Prose

Mary Anne had always loved her little, albeit precious, community.

The parish that always got together on Sunday mornings, the calming pathways through rows of brick houses and their sweet-scented flowers that matched her perfume, the excited chirping heard every day after the last school bell had rung.

It was a small town, not more than some 200 inhabitants sharing what may be the last calm place on Earth. The roads were seldom crowded and the town centre almost always.

Townsfolk really embodied the sort of “it takes a village” attitude towards everything—Mary

Anne remembers her grandmother's house being rebuilt after she accidentally left the stove on after dinner. Her grandmother still begs to differ, though, saying that she may be old, but not senile. Whatever the case may be, the folks of Belle Point made sure that everyone was taken care of, be it a native or a passing tourist.

And there weren't many of them. The town was barely visible on any map, with the nearest town being some two hours away. By car, of course, as no one would dare pass through the thick, romantic forests on foot.

Anyways, it was something that Mary appreciated and never took for granted. She saw the neon signs and bustling streets of New York City, the beaches of Santa Monica, the

untouched wilderness of Alaska, but none had the warmth and love of her family to proudly

show.

Her brother was a gentleman, as the young ladies always said to her mother when out and about. A hard-working man of great intelligence and grades to prove it. Recently, he got

accepted into Duke University, which is why he has taken on more shifts at the local store. It

wasn't much, but it would surely take some of the load off their parents, and it filled up his

CV, so he didn't complain.

home in 10

I will KILL you if you tell mom abt the cigarettes

Joseph put his phone back into his pocket with anxious energy, hoping Mary Anne wouldn't ruin the image their mother had of him over a childish fight they had earlier that morning. He had gone through her text messages with her “friend”, telling her, quite rudely, to stay away from the young police officer she obviously caught feelings for. Unlike Mary, Joseph knew of the dirty cops rooted all across town, some working for underground groups to earn a little more. From transporting drugs to blackmail, and the rare hit job performed in surrounding towns, the police department of Belle Point seemingly had no problem with pocketing dirty money while keeping up a responsible front.

Biking across the small town, Joseph passed the familiar streetlamps and unruly dogs running through backyards. The town was holding a weekend festival celebrating the Fourth of July. News spread on Facebook and whatnot, so they managed to attract a small crowd of visitors from neighbouring places this year, promising them two unforgettable days filled with good food and colourful fireworks.

The increased traffic made Joseph take the longer route, which he didn't truly mind. The fresh summer air was one of the things he grew to enjoy since he bought himself that bike, cooling him off after a tiring shift.

The two-floor house he grew up in neared closer. His cat was let out, meowing like the old ladies who fought over the freshest meat at the store.

“Lucky, what are you doing out?” Joseph conversed with his pet, knowing how much the animal disliked being outside, as the neighbours' mutt once nipped its tail through the picket fence. “Forgot to feed you, as always,” he muttered with a resigned scoff.

Ever since he began to spend nights at his friend's house after longer shifts, taking care of the beloved kitty fell into Mary Anne’s lap. But she was a real klutz.

“Idiot.”

The faint porch light guided his keys, but the door was left unlocked. That sent yet another wave of annoyance through him. He hadn't been home for two days, which meant that his family were going to bed with the only safety feature of their home faulty.

He opened the thick, wooden door, casting a shadow into the stuffy living room. A sickening stench hit his nose.

The room was painted red, like someone had thrown a bucket of paint blindfolded. The spatter got onto the nice couch their mom got for free from a rich aunt, now a burgundy

colour, the peculiar vases his dad collected all his life, scattered around like cheap china.

Pictures flashing across his vision, small snapshots of the scene, making his ears ring, mixing

with the buzzing of fed flies. Joseph wet himself for the first time in over 15 years; the smell

of urine conjoined with the pungent smell of death in summer.

Maybe it was his fault, he told himself. He regularly laundered whatever amount of money the cops had given him, keeping a small portion. He did it for a good cause, he told himself. Paying over 80k for university would mean a lifetime of debt for his family, which he didn't have the heart to do to the only people on this planet that truly meant something to him. And maybe he took more than he should've, misplaced a dollar or two—

In the middle, like the main piece in a dim art exhibition, the massacred bodies lay,

unmoving beneath his shadow. Mary Anne’s body was closest to the door, half-naked, with

the crimson shawl affording barely any decency. Her legs splayed across the soaked carpet,

fingers contorted. It was like the epitome of humanity’s horror decided to take refuge in his

sister's flesh, a showcase of war. Soft, painful breaths escaped Joseph, eyes trailing around the familiar belongings, across the butchered remnants of life. He tried not to inhale much as

the sickly-sweet scent of decay caught onto his clothes, his hair, his tongue. For a moment, he

remembered his biology classes and how humans can lose 50 percent of their blood volume

for it to be fatal. “Nauseous at 15, hypovolemic at 20, coma if untreated-” Joseph mumbled,

heart rate rising enough to fuel a small town like Belle Point. His brilliant mind couldn't

protect him from this putrefying mess. He barely held down the remnants of lunch as he

stepped closer, familial blood sticking to the soles of his worn Converse. He hoped this would all be a part of a horrid, cruel prank, that she would smirk happily at his reaction. But

her face was gone, along with that smile, leaving a crater of blush. Bits of brain matter mixed

with her blonde hair, or what was left of it at her forehead. Her soft skin, now cut in ragged

lines, blooming outwards, hypodermis visible, like fresh minced meat from the butcher's. The

capillaries in what remained of her left eye had burst, from crying or the attack, Joseph didn't

know. Behind her, their parents were displayed in a similar fashion—carcasses entangled,

limbs frozen in time, colourful pieces of ceramic embedded in them.

By the time he found the courage to actually look at them again, Lucky's white paws were already stepping across the bodies, tongue tasting Mary Anne's cheek in comfort. The cat's concern soon turned into scavenging, caused by lack of food for the last two days, nipping at a piece of her skin.

Joseph hurled as his body could not take any more. Vomit ejected from his mouth and nostrils, over his sister and his sneakers, stomach acid burning his senses as bits of french fries and burger fell into the blood. Lucky didn't mind.

He stumbled to the porch, slipping over the bodies, his hands now soiled too. He barfed again when a piece of brain stuck to his sleeve. The fresh night summer air hit his face as he ran down the street, bike forgotten. Adrenaline does wonders for the human body, making his legs move even though he can no longer feel them. He panted as he reached the police station. It was empty that evening as everyone was at home, enjoying the last hour before midnight.

Joseph hounded the locked doors, leaving bloody fingerprints on the cool metal.

“Please, help, someone, help,” he wailed as the door didn't budge. He'd take the blame if he had to, he'd do it all.

“Joseph?” A familiar voice grabbed his shoulder, turning him around. His sister's suitor and the one he'd been stealing from for months. The silver badge on his left breast pocket was lacquered with dried blood. “What did you do? Set fire to grandma's house again, huh?”

My mind is at loss for words as my body still shivers. My soul is burdened. Never would I have thought this day would come. What purpose do I serve now? Some intellect or thought could have been saved, but at last there is none. My heart has always been tender and loving, yet it has been taken away.

I married young, at the beginning of my twenties. I do not remember much, but the memories I possess I cannot say I have grown fond of. The way light had illuminated her face. Her shaking hands held those flowers as the cold breeze blew. We wed in our own garden. I prepared the flowers and the bushes. Spring has always been our season. Months passed, by then, the cracks grew larger. We lost our jobs; the money was gone. Yet we found our rhythm. She would shout and she would scream. I would drink. We were happy in our own twisted sense.

Until you came along. You took me by surprise. The way you spoke, the way you talked. You had eyes that could smile. You brought back in me what she couldn’t.

It happened in a matter of moments.

I left her behind to pursue my life with you. You did not doubt me for a second. You did not ask, although I think a part of you always knew. You were the reason, my one true reason for the sacrifice I made, the life I left behind.

I kept my garden. I kept my house. This was the start of us. You did not want children, and I am obliged by those wishes. We found a new rhythm. You would laugh and you would giggle. I did not allow you to worry about our money, I could not make the same mistake. I took care of our garden; I took care of you.

We could’ve been happy for eternity.

Now I wallow in my sadness. My body quivers. My eyes have not dried. Oh, why would you do this? Why didn’t you stay away? Stay oblivious till the end?

You found her in our garden, torn into pieces.

You had screamed; you shouted.

Now, you… you are alongside her.

Gone.

Dear Peter,

Recently, I have been thinking about resurrection, maybe because it's springtime. The last of winter chill is fading into the hot, sticky air of mid-spring. It feels a bit like a metaphor about how decay will always be followed by rebirth, and I'm thinking about the spring when we were 17. Early May nights spent lying in grass under the sun, our knees were bruised and pressed together, and even if those May nights were chilly, your shoulder was pressed into mine, and you were warm. You were telling me all about constellations and space and how one day you were going to be an astronaut. I asked if you were joking, and I laughed because maths and physics were your worst subjects in school. You said:” No, listen, one day I will fly amongst that sea of stars and go so far away from the Earth into deep space and find Paradise.”

We spend most of those nights, pressed together in grass, high off of god knows what kind of pills and drinks. I told you one night that I would one day be a famous poet. You asked me why, and told me that poetry doesn't sell as well as sex or drugs. I told you: ”One day, I will be free, and I will write us into a hundred love poems that don't end in tragedy.”

Spring faded into the smouldering-hot-wet of the Summer, and we spent all our nights by the creek, blasting music off of your older brother's beat-down speaker and smoking things we definitely shouldn't have. I'm definitely thinking about resurrection and rebirth too much these days. I keep telling myself it's just the heat that makes me nostalgic and melancholic, but I think I just miss you and that Spring-Summer we spent together, a bit too drunk and high, pretending we were modern philosophers or star-crossed lovers. I wish everything came back alive in Spring, including the dead; maybe that’s a horror story waiting to happen.

It's Spring again, and I wish it started with not just flowers blooming again, but with you crawling out of your grave and knocking on the door of my childhood home. I would pretend not to notice your decaying skin and hollowed out eyes, or how you are cold and not warm pressed next to me. We'd go back to our creek and lie in the grass, this time I wouldn't make fun of you and your astronaut dreams. When your hand, inevitably, finds mine again, I would pretend I don't notice how it is all bones and no skin. What does it say about me that I'd love you even undead or resurrected? Maybe I'm a little bit too drunk on cheap wine and Spring nostalgia.

For one Spring and one Summer, I'd have you back, and we could be silly and young and tragically in love. Two kids; one dead inside, the other just dead and half-rotted already. In 50 years, I'll be laid to rest next to you, in a row of gravestones and come that Spring, despite being rotten and bones and dust, we will be free and young again. Because from us flowers will grow.

With love,

Luke

The spring was nearing its end, slowly transitioning to the scorching summer. James had spent most of it going to lectures and fulfilling his duties for college. He couldn't say his life was all that bad, mostly just a bit boring. He wrote poetry and spent most of his time reading and thinking. On one of the days in late May, with the weather swinging back and forth between summer-like heat and spring rain, he opened his laptop to waste a bit of time, since most of the coursework had been done and duties have been fulfilled. He received a notification on his phone, which was rather rare as he didn't really have a lot of people to talk to. And intended to keep it that way. The calendar congratuled him on his birthday, which was less than a week away.

James knew the feeling of dread intimately, so the feeling that his adolescence was over and adulthood was beginning was to him more of a background noise than to others. Next week, he will be 21. He searched his sentiments simmering slowly in the back of his mind on the Internet and found a term he now experientially knew—quarter-life crisis. He felt as if the years would start rolling over much faster, soon he will be 22, then 23, then 24 and the years would unrelentingly go faster and faster. Soon, he will finish college, start looking for a job, perhaps meet someone nice and have a family. As far as he was concerned, life ends after the kids start going to school.

"Perhaps I should start re-reading Camus and Nietzsche", James thought to himself, proposing philosophy as a remedy for the crisis. "I have an adventurous and artistic soul," he pondered, "but how long will it last?"

He was conflicted about aging and going into the workforce. On the one hand, he proved himself more adaptive than he thought, and suspected that when one is an artist, they don't tend to lose that streak. On the other hand, the normalisation that comes with aging terrified him. He had a whole playlist of mainly indie rock music, and he wore the same windbreaker and sneakers as well as the three cargo pants he had.

"Resistance to change, perhaps", he surmised.

It was as if he reached the top of the hill and his life would, after the 21st birthday, start tumbling down faster and faster until he died, perhaps needing care and in great pain. But life is life, and he will weather this crisis as he has all others since he was in high school. After all, isn't life just a collection of crises?