing down and falling over. Tired, out of breath, and in pain, Sam made it out. He’s back and out of that place that took him. He’s free to go back to his life; he is out of the town. But who’s Noah?
A few hours later a policeman walked up to the scene. “Looks pretty bad. Did you say he’s your son?”
“Yes! My poor Noah is going insane, and there’s nothing I can do anymore!” Mrs. Stanton is in hysterics trying to cope with Noah’s disappearance.
“Ma'am, please try to calm down; we’re doing our best to find your son and return him home,” the police officer says, slightly afraid of this upset mother.
“Calm down?" I'll calm down when you bring back my son!”
“Ma’am, please step back. We’ll take care of this.”
Mrs. Stanton goes to sit down, and the officer investigates the scene. There had always been a hole in that fence; no one bothered to fix it after a storm. But now the fence is bloodied and bent from someone running through it.
Chrysanthemums for Al
She awoke that morning to find her husband’s spot in their shared bed still dented, like he had just been laying there only moments prior. Slowly rising up to sit, Lucina, or Lu as her husband Al liked to call her, stretched her arms high before taking a few more breaths and standing up to get ready for her day.
It was a chilly fall afternoon in the coastal area of Lake Superior. Lucina and Al had known each other for almost fifty years now and were married for forty of those. It was a week away from their forty-first anniversary, and Lucina was pulling out all the stops for this one. She planned a day trip where they would visit their favorite spot and spend the time relaxing, reminiscing about old memories. It was usually a one-sided sharing when they celebrated; Lucina would talk about old times, and Al would listen peacefully. It was always Lucina’s favorite time. Her family lived far away, her friends were old and forgetful, and Lucina was content with living her days in her small cabin with the nearest neighbor a mile away. It was the house Lucina and Al bought together when they got married. They’d lived there and built up their home with memories and laughs; rarely any hard times fell on them, and they were happy.
Lucina changed into a dusty blue gown; lace frills lined the bottom. The sleeves were long and cuffed at the end. The fabric swayed as she glided around, dancing between her dresser and vanity as she made her way over. Time had left its mark on Lucina’s face, but Al always told her otherwise. Lucina fixed her hair into a half-up, half-down look, a few pieces laid gently over her face. She donned a necklace with a heart-shaped pendant; inside of it rested a picture she held dearly. She slipped on her socks and a cream-colored cardigan to match her blue dress before heading out of the room to get started on her morning coffee. She sipped it lightly while staring out the window into the blue world outside.
The calm morning hid behind it a vast lake. Animals scurried outside, busy preparing for the frigid winter yet to come. Lucina had been through many Minnesota winters in her time and recently hired someone to take care of the shoveling at her and Al’s house. On her final sip of coffee, Lucina gulped it down, stood up, and walked to the sink, where she left her cup before putting on her shoes and grabbing her keys to head outside. She unlocked her car and got in, put the key in the ignition, and turned it. The car engine churned as it started; it was rarely ever used save for the few times Lucina headed into town. This was one of those occasions. Lucina reversed and headed out of their house and down the road. She hummed to herself as she drove; it was her tradition that on her and Al’s anniversary, she would go into town, pick up some flowers and a cake, then head to the liquor store to get the same exact bottle of wine they shared every year. This year was no exception.
Lucina drove for about fifteen minutes before she entered the nearest town. The town had all she needed: a florist, a bakery, and a liquor store. Her first stop was to the florist, where the owner already had prepared her yearly order of chrysanthemums. Lucina thanked him before heading a block down the quaint road, where she saw the baker already standing outside holding the white cake with pink flowers on top. Although the cake was the same one Lucina and Al had shared at their wedding, the boy who gave it to her was the son of their original baker. That boy carried on the legacy of his mom, who used to do the same every year. Lucina once again thanked him before she went to the liquor store. She walked in, greeted the person at the checkout counter, and went to the back shelf where they stocked their cheapest red wine.
Lucina and Ale were not the most flamboyant people at their wedding and wanted something simple. They had only their closest family there and shared a bottle of red wine they bought at this liquor store only an hour prior. The only thing they had in stock at that time was the cheapest thing they offered. This cheap wine ritual stuck with them.
Lucina paid for the wine and left. She got in her car, started the engine once again, albeit this time it turned on with little problems, and drove back to her and Al’s house humming the same tune. Lucina got out of her car and, instead of going inside her house, took a path around the back and down a little trail that led near the lake.
She and Al had always agreed to meet at the same spot, the little tree, now big with the years gone by, behind their house and next to the lake. It was always their favorite spot with a beautiful lookout into the shimmering Superior.
Lucina smiled as she reached the spot. She set out the cake on the ground and sat next to it, the chrysanthemums still in hand. She kept the wine under her arm and took out her keys to use to pop off the cork. She sat there and smiled while staring out over the lake, still humming the same tune as earlier. It was their wedding song, a lovely, smooth waltz that everyone talked about even years after their wedding. The enchanting dance to go with the song had also become a ritual that Lucina and Al performed on their anniversary.
Lucina left the cake, flowers, and wine on the ground as she stood up. She hummed as she spun around; her dress flowed around her with the same rhythm as their song. She held her arms out, and her feet moved on their own. She could feel herself in Al’s arms as they dazzled the room. When her humming had finished, Lucina sat back down and poured out the wine onto a stone. She set the cake next to the rock and the chrysanthemums on top of it. She held her pendant in her hand and opened it; inside was their wedding picture. A black-and-white image of their colorful love. Lucina adored her and Al’s anniversary and went through their traditions every year. Not even the flow of time could stop her love for Al.
Hello! My name is Lilian (Lily) Filand and I am an 11th grader at Saint Peter High School. Normally I like to write short stories with some sort of twist or ambiguous endings that keep the reader questioning, but also find joy in writing the occasional comedic story.