Fiction

A black fly is banging against the tall, walls of a clear drinking glass. A foot away lies the glowing orange it thought was about to be its breakfast. But the pristine glass is unyielding and the fly’s five mosaic eyes blink in confusion. The pounding sound it makes hitting the glass reflects the panic breeding inside its tiny body. The wings beat frantically against its cage and a fire floods through its mind and body. The cool marble table beneath it does little to quench the heat until it gives up and drops like a stone to the bottom of an unforgiving ocean. As the morning sun sparkles inside the glass which unforgivingly holds the life of a creature, the shadow of a hand blots out the light and darkness falls within the jail.

I hear a sort of shriek out in the distance. It is loud and far away. Yet unmistakable. 

My legs go from a steady jog to the start of a sprint. Great puffs of air steam up in front of my face as my breathing increases. The ground is eaten up by my feet and the scenery is now a blur. I shouldn’t have gone this far out on the path. 

And yet, how was I supposed to know, it's never happened this early in the morning before.

The shrieking is getting louder. Closer. I begin to hear a ringing in my ear that is caused by close proximity of that horrible, awful shrieking.

Even though I notice the sound change, I never stop moving. A branch hits me across the face just above my left eye. A trickle of blood filters down through my eyelashes but I barely even flick at it. It won’t matter in a few minutes if I can’t get out of here. 

A loud screech echoes all around me, bouncing off trees. It’s close. Too close. 

They won’t even look for me. None of them were ever as brave as me. Or as stupid. They’ll remember and I know my mom will cry. But none of them will do anything if I don’t come home. 

My head starts pounding and rumbling. Until I realize it’s not my head. It's the ground. The trees around me start raining acorns, crying for what's about to come. But they can’t save me. Right when I start to see the end of the tree line, just up ahead, I hear it. 

I hear the sound that causes people to lock their doors and not come out for days. A sound of death and fear. The sound that means it’s hunting.

I know it’s too late when I hear the soft, high-pitched whistle---one that renders you useless if you get to close---filter through the roots and branches and then directly up my spine. My legs freeze and then my upper body and finally to my neck. I’m paralyzed. Only my eyes dart back in forth, searching for the inevitable... 

And I never even see it when it hits me.

Lieto scrambled to the window as the first cool breeze in weeks passed through the town. He closed his eyes to the sun and let out a breath as the wind hit his face. On the street below him, nearly everyone in Calatara, Italy did the same, embracing the small relief from the stifling heat. Nearly.

・

Teo hadn’t even noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the black and white sputtering tape exploding from the wheel resting on his lap, panic flooding through him as his hands hovered uncertainly above it.

“Abele?” He called out, hoping that the older man was within earshot. When no response came, he huffed impatiently and waited for the film reel to finish it's sputtering. After playing with the tape for a few minutes, he heard the familiar clanging of Abele’s shoes against the metal stairs running from the theater to the projection room.

He had only left for twenty minutes, but here Teo was with a busted film reel that hadn’t been busted before. He made a half-hearted attempt to shove it back into the wheel before Abele rounded the corner, throwing the fifteen-year-old sprawled out on the ground into view. Teo glanced up and gave him an apologetic smile, to which the man just rolled his eyes and dropped down beside him, explaining what he could have possibly done to prompt such an outburst from the projection machine.

Teo paid attention of course, but not as much to the sound of Abele’s voice as to the small window that looked out over the town square. More specifically, the sight of the trees rustling in the wind.

・

Lieto wouldn’t soon forget the first time he went to the cinema. When he was seven, his mother had insisted his whole class should go, just for the culture. Or something.

Whatever she had said was compelling enough to convince his father (the one and only headmaster De Sena) to begrudgingly send the twenty or so kids to the theater.

He could remember everything from that day. The walk down from the school building along a cracked dirt road; the feeling of the cracked leather folding chair on his legs as he kneeled on it to see over the adults’ heads; and the way the sign had lit up those two words: Cinema Paradiso.

But mostly, Lieto remembered how the film had flickered thousands of colors against the screen. He left the theater awestruck. The only thing stronger than his amazement was his desire to go back.

It had been eight years since that day, and Lieto had spent every minute waiting for the moment he could sneak away to the cinema. It became the only thing he thought about. Riding his bike down to the market, the glare of the sun reminded him of the hazy stream of shifting light pouring out of the projector. The glitter of his mother’s wedding ring brought images of actresses dripping in diamonds shown up on the screen.

His mother didn’t particularly mind his obsession. She used to turn a blind eye when he always managed to “lose” his allowance. On the other hand, his father was not nearly so forgiving. Mr. De Sena had taken to addressing him as “pazzo de film.” Movie fool. The worst part was that Lieto had started responding to it.

This is why as Lieto hung out the window that day, letting the sun tan his face, he nearly fell two stories onto the street.

“Pazzo!” Lieto jerked back inside, righting himself against the sill before his father could come barreling back into the office. “Boy, you are lucky,” the headmaster grumbled, dropping into his chair. Lieto stayed silent, not sure if he was expecting a response. “Pazzo,” The man sighed, “How would you like to take the younger students down to the cinema?” Lieto tried to stifle his excitement as Mr. De Sena informed him of how the teacher had fallen sick and they needed another chaperone for the trip. He agreed as nonchalantly as he could with a head already swimming with spilling light and the tick of the projector.

Barely thirty minutes later he and the second-grade teacher had managed to herd the crowd of kids downtown, where they stood staring up at the Cinema Paradiso. Lieto felt his breath get sucked out of his lungs at the sight, itching to go in with the same vigor as the first time he had been there.

Once they were inside, Lieto was put in charge of making sure everyone was still there. He didn’t both to check before the movie started, too entranced by the intricate paneling and staring back at the small, darkened window he knew housed the projector. After just a minute, light exploded out onto the screen. Lieto couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. Pazzo de film was more accurate than anyone knew, but he didn’t really mind.

Lieto was pulled out of this thought when the teacher hissed back at him that one of the students was missing. He cursed to himself, glancing around at the students. Had he really forgotten to count? Surely enough, one of the boys was gone.

Lieto glanced up at the screen with a sigh before quickly moving to the back of the theater to look for him. The boy was likely over by the concessions, looking to get himself some candy, but Lieto couldn’t help but check the projection room. His heart raced as he opened the door to the stairs up. He had always wanted to be up there, hell, just in the same room as the projector. To see up close what created something like that.

He could hear movement in the room above; what sounded like voices arguing. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, the door banged open and for the second time that day, Lieto nearly fell to his death.

The telephone coil didn’t seem like it would stretch any further. Jade figured one last vigorous tug might do the trick, so she pulled and was met with a sound of breaking plaster as the phone was ripped out of the wall. 

“Oh my god!” She cried and tried to feign surprise. 

She, of course, had no idea that this would happen nor that she was capable of yanking a phone out of the wall. It wasn’t like she was angry at her parents for abruptly deciding to move into a house that was so old fashioned that it still had a coiled phone. No, this definitely had nothing to do with that. Jade would say that she was simply testing how far the coil could stretch and would deny any accusations that it might’ve been intentional. 

She stood back and admired her work. Hopefully, along with replacing the wall, they would also repaint it. Jade wasn’t sure how long she could bear to look at the gaudy orange and wondered who in their right mind would ever paint a house that color. Jade could only assume that whoever had chosen it, hadn’t been in their right mind and had decided to inflict a horrid punishment on the wall. Jade could think of a million other colors that would’ve looked better. She had done the wall a favor by tearing part of it down and could only think of how exciting it would be to pick out a new color. Except, no, it was not exciting, and the wall wouldn’t be repainted, and they definitely weren’t staying here. 

Jade pushed all of the positive thoughts out of her mind and slumped against the horrid, orange wall. After all, it was much easier to be miserable than happy.

There was a point in time where the virus got so bad no one was able to come out of their houses even for groceries. There were guards crowding the streets and possible jail time if they caught you trying to leave your property. People had to survive off of the last bits of Christmas dinner in 2003 from their basement freezers. Naturally, our processed food ridden country was not happy about this. It got so crazy some kids from my high school class tried to eat their pets to get attention from the media. At this point, everyone had their own variation of the virus. Some went to hospitals to get medical attention, but most suffered mildly in their own homes. There were the rare exceptions where people, who exposed themselves prevalently to the virus, didn’t contract any form of the virus. These people, including myself, would do everyone’s dirty work. By dirty work, I mean things like groceries and meds. Other jobs we did consist of power washing people’s online orders when the virus spiked. I made good money since we were one of the few businesses waived by the government. We called ourselves the Errand Havens. There were at least 10 per county. We thought that the Errand Havens would last a few months, but we were incredibly wrong. By year three, the only Errand Haven’s left in my county was me and your Grandpa Jack. I knew Jack from school but as a 16-year-old introverted girl, I didn’t really talk to many boys. Since there were only two of us, we limited our services to people in critical condition who lived alone and didn’t have the opportunity to go to the hospital. Jack and I were dubbed a dream team by the media and became known for what we did. Jack and I quickly became best friends and ended up living on our own to protect our families from the progressing rapidly Coronavirus. In 2025, the global population will decrease by approximately 70%. Jack and I still helped those in need, but most of our clients bit the dust. Everyone was too tired to use the internet and everything kind of stopped. There came the time that Jack and I’s families passed, making it hard for both of us because we couldn’t see them due to laws against it. As a griefing method, we traveled the country in Jack’s minivan. Everywhere was cleaned out and we would go through states without seeing a single person. Hospitals were filled with bagged bodies. We did everything we could to stay happy. We explored abandoned amusement parks, national parks, and even deserted cities. We came to terms with the fact that most everyone was gone. Electricity was shut down and the people that survived wouldn’t last much longer. We picked up the few people we saw along the way around the country and became close friends. Our plan was to repopulate. Jack and I brought our new friends to our home state, Massachusetts, and lived in a big house. The day your Grandpa Jack asked me to be his girlfriend was one of my happiest days. 60 years later the friends brought up the population and continue to have fun each day. Jack and I are so lucky to have a happy family and amazing Grandchildren like you. We want to pass down to you and your children that despite if the worst possible thing to happen happens, you have to find ways to stay happy and live life to the fullest, even if it’s short.

“What is this?” Commander Ross asked.

“We don’t know sir. Our scanners are not picking up anything except that it is very dangerous and has anomalous properties. We should transfer this to a containment unit or quarantine it if transportation is not possible.” replies Inspector Tom.

“Very well, but do not let anyone touch it.” Ross said.

The containment crew quarantined the area and transported the object to an underground facility in [REDACTED]. The thing that looked like red ice was placed inside an iron case with temperatures below freezing in the case inside a room with an airlock system and thick durasteel plated walls. 

“Do we have an identification on this thing yet, Tom?” Ross asked Tom.

“We do, our facility personnel has created a document on this thing. It’s Object 009, nicknamed Red Ice. It does not have a danger level yet, but no personnel should go near it without proper testing first, Commander.” he told him.

A scientist enters the control room overlooking 009’s containment unit. “Testing is ready, Commander. We have our Head Scientist here now.”

“Good, we can start now, le-” “I’ll take it from here, Commander,” said Head Scientist Rick, interrupting Commander Ross. “You will not be in command of this test. I will be in command. And before you tell me I don’t have clearance, I have authorization from the General. You may leave now.”

“I’m not going to leave. I want to see the testing myself.” replied Ross. the Head Scientist nodded, and proceeded with testing. “Before testing begins,” Rick states, “We need to be ready. We don’t know how dangerous this ‘Red Ice’ really is, so we are going to send in disposable personnel into the containment unit to be our test subjects.”

The Security Guards rallied up three inmates, who are disposable personnel, for testing. They are brought to the entrance of 009’s containment room.

“Okay, inmates. You three will line up at the door and wait for further instructions.” ordered Rick.

The inmates lined up, and after 3 minutes of evaluation, the testing officially started. Rick told them to enter the room. The case was removed, and the Red Ice was revealed to the inmates. When it was opened, a burst of freezing air came out of the casing. It instantly froze the chin of an inmate who stood to close to it. The inmates were ordered to touch the red ice. Upon touching it, their hands were freezing cold started to become red. After that, testing was over and the inmates were transported to the medical bay for medical evaluation. When they arrived, they had no sign of sickness or effects from 009. But after an hour, the red ice grew out of their hands, causing immense pain. Then after another hour, the ice grew out of their ears. After a day, half of their face and torso had ice protruding out of them. After another day, the red ice grew so rapidly and violently that it punctured their lungs, and then it grew into their brains, causing death.

“The test results are back, Sir.” Tom said. 

“Tell me the results.” Ross eagerly told Tom.

“We now know what 009 does. It is an infection that once in contact with any part of the body, 009 will form inside and outside of the victim, causing immense pain and eventually death. The danger level on this object is rather high, but as long as 009 remains inside its containment unit, it shouldn’t pose a threat to anyone.”

“Alright thanks Tom. Return to your post.” Ross told Tom.

Dried crunchy leaves scrape across the cold pavement as chilling autumn winds sweep them along. The full moon hung low in the sky; big and blue she gleamed in the night, highlighting the sinister scene below. The moon and only the moon saw the grim and unjust misdeeds that happened in the inky darkness of night. There beneath the glorious moons blue hues lay a man, still and lifeless on the cold pavement. Police and Detectives now bustled around the crime scene. A forensic in a white and crinkled Tyvek suit knelt beside the body. She examined the wound. “Stab wound to the chest.” She called out to a detective who was frantically scribbling on a coffee stained notepad. The cadaver was one of a young gentleman with a stocky build. He had a clean crisp suit on. Despite his blood soaked shirt his suit was spotless. His face was pale as milk but the powerful glow of the moon cast a blue tint across his pale skin. His under eyes were dark and circled. Crimson blood trickled from his pale muted lips. His eyes remained open. The whites of them each held a beautiful blue iris. His beautiful eyes, once full of life, are now covered in a glassy milky film.  His body had been traced with white powdery chalk, and yellow caution ribbon was draped across the surrounding buildings. Suddenly a small woman in a pale pink wool coat came racing toward the scene. She ripped past the caution tape and threw herself onto the lifeless corpse. “John!” The woman cried out.

“No! It can’t be! John, my John!” She wept as she cradled the man's head in her small dainty hands.

“Ma'am, you can’t do that!” A police officer hollered at the woman and walked swiftly toward her.

The woman ignored the officer and held the body even closer.

“John…” She whispered in his ear. She brushed her hand across his pale cheek. His skin was cold as ice.

“My love…” the woman whispered. Suddenly a Police officer grabbed the woman by the shoulder trying to pry her off of the cadaver, but the woman clung to the body and held him tight. With one more tug from the police officer, the corpse was free of her grasp. “Ma’am, you need to stay back! This is a crime scene,” the police officer shouted.

“No! John! No, no!” The woman cried elbowing at the police officer, clawing her way back to the corpse.

“Ma’am!” The police officer hollered. Suddenly the woman fell to her knees. “No, no no no...” She wailed as hot tears streamed down her horrified face. The officer knelt beside her as others rushed to the disturbed crime scene. “It’s going to be alright,” the police officer assured her with an uneasy yet sympathetic look. 

The woman replied in a faint whisper, “A world without love… is a world I can not bear to live in.” With that she grabbed the officer’s gun from his belt and fired it into her heart. Her limp body fell to the ground with a thump. Police officers fled to her side but it was too late; the damage had been done.

With her final dying breaths she whispered her very last words. “I will be with you soon my love. Wait for me, I'll be with you very soon...and we can be together once again. Death shall never part us...”

On a cold, windy autumn night, beneath the glorious blue hues of the moon there lay a dead man and his wife. Far above the autumn moon they walk together, hand in hand.

Carter had never really driven before. He had done small, slow circles in empty parking  a lot, but nothing real. His parents didn’t own a car, so he never needed a license. This didn’t matter to Locke, his older brother. He had bigger things to worry about. Locke had gotten a graze from a bullet on his left leg, so he couldn’t drive. Carter helped carry Locke back to the red Toyota Camry Locke had bought for himself. Locke was the only one in his family with a car, but he didn’t live with them so Carter never got to use it.

He got fidgety when he was nervous, and couldn’t help but absentmindedly rub a small scar above his left eye from when Locke hit him with a metal baseball bat as a kid. They finally made it across the street, and Carter tried to open the driver door and push Locke in. “Are you an idiot? My leg’s messed up I can’t drive!”

“Dude, I never even got my license!”

“You’re 19 years old,” Locke roared, “Just drive!” Carter knew it was no use fighting him, there wasn’t enough time. He dumped Locke in the passenger seat and slung the duffel bags in the trunk. Alarms blared behind him as he turned the key, put the car in drive, and slammed on the gas. The two of them pulled off their masks and took a large breath. The masks were pretty bad and it was hard to breathe in them. Carter was sweating, so with one hand he gulped down water from a green Gatorade squirt bottle in the car door pocket. Locke yelled in triumph and looked back to see if the bags were in the trunk. They were.

Adrenaline surged through Carter as he drove. He had never done this before, and he wasn’t that bad. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, and the speedometer started to creep up. Locke’s grin turned to concern. He grabbed Carter’s shoulder. “Carter. Slow. Down.” With a scared look on his face, Carter eased his foot and gave an apologetic glance. Then Locke's face flashed red and blue. He peered at his side mirror and gulped. Red and blue lights emerged over the hill behind them. Followed by the rest of the car. Then two more.

The two brothers looked each other in the eyes. Locke mouthed, “Drive.” Carter listened, he always had. He whipped around a traffic light, almost grazing the pole. The cops had gained on them; Carter was not an experienced enough driver. The car hummed as multiple tiny explosions burst inside the engine. The car sailed through the air for a few seconds as Carter drove full speed over a small hill. “Let’s gooo!” yelled Locke as his hair floated for a second during their airtime. Carter gave a cocky grin. 

Another cop car came from the left and turned into his lane, tires screeching, and siren blaring. It was much closer than the others. Beads of sweat formed on the brothers’ faces.  Carter didn’t know what to do, it’s not like he had been in this situation before.  His car had no chance of outrunning the cop cars. He started to feel regret. He regretted robbing the bank, he regretted hanging out with his brother after a year, he regretted a lot of things. All he wanted was to get enough money to help his parents with some debts. An atm would be enough, but not for Locke. Locke wanted more. He always had. He always took everything he could, and left as little as possible for Carter. He only ever hung out with Carter when he wanted something.

He whipped the wheel to the right so hard the inside wheels left the ground for a moment. Locke laughed maniacally, stuck his arm out the window, and flipped off the cop car. “Literally why, bro?” Carter scolded.

“Shut. Up,” said Locke. His smirk quickly changed to an angry frown.  Carter looked back at the road and immediately swerved to avoid crashing into a green Subaru.  The turn was a tiny bit too small, and as a result they scraped the Subaru’s back bumper and rear light.

The two jolted forward, and Carter looked in the mirror. The cop car had rammed them. They heard a screeching noise and saw sparks fly behind them. One of the Toyota’s wheels had popped. They skidded to the side of the road, and had the worst luck. They had skidded into a dead end alley. The cop car pulled into the entrance, and was quickly followed by the three others in pursuit. The police had blocked any escape. Locke raised his gun, but Carter put his hand on it, and Locke lowered the rifle. The officers got out their cars, and slowly made their way over to the two brothers. Carter stepped out of the car and put his hands on his head. There was no use fighting now. There were no options left except to face the punishment. They had lost. It was over. A hand grabbed him, and pushed him onto the ground, face down. He closed his eyes and let himself be dragged to his feet. A tear fell from his eye to the rough pavement. The hand pushed him forward and stuffed him into the back seat of the red and blue flashing car. The man gave him a disappointed look, and slammed the car door shut.

The moon glittered like an opulent jewel, reflecting against the frozen ground. Her hands froze in the air as she held out the letter, staring at it. The simplicity of the note perplexed her as she continued her trek across the icy ground up to a lamp post. She held the letter up to the light to verify what it said one last time, “Meet at Central Stair in the old school”. It had been years since she once was there last she thought, turning the corner only to be greeted by the looming building. The last time she was here was to play ball with her friend. Since then, she hadn’t seen her friend at all. She stalked up the old staircases hearing the creaking in the dark. Despite the full moon, no light came through the windows. Suddenly she stopped in the middle of the stairs, there was her old friend, unaffected by time. Glittering in the moonlight, the girl with a ball in hand hovering over what used to be her body. 

This afternoon’s drive felt like the others before it, but the destination was different.

A week before, Tim Goodman left football practice at four o’clock, a notebook shoved deep inside his pocket and a helmet under his arm.  He got into his car, a 2007 Toyota Corolla, and put the keys in the ignition.  So began his daily drive to Green Horizons, the nursing home where his grandmother waited for him in her blue recliner.

Inside, he sat with her for a long time, telling her about the chemistry test he got an A on and watching her wrinkled grin grow wider.  She had an appetite for his stories.  He told her the truth, things he didn’t tell his football friends.  He didn’t tell her how he feigned confusion in every class or forcibly mocked the honor roll, which he himself was on.

At 5:30, his grandmother’s friend, Mrs. Crosby, joined the pair in the common.  She smelled like lavender hand lotion.  The scent followed her into the room.

By 5:45, elderly men and women had assembled expectantly in the room.  Tim fished in his pocket for his notebook and opened it to the ribbon.  The room was quiet.

He filled the silence with his latest poem, led it out from the covert darkness into the lamplight.  When he’d read the last word, it lingered in the stillness of the room.  He heard his heartbeat in the silence, and then the applause came, appreciation from wizened hands.  He let himself exhale, and he smiled, their token poet.

It had become a routine for Mrs. Crosby to critique his poems.  In her heyday, she had been an editor at a publishing company.  She took his large hand in one of her lavender-scented ones.

“That was beautiful, Timmy.  Show me this month’s magazine.”

Tim reached into his bag and took out the school literary magazine, turning to a poem by Roger Smith.

Mrs. Crosby reached for the magazine and took a few moments to read the poem.

“Wonderful,” she said quietly.  “Just wonderful, Timmy.  Don’t you think it might be time to use your real name, dear?”

Tim felt a knot form in his stomach.

“Maybe,” he said.  “But not yet.”

That was a week ago.  Now, Tim drives in a different direction.  He doesn’t take the turn to Green Horizons, to the recliners and his poetry’s only audience.  He drives straight on.

He holds the latest issue of the literary magazine on his lap, a bouquet of white roses resting on top.  He puts his turn signal on, pulls into a cemetery, parks and gets out of his car.  His sweatshirt isn’t warm enough to guard him from the winter chill, so he just shivers.  He can see his breath.

Tim walks across the frozen grass, walks all the way to the gray stone at the edge of the cemetery, the one with the soft edges.  The one that says Crosby.

He lays the roses on Mrs. Crosby’s grave, swears he can smell lavender hand lotion.  A tear rolls down his cheek.  He opens the magazine to a poem by Tim Goodman.  His shaky voice sounds small in the graveyard.  When he reads the last word, he places the magazine next to the roses and feels the silence all around him.

Elizabeth James stared down at what was left of her essay on her desk. Coffee had stained the page, and it had been ripped to shreds. Tears filled her eyes. She had stayed up all night perfecting it, and it was now ruined. Her professor had warned the class when assigning the paper that if they didn’t come to class with a printed copy, they would be getting a zero for the assignment. Her teacher, Ms. Clark, was in her late forties. She had been divorced the summer before school started and had been on a rampage preparing her young students for the cruel reality that is the real world. Her first words to the class that September -- aside from her name -- were, "There is no excuse in the world that would let me permit late work." Ms. Clark entered the classroom and sat down at her desk at the front of the room. She began calling students names up from their desks to have them drop off their papers. When Elizabeth was called, she stood up and nervously walked to Ms. Clark’s desk. "Where is your paper," she asked. Elizabeth explained her story and what had happened. "So, what you are saying is you don't know what happened to your paper?" Ms. Clark asked. "No, I was in the bathroom," she replied. "Did anyone see what had happened to Ms. James’s paper," she asked the class, but they remained silent and expressionless. "I assume, Ms. James, that you are well aware of my policy and understand that you will be receiving a zero for this assignment." Elizabeth could no longer hold back her tears as she walked back to her desk. She turned to her classmates and wondered who had destroyed her work. If it hadn't been on purpose, the person would have spoken up and told Ms. Clark. Her head raced around the classroom looking for someone who was drinking coffee and might have spilled it on her paper. In the corner of the room, she saw Stacy Abbot smiling and sipping her coffee. Of course, it had been her. She wondered why she hadn't realized it at first.