Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.5

Sorry for the delay between posts for the story.  The previous five parts are available here.  In quick summary, Sienne, a zeta, has been captured and experimented on.  Meanwhile (though not literally on the same time scale), Kent Andrews has different views on Reformation than his wife, Dr. Chloe Andrews.  Thanks for reading.

Kent
June 10, 2021

Kallie’d be proud.  Or something like that.  Those were the last words he’d spoken to Chloe.  Almost two months ago, right after she found out about his afternoon excursions.  He’d been pushing his time later and later, knowing one day he’d be discovered.  Deep down, he wanted her to know what he was doing.
    “I can’t believe you would do that, Kenneth.  Those things are people for Christ’s sakes, not some game sport.  Have you not listened to any of the confessions from the betas?”
    “Yeah, I’ve listened, and that convinces me even more.  They’re not people,” he’d said.  “They’re monsters and they deserve to die.  Look around.  Look at the mess they’ve caused.  Don’t you remember the world before they came?”
    “Of course I remember, but that’s not the point.  Despite what you think they’re still humans.  The things my patients tell me.  They don’t comprehend what they’re doing.  They’re just sick, but the beta-ion solution reverses the disease.  It changes them back to what they were.  It’s not their fault they got infected.”
    “It’s their fault that she’s dead.”  Chloe’s mouth hung open in hurt.  “And here you are trying to help the very things that killed our daughter.  Well congratulations Dr. Andrews.  You’ve helped change the world.  Kallie’d be proud.”
    She slammed the door in his face.  He packed a few essentials and left and hadn’t seen her since.  But here he was, standing in the deep shadows of dusk in front of his apartment door.  Some part of him wanted to go in and let her know that he was leaving town, that he probably wouldn’t make it back alive.  He wanted to apologize one last time for losing Kallie to the horde.  But he wanted her apology, too.  He wanted her to be sorry for helping the monsters, for changing them.  He knew it would never happen, just like he would never change his opinion on the matter.
    He pulled out the letter he’d written, kissed the paper, and slid it under the door.
    “Good luck, Chloe,” he said, barely a whisper.  And then he was gone.

    “So.  Where we headed first?”  
    Kent stared at the boy like he’d lost his mind.  They hadn’t been on the road half an hour and already he was getting annoyed.  What did he expect, travelling with a boy just out of his teen years?  “You know where we’re going, Michael.”
    “I told you it’s Mercury now.  Michael was pre-zetas.”
    Kent rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.”
    They were moving down the highway, south on rural roads that lacked the mounds of abandoned vehicles major roads were littered with.  He knew that some CRC jobs involved cleaning up the highways, creating routes for trade between other known city-states, but he didn’t know how much clean up had been done.  The closest known refuge, the Omaha Reserve, took less than a day of travel, north until I-80, then it was a straight shot.  Farther away was the haven in Louisville, right on the Ohio River.  Neo Louisville, some called it.
    Kent hadn’t been to Louisville in a long time.  A junior in college at the time, he and some friends decided to drive to Churchill Downs and watch the Derby.  What was the horses name that won?  Big Brown?  The Downs was packed with its usual celebrities and race enthusiasts.  A festive air buzzed all throughout the track and grounds, charging everyone with wild energy.  Or maybe it was the mint juleps.  Kent stood down in the infield and watched the races with half-a-care.  He was more interested in the redheaded sophomore that had been flirting with him on the drive down.  Chloe.
    “Look man.  I know this ain’t no picnic for you.  My dad’s a pretty tough guy to work for, so I understand your reluctance.  But I’m not my dad.  I’m Mercury Clark, and I’m just trying to make this trip as painless as possible.”
    Kent weighed the words.  Maybe he had been too hard on the boy.  It wasn’t his fault that he got the sharp end of Kent’s jaded attitude.  “Alright, Mercury.  Fine.  But you’ve got to listen to everything I say.  You got that?”
    The kid’s eyes widened.  “Yeah, no problem.”
    “I mean it.  Out here, it’s not like it was back in the Hub.  We’re never safe.  There’s no fortifications or military to take care of the zetas.  It’s just you and me and whatever we have at our disposal.  Have you ever even seen one of them up close?”
    “Not really.  Just through the fences when they wander too close.  I’ve seen plenty betas, though.”
    Kent snorted.  “Betas are nothing like the wild ones.  Betas may still look like ‘em, but they don’t lunge for your throat and the taste of warm blood.  They don’t catch a whiff of flesh and follow you until one of you is dead.  Zetas are dangerous, kid.  They’ll kill you before you even know what’s happening, if you’re lucky.”
    He was talking like he had experience.  Like he spent more time outside the walls than within.  True, he had logged plenty of time hunting, hours up in trees or building snares or laying traps.  But distance-wise, he’d never been more than a few miles away from the walls at any time.  This was as new to him as it was for Michael.  No.  Mercury.
    The spare tank of gas sitting in the back floorboard was giving him a headache.  The windows were all down, but the odor still clung to the interior.  In the early summer humidity, the fumes were thick and heavy, clinging to the seat covers like dew on morning grass. 

     He scanned the sides of the road.  If not for the discarded vehicles, the wide-open doors, the broken windows, the lack of movement, everything would look almost normal.  But it wasn’t.  It was as far from normal as Kent could imagine.
     A flicker ahead caught his eyes.  Walking slowly down the sidewalk of whatever podunk town they were in (Grafton?) was a zeta.  Alone and oblivious, the thing moved at a pace slower than a crawl.
     An idea began creeping its way in.  Kent dropped his speed.
     “Look up ahead,” he said, nodding off to the right.  His voice was a whisper.
     Mercury squinted.  Gasped.  “It’s...”
     “Shh!  I know what it is!  But you’ve never seen one, a real one, so I thought we could get you some real life experience.”
     Kent couldn’t tell if the kid’s face was terrified or excited.  He licked his lips.  “Okay.  What do I need to do?”
     “I’ll show you,” he said, his appetite whetted.

Things About Logan (Part 4)

Wherein the continuing saga of personal revelations are brought to light.  Links for the previous editions are at the bottom.

a.  Lots of new music have I received lately, through either purchase or trade, including, but not limited to, Bright Eyes, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Damien Rice, Cold War Kids, Arcade Fire, Ryan Adams, Hanson, Monsters of Folk, Andrew Peterson, John Mark McMillan, Luke Dowler, and a few others. 
b.  I bought Fallout: New Vegas today.
c.  My yard is getting aerated and seeded on Thursday.  I know very little about lawn care.
d.  I sometimes wonder about other bloggers that are no longer active and wonder what happened to them.  Did they tire of the blogosphere?  I hope they're okay.
e.  Peter said to Paul you know all those songs we wrote... 
f.  My head pastor resigned on Sunday.  The church is in for an interesting few months as we work through everything.
g.  I wrote a new song yesterday.  Maybe I'll put it up here when I get it recorded. 
h.  I'm watching (and even enjoying) Glee.  I'm not sure why.
i.  I sliced into my thumb yesterday while chopping potatoes.  On the bright side, this recipe for zuppa toscano soup tasted exactly like Olive Garden's.
j.  I really want to retry the Wheel of Time series again.  I love the new ebook covers, and all the hype for the next book is making me excited.
j.5.  ...are just the rules of the game and the rules are the first to go...
k.  Stella & Sofie may both have ear mites.  Ugh.
l.  Going to a Halloween party Saturday.  Got a beautiful costume planned.  Expect pictures.  Maybe.
o.  Uncertainty, especially in important things, like design work for a project, is a difficult thing to deal with.  I'm not sure how confident I am in some of my work, partially because I've only had my job for 17 months, partially because everything I've done has been self-taught, and partially because engineering requires educated guesses.
oo.  ...Now talking to God is Laurel begging Hardy for a gun...
g2.  It's hard to believe that something like the narwhal actually exists.
a1.  Just about everything I eat kills my stomach.
p.  The del sol is giving me a little trouble.  I think it's the starter, but, like with lawn work, I know very little about vehicles.
q.  Going through the book of Matthew in Sunday School has been really great.  We're progressing only a few verses per week because of the awesome discussions.
w.  One new blog I've been reading:  Omphaloskepsis.  Interesting book notes there. 
24.  It's really hard to beat Bruce Springsteen.  I'd love to see the Boss in concert...
y.  I miss college.  Too bad I can't make money as a professional student.
z.  RED looks like a pretty sweet movie.  So does Hereafter.
(z.)   Fall is still my favorite season.
[z.]  ...I've got a girl in the war man I wonder what it is we've done.
*.  I come to complete stops at STOP signs; I use my turn signals; I don't speed like crazy; it irks me to see people doing otherwise.
&.  My ipod is near capacity full.  This is going to be problematic sometime relatively soon. 
---

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I Am Returned

My trip to and through the Smoky Mountains is over.  I returned last night.  Now I'm a little sore, very tired, and in for a busy week.  Lots to do at work, and plenty to do at home, too.  Plus, Fallout: New Vegas comes out tomorrow.  And I didn't get much reading time at all, so there's a big chunk of The Passage to get through, too.

I've got plenty of pictures of fall foliage from the trip, and a recap to summarize the vacation, coming up hopefully by week's end.

Until then...

A Strange, Rare, and Horribly Wonderful Discovery With a Side of Self-Delusion: A Discourse on the Worth of Meaningless Prose and Forsaken Projects

A week or two ago I decided to clean out my garage.  I waded through totes of rubbish, discarding much.  A few boxes contained things from when I was young lad.  Three yo-yos, still strangely cool.  A tin of ARMY paint.  A plastic recorder.  One well-worn Rubik's cube (that I learned to solve as a freshman in college, though I no longer remember how).  Lots of drawings and super hero cards and drawings of super heroes.  A stack of old writings, from items in my high school portfolio to obscure poetry to absurd fiction.  And, among other things, a box of 3.5" floppy disks.  (FN1)

My computer at work is possibly one of the last one's remaining on the Earth that has a floppy drive still in it.  Back in high school, I thought floppies were super cool.  Cool enough that this box had several floppies in it, and I had no clue what I would find.  So I brought the disks to work and popped them in.  After some system groaning, things finally started working.

Half of them were blank.  One or two had files but would not let me open them.  And then two had some old writings of mine.  Old, as in, from when I was an early teenager old.  Back in eighth grade (I think, give or take a grade) I started writing my first novel.  I pecked out line after line of purely awesome and original fantasy.  The world was not ready for the brilliance of my work.  And so I wrote and wrote, drawing up maps and casting character after character.  My story had unexplainable but logical magic and a magic sword and a simple farmboy and a princess and a Dark Lord (who was actually called Dark Lord), and many other totally original things.  And then one day I ran out of time and forgot about the story.

This story was on the floppy.  It's over 80,000 words.  I called it The Legend of Eli.  I read a few paragraphs and cringed at nearly every word.  How could I, Master of Originality and Wielder of Words, create such trite garbage?  I want to print it out and read through it all, just to see what the heck kind of story I did.  I vaguely remember pieces of what it was about, but very little.  I know it's got plot holes galore, I remember having that problem. 

The sad thing is this story is just one more notch on my very long belt of unfinished tales.  I'm not sure why I struggle to finish stories.  It's not that I don't enjoy writing them.  Lord knows I love to write.  Apparently I always have, evidenced by the stacks of old writings I've found.  (FN2)  And if I didn't love to write, then I wouldn't do it.  It doesn't matter if I'm writing a song or a blog post, there's just something about the way putting words out there makes me feel.  Sure, my true love is fiction, but it's also my bane.

I like to blame it on too much creativity.  My mind is always thinking about the next world to create.  What kind of people will it have?  Or what will the environment look like for these folks?  Once I progress so far, it's like I've got to put to paper (FN3) the tale before I forget it, and then when I start jotting the ideas down, I instead jump ship and explore new waters more.  Am I simple minded?  ADHD?  I don't know, but I don't think I am.

Maybe I get lost in my story.  Perhaps I know where I'm at and where I want to go, but know that I want to explore more before I get there.  If this is the case, then I need to simply tighten up my focus and press on.  No one wants to read a sprawling epic that dawdles for too long before actually doing anything.

Looking back at most of my writings, it's rare to find an actual complete tale.  Do I struggle with the endgame?  Yes, but no.  I struggle to even make it to the end.  The biggest culprit is, of course, the lack of time, but that's used so often that it's a cliché that I can't put stock in.  If I love it, then I'll find time.  True.  But I don't.  For whatever reason, my stories peter out and sit alone on a shelf with the rest of forgotten lore.  They're not masterpieces, nor are they well written, but they're mine.  They're things I've invested time in, yet not enough.  What does it take to get me to finish one?

Somehow I still convince myself to keep writing.  This story will be different.  This one will end.  It will have closure.  I can hear my future self laughing back at my current self now.  (FN4)  Keep telling yourself that, Logan.  The writing machine keeps spinning yarns, but they always keep a-breakin'.  But maybe this time you just might do it.

It's enough to keep me trying.

--------

FN1:  Disk is such an odd word.  I almost always use disc, but with a floppy, it seems like it's disk, with a K.  I'm not sure if there's really a difference in the English language.
FN2:  I must have always been odd.  Most of my stories are completely absurd, posing ridiculous situations or juxtaposing things that ought not be juxtaposed.
FN3:  Okay, I don't literally write on paper.  Most of my writing is done via Google Documents.  Rarely do I use paper and pen for writing, though there are extenuating circumstances.
FN4:  Like FN3, I can't literally hear this, though if I did I would be perplexed.

The Dresden Files: Fool Moon, a Review

Things have been rough for Chicago's only wizard-for-hire Harry Dresden. He's had very little opportunities for employment since the events in Storm Front took place, and for some reason Detective Karrin Murphy has made herself scarce, taking his largest source of income with her. But everything changes when some grisly murders are discovered. Murphy suspects supernatural forces and Harry Dresden is once again called upon.

Fool Moon, book two of The Dresden Files, is a lot like the first in the series. Harry is still a sarcastic, grumpy wizard that's got a golden heart. Magic runs rampant through the Chicago area, both light and dark. The book reads like another episode in the life of Harry Dresden, adding a little more characterization and background to the wizard and his ilk, plus throwing in a bit more world-building to boot.

The writing style is identical. We read the story from Harry's first-person limited POV with the benefit of hindsight. This works very well for most of the novel, but a few phrases lessen the effect of the story. For example, Harry may say something like "now, looking back on it..." That pretty much takes out the possibility of him dying, unless we discover Harry's been narrating as a ghost or something, which, I suppose could happen, but I don't think so. There are also a few instances where Harry will be talking directly to the reader, which also comes across as odd.

The plot of Fool Moon is pretty quick paced and action filled. Butcher's prose reads fluidly, and it's easy to keep turning pages to see what happens next. That said, I didn't enjoy this book near as much as I did Storm Front. I'm not sure if it was the conflict itself being merely mediocre or if it was something else. Still, the story book was fun and instilled in me the desire to read the next episode of The Dresden Files.

The real beauty of these books is the world-building. Harry's conversation with Bob, the wise spirit that's stuck inside a human skull, is revealing about the mechanics of the world. The hints of something larger going on. The ever-present background of the White Council and the mystery that permeates it. Butcher slowly reveals things about Dresden's universe, holding out the allure, and it works very well considering Dresden's nature.

In the end, Fool Moon has enough in it to make the book recommendable so long as you know what you're getting into. If you're expecting deep thoughts and philosophy, you'll be disappointed. This book is a fun romp in an urban fantasy setting with nothing too deep.

A Funny Video and Some Other Things

This video is hilarious, and the song's not too bad, either.  It's by the guys that did the "Things You Can't Do When You're Not A Dog" video.  This one features Chris Tomlin.  Enjoy.

And if that's not enough, check out Jay's short story he's been adding up on Fridays.  Today is Part 2 of 5.  Both have been very entertaining.

And if that's not enough, check out a book of mathematics proofs from the library and dive into the deep complexities of understanding formulas and the like.  Just for fun, try proving the cross-sectional area of a circular pipe that's not quite full.

And if that's not enough, sell all your belongings and move to a monastery in Tibet.  Bring a telescope and set it up out in the middle of a big field at night, away from all artificial light, high up in the mountains, and stare out into the deep black of space.  Contemplate your existence while peering millions of miles away.

And if that's not enough, stay out there until daylight and look at the sun with your fancy telescope.  That'll surely be enough.

I'm ready for vacation... my brain's fried.

A Few Timely Updates

It's been a while since I've posted anything personal about my life here on the blog.  Pretty much everything has been either a review or some of my writing.  As one of the purposes of Rememorandom is to chronicle my life, and considering the items on the following list, I think it's time for an update.

• I will be leaving for a short vacation next week.  The wife and I, plus the In-Laws, are all heading down to the Smoky Mountains for a few days.  We've got a cabin reserved, and now that autumnal weather has finally arrived, it'll be a perfect and much-needed escape.  Hopefully I'll get in some heavy reading time.
• I found out last week that I made an error at work a few months back.  This error is basically at the Step One level of my project, and everything that's done afterward (and based on said error) is also incorrect.  Because of that, I've been terribly busy, scrambling to correct my mistake and get this thing finished.
• Netflix has got to be the coolest thing ever.  I'm not sure why it took me so long to sign up for it, but it's awesome.  Not only is every season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer available for Instant Streaming, but it's letting me catch up with other shows that I wanted to watch but never could (i.e. How I Met Your Mother.)
• I bought Red Dead Redemption a few weeks ago, but have yet found time to play it.  My Dragon Age: Origins ground to a stop about the same time.  However, with Fallout: New Vegas soon to hit shelves, and my deposit already down, I'll be getting back into gaming relatively soon.
• Keisha's been called to substitute teach for seven days in a row now, which is awesome.
• I found out that, for some reason, I've not been paying property taxes.  My house was built in May 2009, and since taxes are assessed on January 1, my 09 taxes were on undeveloped land.  However, as of January 1 2010, the land was developed and, apparently, my escrow was supposed to have gone up.  As a new homeowner, as well as someone who is competent with money but doesn't necessarily understand insurance and taxes, this error went unnoticed until Sunday.  I'm not sure what's going to happen, and frankly I'm a little nervous, but I know it'll all work out.
• Finally, I recorded a new cover that I'm mostly proud of.  You can watch it here or on the video below.

I've not had time to really finish the planned next installment of my Writing Wednesday's The Reformed, but I've got a piece that should work for tomorrow.  Hopefully I can find time to finish the planned piece and post it up next week.

The Walking Dead, a (Partial) Review

 I say partial in that The Walking Dead is an on-going series, with twelve current trade paperback collections out and that I've only read nine of them as of yet.  With that, I'm really unsure how to go about reviewing what I've read up until now.  Should I review each TPB (as I have quasi-done over on my Goodreads site) individually or should I instead review the overall story as a whole?  If I choose the latter, how spoiler-free can I hope to remain?  Can I mention anything outside of Volume One and still remain spoiler-free?  I think so, but I won't do it.  I shall endeavor to avoid all things that reek of spoilers...

I've long wanted to read Robert Kirkman's The Walking Dead.  Zombies have been a part of my life for nigh twenty years now, ever since my mom woke me up late one night to watch a scary movie with her cause she was scared.  The film, to my five year old eyes, was a strange black & white thing with weird, shambling people threatening a group of normal people.  Of course I'm talking about Night of the Living Dead.  Since then, I suppose, zombies have been a part of my life.

Back a few years ago in college, when I was falling in love with graphic novels, I found out about The Walking Dead but I did not have the means to read it, nor did my library have any copies.  Now, after a recent trip to the library (and prompted with a reminder by the upcoming AMC series), I've found that the library has Volumes 1-12.  

The Walking Dead is a story where zombies are relegated to mere background and scenery and the true action takes place with the survivors.  After officer Rick Grimes wakes up from a coma to find a world destroyed and filled with slow-moving, undead things, he knows something terrible has happened.  He sets out to find his wife and son and, along the way, the apocalyptic world of The Walking Dead comes to life.

Characterization is the driving force behind this series.  The survivor's Rick finds along the way each tell a hauntingly similar story.  One day the world was overran by zombies and since then they've struggled to make it.  Food is scarce, as is shelter.  Survivor's are even harder to find.  The undead are everywhere, and in order to survive, one must be quick and resilient.  Indeed, the human drama is powerful story-telling, and Kirkman goes at it with an all-or-nothing approach.  (For example, by the end of Volume Nine, my emotions feel like they've been put through a meat grinder, followed by a wood chopper.  There's just so much going on.)

Illustration is also another beautiful thing about The Walking Dead.  Volume One, Days Gone Bye, is illustrated by Tony Moore, and all issues after are by Charlie Adlard.  Everything is done in a black & white Romero-esqe style, and the lack of colors adds to the bleakness of the story.  The zombies also look very cool and unique, and I applaud the artistic choices of the series.

At times hard to read, this series is very tragic and full of problems.  There are few scenes of happiness and joy.  Death is everywhere.  Uncertainty.  These things make for great story telling and character musing, though sometimes the musing is a bit absurd.

Overall, I've really enjoyed reading Robert Kirkman's The Walking Dead.  I'm glad to have finally read some of the series, and I hope the AMC version does it justice.  While many things are cliches, Kirkman also adds in enough originality to make the plot interesting.  The characters are memorable, the art is perfectly fitting, and the drama is high.  If you're a fan of zombie fiction, this is a must-read series.

Flash Fiction Friday: Waiting for the Rain: Or, Through a Season

Irvin Stevens just wanted it to rain. One long, solid downpour that lasted all day. That’s it. He wasn’t asking for much, was he? The Lord had surely made it rain before, right? Looking out at the barren fields, Irvin wasn’t so sure. But if it didn’t rain soon, they weren’t gonna make it through the winter. That’s how he saw it.     

     No rain meant no crops. No crops meant no harvest. No harvest meant no money. And no money meant no heat.

     Plenty of heat now, though,” he said. “And not a cloud in the sky.”

Lauren Mills moved to Texas to escape the gloominess of Seattle. It was dry, hot, and vast, and the move had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made. Everyone she knew and loved was back in Seattle, but so was everything she hated. She couldn’t stand being depressed anymore. She had to get out while she could.

     So she found a job in the Lone Star state, leased an apartment, and drove thirty-two hours to her new home. Right in the middle of the longest drought on record. Ninety-one days since the last rain, and no promise of any in the foreseeable future. She could stand another ninety-one days.

It was like digging through concrete. It didn’t matter how sharp his shovel was if the ground was unyielding. A summer of no rain would do that to the earth. “If it would just rain,” Glenn grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow. He’d been digging for a while now, and the hole was just barely big enough. The sun would be gone in less than an hour, taking all the remaining light with it. He looked at the body lying next to the mound of discarded dirt. She was a pretty thing. But they always were.

     He wrapped her in too-short linens, placed a kiss on her cold forehead, and rolled her into the pit. She twisted and landed face up, mouth flung open, purple hand-shaped bruises around her throat, barely visible in the late evening shadows. He picked up the shovel and started refilling the hole.

He had a name, but it hadn’t been used in years. Nobody wanted to know a homeless man’s name, especially not one that looked as rough as he did. He fingered the hideous scar that ran down his face, born at the end of a madman’s blade. Scar, that’s what everybody called him now. He didn’t much care for the name, but it gave him some level of pride.

     And living out on the streets, you took pride wherever you could find it.

     A group of clubbers walked by, not sparing him a second glance. A couple here and there, hands held at the waist. He counted forty-two people in all that passed him, and only four had stopped to give him something. Eight dollars and seventy-five cents. All in all, a pretty good night.

     “At least it’s not raining,” he said. But he knew in his heart that was.

They were calling for rain. Finally. But Ruth Dickerson didn’t want it to rain. Not yet, anyway. She’d been waiting all week for Saturday, and now it was looking like she wasn’t going to get to have her birthday party outside after all.

     “It’s not fair,” she told her mom. “We’ve already got the bouncy barn and games set up.”

     “I know sweetheart, but we need the rain.”

     “Why?”

     Her mom smiled. “Because, if it doesn’t rain, then food doesn’t grow. And what about our water from the sink? Or the shower? Rain re-fills rivers and lakes when they run low, and they’re all very low right now.”

     It didn’t make sense. “But why can’t it just wait one more stinkin’ day? I don’t want it to rain.”

     “I know you don’t. And who knows, it might hold off until after your party?”

     “I hope so.”

     Her mom laughed and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodnight Ruth. I love you.”

     “I love you, too.”

The wind was up, howling through the trees a mournful dirge that shook Caroline to her bones. She shouldn’t have stayed up late reading that scary book. Now everywhere she looked she saw him. Shifting in the curtains. Standing in the corner. Lying right beside her. The Shadow Man, come to gobble her up.

     Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for a second with eerie white light. Curse her small bladder, she had to pee, but she dared not get up. She remained motionless, heart pumping violently, listening to the sound of the moaning in the branches. She wondered if it would rain tonight or if it would just be another dry storm.     

     Thinking about rain reminded her of the pressure in her bladder.

     She slammed her eyes shut and buried herself below the covers.

Sean was awake long before the sun spread its colors across the sky. Too much on his mind to sleep, he supposed he’d been awake since he lay down and turned the light off last night. Jenna was still sleeping, her faint snores rising and falling through the hollow walls.

     He grabbed his bible and cup of coffee and headed out to the porch. The mid-August morning was unusually cool. Sean eased onto the swing, gently rocking back and forth with its bounce. He stared out at his dead yard, at the brown trees, all dried up and left wanting. Another metaphor for his life.

     No matter how much he desired otherwise, his life never seemed to take off. Day after day of routine left him thirsty for something more. Just once he’d like to jump off the high dive and plunge into the depths of life.     

     He wanted the calm of his life to be wracked with a storm of excitement. He wanted to be drenched in a downpour, not of problems, but of something grand. If only he knew what.

     He sipped at his coffee and prayed. Most of all he wanted to be closer to God. He wanted to find his purpose in life and pursue it, not whatever it was he was doing now. When he finished, he flipped open his bible and read for a while, searching for truth and meaning to apply to his life.

     His coffee was cold when he closed the book and once again stared out at his yard. Thick clouds had moved in, covering the sky with a grey cotton blanket. A gust blew and a speck of something cold and wet hit Sean’s cheek.

     The clouds opened up and the rain began to fall.

Word Count: 1099

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.4

This is Part 5 of my continuing story "The Reformed."  You can catch up by following this link.  Also, yesterday's post on the issue of trilogies verses standalones brought about some interesting discussion in the comments.  If you'd like to share your opinion, click here.  As always, thanks for reading!
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Sienne 
January 13, 2020 

            “Where are you hurting, Sienne?”  Dr. Andrews asked gently.

“Everywhere.  My arms.  My toes.  My teeth.  My heart.  I hurt everywhere.”  Her voice was impassioned, uncaring.  

“Why are you hurting?”

“Because I am dead.”

“No, you hurt because you aren’t dead.  The dead feel no pain.”  Sienne didn’t want to believe her, but didn’t think she would lie.  Dr. Andrews cared for her.  She had never hurt her like Dr. Couric had.  She was her only friend in the new world.

“I am not dead.  The dead feel no pain.”  She repeated the words.  If she wasn’t dead, then she had no idea what she was.  Certainly not alive, despite the thumping of her heart and the workings of her lungs.  It took more than body mechanics to be alive.

They were sitting in a small study, filled with books and papers.  Sienne barely registered the chain that bound her legs to a rod beneath the sofa.  A gyroscope-like device was spinning on the table behind her, emitting a soft vibrating sound.  Sienne found its rhythm intoxicating.  It seemed to be singing a soft lullaby, one only she could hear, crafted just for her.

“Why are you hurting?” Dr. Andrews asked again.

“I am hurting because I am not dead and because you and Dr. Couric are trying to make me better.”

“Very good.”

“I am hurting because the tests I go through cause me pain on my tender flesh.  I am hurting because needles are sharp and veins are not.  I am hurting because electricity burns when it runs through my body.  I am hurting because I have not eaten in so long that I imagine my gizzard is shriveled to a pebble and has forgotten what it’s like to house food.  I am hurting because I was once shot through the gut with a harpoon, and ever since then feeling has been returning to my body.  That is why I am hurting, Dr. Andrews.”

Dr. Andrews frowned and put her head down.  For a while she said nothing, though Sienne thought she heard her whispering.  The gyroscope continued to buzz, now spinning quickly on its legs.  Sienne watched the metal within metal turn on itself, orbiting and rotating and vibrating seamlessly.  Three spheres all working together, never touching or affecting the other’s spin, but still deeply connected.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Andrews said.  Sienne turned back to the woman.  Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks flushed.  With her red hair, it looked like her entire head was ablaze.  “I think that’s enough for today.”  Sienne was having trouble hearing her.  The vibrating song was faster now, reaching crescendo, demanding her attention.

“Wh-What, Dr. Andrews?  I...”  The pleasing vibrations suddenly hit a sour note, reaching a frequency high and crippling like the sonic guns that were used on her so long ago.  She tried to bring her hands up, but they were too heavy, like something was keeping them down.  The shrill peaked, bringing an explosion of pain and flashes of light.  The last thing Sienne saw was tears flowing from Dr. Andrews’ soft eyes.

When she awoke, she was back in her room in her own bed.  No longer confined to the dark cell she once was, Sienne had been given a spacious private room on an upper-level floor.  In addition to the bed, she had her own stock of books and magazines, though she cared little for reading.  She preferred drawing, losing herself in the energy from creating works of art.  Dr. Andrews encouraged this.

A dull drum was throbbing inside her skull.  Through the shallow skin above the temple she could feel the pulsating.  Everything hurt.

You hurt because you aren’t dead.

Why did she think that?  Of course she was dead.  The mirror in the room made that obvious.  She was a skeleton, lightly covered in flesh, pallid and fragile.  Muscle definition was long forgotten.  So were the curves of her hips and breasts.  Even the splotchy hair that had clung on for so long was now gone, shaved or fallen out she couldn’t remember.  

She’d been beautiful once.  A creature of night.  Stealthy.  Strong.  A hunter.  Never hungry, not like she was now.  No, you were always hungry.  Never filled.  Her head swam in the hazy words.  The voice sounded like her own, but the words were wrong.  Out of context.  Forced, even.

She arose from the bed and paced around the room.  Through the barred windows she watched the snow fall.  Already everything was coated in the white powder.  Rooftops of lower buildings.  The makeshift tent shelters down the street.  Even the road had an icy sheen to it.  Far below, hundreds of tiny figures swarmed through the streets, moving this way and that.  She watched a dark van lose control and spin completely around.  People scattered and jumped out of the way.  She couldn’t tell whether or not anybody was hurt, but a crowd began to gather around the now smoking vehicle.  She looked away, out into the distance at the large cloud-making facility away from the city walls.  It was this that gave power to the Hub.

She sighed, partially from the throbbing in her head, but mostly out of boredom.  There was nothing to do.  Even charcoal and paper did not entice her.  Most of her animal instincts had waned.  No longer was she complacent to sit idly, content in simplicity.  Of course, she no longer lunged for the nearest throat either.  They assured her that everything was going great.  She was progressing faster than they had expected.  Perhaps in a month or two she’d be changed back.

This confused her more than anything else.  “Changed back to what?” she had asked.  

“Why, changed back to human, of course.”  Dr. Couric laughed and she wanted to tear out his throat and suck down the blood for it.

There was no way that she had once been human.  Sure, they both walked on two feet and had a similar body build, but the comparisons ended there.  The prey was weak-fleshed.  Bags of blood.  They breathed life.  She breathed death.  Destruction.  She was nothing like them.  She was...

What?  They called her a zeta, but the label meant nothing.  Zetas were people like her, they said, people transformed.  And they were sick.  Without treatment they would die.  The doctors were trying to help her.  She had to cooperate to save herself and her people.  They needed her to help save the world.  Something did not feel right about it.

She left the window and returned to the bed.  The revived heartbeat brought another change.  Constant lethargy.  She was almost always tired, never far from sleep.  She stared out the window and watched the snow fall, wishing to be past the walls and floating down with the cold wind.

The Problem With Trilogies? a Response

Blogger Kristopher Denby, of The Sound and Fury of Kristopher A. Denby, has recently posted his review on Joe Abercrombie's The Blade Itself.  In short, he didn't like the book, seeing it as just another overused copycat of Tolkien.  He muses,

"Seriously. What’s wrong with one book that tells an engrossing, solid, character driven story? Oh, right. Those other books are for world building. Setting up the environment, while introducing the audience to the various characters that will inevitably wander some lonely, barren part of a fantasy world on a quest for some holy trinket (sprechen sie ring?). If you’re lucky (not so in the case of The Blade Itself ) the author might get ‘round to telling you just exactly what these characters are going to be getting into in the other two books, and why you should even give one crap about them, their plight, or their silly quest. Unfortunately, by the time Abercrombie begins to explain some of these little details in The Blade Itself, I was too bored to really care one way or the other."

Now I’m all for personal opinions.  Not everyone is going to agree on whether or not a book or movie is good.  That’s understood.  Heck, that’s desired even.  But the part I’m concerned with is the problem with a story that spills outside the bounds of one book.  True, many SFF stories span multiple volumes, telling sprawling epics that take thousands of pages to complete.  The rare standalones, such as Brandon Sanderson’s Warbreaker or Elantris, are unheard of.

I think a problem people have with multiple-book series is that they don’t have the time to sit down and read them.  In our busy world, we have so many things to do, reading time is not a priority for most.  People get it when they can, but more often than not, reading is cast off until we have time for it.  Personally, I carry a book with me almost everywhere I go.  I read when I take the dogs out.  I read in the bathroom.  I read while my wife shops.  And every night before bed, I usually put in an hour or two.  Books have always been a part of my life, and I’ve always wanted to progress in the story whenever I could.

And therein is my problem with trilogies.  I don’t see a trilogy as three separate stories.  No, a trilogy is one long story spread out over three volumes.  While each individual piece will have its own sub-plot, these sub-plots alone don’t tell the story, only when they come together is everything made clear.  Think of STAR WARS.  A New Hope introduces the characters and the main plot: the Empire is bad, the Rebels need to overthrow it.  By the end of Episode IV, the Rebels had made a huge dent in the Empire, but had they overthrown it?  No.  Empire Strikes Back adds virtually nothing to the main plot (Empire still strong, Rebels still struggling), but it remains one of the strongest pieces of the trilogy, expounding on the Force and the characters more.  Finally, Return of the Jedi brings about closure to the plot, eliminating that pesky Palpatine and his evil side-kick Vader for good, ushering in a new era of peace and pie for everyone.

I read (and watch movies, etc.) for the story.  If the plot and characters are strong, and I can connect somehow, then I’ll usually progress until I’m finished with the story.  That means if it’s a trilogy, I’ll read three books.  I don’t feel right about making my opinion based only on part of a story.  That is why I struggle to give up a book if it’s not working for me, or why I find individual books within a series more difficult to review as opposed to the entire story. 

The same argument can also be made with short fiction.  Some people don’t like short stories because they’re not long enough (i.e. Mom).  They want a thick novel that devotes the right amount of time to character, setting, plot, and the like, and a short story is confined to only a few thousand words, scads less than needed.  You can go back and re-read the quote above and substitute short-story for “book” (and the same logic throughout) and you end up with something that points to our minimalistic, fast-paced society.

The point is, it doesn’t matter whether a story is 2000 or 200000 words, so long as it’s engrossing.  My recent delve in The Wheel of Time comes to mind.  I read The Eye of the World and thought it was merely okay.  Still, being only Book 1 of 13 or something, I pressed on with The Great Hunt.  And I could not finish.  The story is unresolved in my head, but it was not keeping me invested in it.  I felt bad giving up, but I had no desire to finish, either.

This brings me back to the beginning.  Not everyone will agree on whether or not a story is good.  I personally loved The Blade Itself (reviewed here), ranking it in my top favorite reads of last year.  It’s okay that Kristopher doesn’t like the book (who am I to say what people should like?), but I just feel like he’s not giving the story a chance by giving up after Book One.  There’s much more to be found, and I hope he picks up the last two books one of these days.

The Graveyard Book, a Review

The Graveyard Book begins with a set of murders, gruesome and dark. An infant baby boy happens to crawl from his cradle during the murders and winds up in a nearby graveyard, where the inhabitants--ghosts, ghouls, and other paranormal things--agree to raise the child.

Nobody Owens grows up under the tutelage of Silas, a mysterious figure that's not quite dead, yet not living either. Life in the graveyard is different for Bod, but the boy adapts quickly and loves the place as his home.

Neil Gaiman is a wonderful storyteller. He has a way with words, like he somehow is able to pierce deep into the soul and speak directly to you. The prose is fantastic, and I daresay the man strings together words with magic. Reading The Graveyard Book (or, in my case, listening to the audio version) was a delightful experience, as all Gaiman tends to be.

In addition to Gaiman's exceptional word choices, the plot itself is rich with real characters. Bod is a young child coming to learn not only about life, but also about growing up in a graveyard with ghosts and what-not for guardians. His teachers and friends are all on a different spiritual plane, and the rare site of another human is something Bod cherishes. The boy has a great personality, and I enjoyed watching him grow and mature through the novel.

As I mentioned, I read the audio version of this book. Narrated by Neil Gaiman himself, the audio book seemed to offer its own type of magic for listening. I found myself captivated by Gaiman's reading. Plus, being the author, I'm sure he's able to act the part (adding inflections, etc. in dialog for example) better than any other narrator. World-famous banjo player Béla Fleck created and played the music that opens and closes each cd, and this music always fit the action.

The Graveyard Book is a deeply imaginative book, honored with a Newberry Award, Carnegie Medal, Hugo Award, and Locus Award. This highly decorated book deserves all the praise it gets. The story is dark at times, but never too dark, and I enjoyed it very much. The Graveyard Book is a fun read that I recommend to anyone. It hearkens back fond memories of childhood, and the trip with Bod was one I feel anyone could relate to.

Heart-Shaped Box, a Review

Horror is a realm I rarely venture into. To me, horror is only spooky and eerie as long as it holds on to the mystery of what's going on. Why is there a ghost haunting me? What was that noise in the closet? Once the questions start to get answered (or once you realize that they will get answered, even) the potency of the story drops dramatically insomuch that the genre transforms from horror to thriller/suspense. Unfortunately, few novels can carry the plot long enough to maintain an overall sense of unease, and Joe Hill's Heart-Shaped Box falls victim to this very problem.

Judas Coyne is a fifty-something year old retired rock star. He's spent his whole life running away from his past, eager to leave his Louisiana roots behind and embrace the celebrity world of rock & roll. His songs are hard, angry anthems that sing of hate and sex and good times. His current bed-mate, a twenty-something that goes by the name Georgia, is just another girl in a long line of states.

Jude has long had an interest in the weird. He has a private collection of strange things from all around the world, from a hangman's noose to a snuff film. One day his personal assistant tells him that someone is selling a ghost online and Jude decides to buy it and add it to his collection. He promptly forgets about it until the heart-shaped box package arrives, bearing a dead man's suit. Things will never be the same.

The first hundred-and-fifty pages or so of this book had me hooked. I was reading late at night, and after I turned off the light I felt a little uneasy about some things. A shadow might have moved. A dog might have scratched the bed and startled me. A ghost might have been standing at the top of my stairs. Yes, the first half of Heart-Shaped Box was horror, evoking genuine spookiness.

Hill's descriptions of the ghost are haunting. I had a vivid image of the thing in my head, almost as if I could see it myself. The writing style is perfect for the genre, seamlessly jumping from the "norm" to the odd with a sentence, easily keeping the reader on-edge. The plot is fast-paced, and I admit I turned over pages fast to find out what was going to happen next.

Sadly, the book loses its ability to keep the reader spooked. That's not to say that the story goes downhill or gets stupid, because it doesn't, but it simply morphs into a suspense novel. It's like I accepted the ghost for what it was and now Jude is just trying to get rid of it. It relies on the "here's the problem, find a solution"  formula. There's still otherworldly things happening, but it's no longer eerie, and most of the imagery doesn't seem as fresh any longer.

Still, Heart-Shaped Box was an enjoyable read. Jude Coyne is an interesting character, and watching him develop through the read is as enjoyable as the ghost story. Hill's writing is great and, coupled with the quick-paced plot, the book is a rather short read. Overall I enjoyed Heart-Shaped Box, but I ultimately feel that it lost its edge as it drew to a close. To me, horror is best suited to a short-story environment, but Hill's first half of the book certainly hit all the right notes for the genre, so I'm not complaining. That's better than many others can do.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.3

This is the fourth part of this story.  Previous installments can be found here or by following the label below the post.  Thanks for reading!
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Kent
June 6, 2021
 

   Kent remembered television.  Flashing screens.  Annoyingly loud commercials.  Late night humor.  Even the occasional reality show or, Lord help, a soap opera.  But he’d give his right hand if he could watch some football again.  See some cheerleaders dancing, smiling at the camera.  Bright lights and loud fans.  Even a half would be okay.  Even a Titans game.
    Graham kept a flatscreen above the bar for old times’ sake.  “How can a sports bar be a sports bar without a tv?” he’d say whenever somebody would ask, which was nobody anymore.  The joke was as tired as every patron of the bar was.
    Kent drained the last of his beer and slammed the mug down on the bar.  Alcohol wasn’t cheap, not after the CRC stopped the barman from practically giving it away.  Graham figured everyone needed cheap booze to drown out the past, and for a while the man only charged whatever could be afforded.
    Graham’s eyes went up at the noise.  “Mind the glass there, Kent,” he said smiling.  But Kent wasn’t in a smiling mood.  His head buzzed, the world was spinning faster than normal, and he had business to attend.
    “Mind yerself, Graham,” he said with a growl.
    The smile vanished.  “Glass is getting harder to come by, so I reckon I am minding myself.  And if you want to keep your welcome here, you best learn to mind my word.”
    “Bah!  I’ve ‘ad enough today anyway.”  Kent stumbled to his feet, grabbing his backpack.  The bar was uncommonly full and several heads looked at him.  Usually around lunch time people were out working, finding ways to sustain themselves.  Everybody that was able had a part to play in the Hub’s survival.  Those that knew how worked the fertile lands outside the city, growing all varieties of crops.  This was the most important profession in the Hub.  Without food, they didn’t eat.  Others took jobs with the scavengers or the CRC, picking through the ruins outside the walls.  Some even traveled the long roads, trading with other cities.  There were many legitimate jobs to be had in and out of the Hub, and Kent shunned every one of them.
    “What’re you loogin’ at?”  Kent snarled at a wide-eyed fat man.
    He stepped out into the warm noonday sun.  The light hurt his eyes, jabbing his already throbbing head with a sharp stick.  The streets were busier than normal.  Before, roads were dangerous things, reserved for cars and trucks moving at incredible speeds.  Everybody had their own vehicle, doing their own thing.  Private lives.  Private property.  Private everything.
    Privacy burned to the ground with the rest of the world.  Just looking at the throng of people shuffling together down the street proved that.  Survivors all have something in common, but Kent found it hard to adjust to the new society.  For the millionth time, he wanted his old life back.  He didn’t like communal housing or rationed food.  He was a loner, absorbed in his own misery.
    As much as he didn’t want to, he joined in with the crowd, mindlessly moving in their tide.  He didn’t recognize anyone.  Just faces.  Hard, grim faces.  Where are they going?  Again he wondered why so many people were out today.  Was he missing something?  He thought for a moment that zetas might have been spotted inside the walls, but quickly abandoned that idea.  If that were the case, the crowd would be in chaos, like it was back when he lost Kallie.
    Buzzed and not caring, he spoke his thoughts out loud.  “Where’s everybody goin’?”  But no one answered.  To them he looked like all the other drugged-out lowlifes, ragged and hollow eyed.  They were right.
    He pressed his way through the crowd, cutting across and to the other side of the road.  In the distance he could make out what looked like a stage sitting in the town square.  Is there another announcement being made today?  He couldn’t remember.  Didn’t really care.  There were other things to do today.
    Frans was waiting for him just outside the door to the Old McDonald’s, a one-time convenient store.  His small, flashing eyes always made Kent think the man was paranoid, waiting for something to jump from the shadows and grab him.  Kent couldn’t blame him; he didn’t understand why there weren’t more people like him.
    Frans nodded.  “Hey, man.  What a crowd, huh?”  Eyes left.  Eyes right.
    “Yeah.  Big crowd.  There an, uhm, announcement today or somethin’?”
    Frans laughed.  “Yeah, there’s an announcement.  Something about equality or something for the betas.  More daylight time or something, I dunno.  You know, people always--”
    The world span.  Reforms getting equal rights?  Kent didn’t think so.  He had half a mind to march down to the podium and tell Governor Wallace what he thought about equality.  First they wanted to change the zetas to betas, and now they’re wanting to make betas equal to the so-called alphas?  The scum didn’t deserve equal rights with a tree, let along real human beings.
    “What a load a’ crap.  Those monsters...”  He spat.
    “Who, the betas or the politicians?”  Frans let a wicked smile cross his face.  Tiny teeth.  Beady eyes.  For a moment he looked like a large rat.
    “Funny.  You gonna take me in or what?”  The sun was killing his head, not to mention his filled bladder and smelly backpack.  Briefly Frans’ eyes fell upon his, and Kent thought he might’ve hurt the boy’s feelings.  A second later they were back dancing around.
    “Sure.  Sure.  C’mon.”  Frans led him down an alley.  It smelled like something rotten.  The beer threatened to come up, but soon they were through the stench and standing outside a sub-level door.  Frans tapped a few times and then produced a key.
    Inside, two thugs lowered their guns when they saw who it was.  Kent looked around.  Bodies everywhere, passed out or sleeping.  Some clothed, many not.  Used syringes and empty pill-tins lay cast about.  A cesspool of oblivion.
    They went down a small ramp and through a kitchen to an old office room.  Strung out junkies covered the place.  One woman was talking to herself about her babies, telling them they would be okay.  Several were sitting quietly, mind’s gone in private drug-fueled dreamlands.  Here, at least, one could find privacy.
    Frans knocked on the door and stepped inside.  A man about Kent’s age was sitting in a chair reading a book.  Varden Clark.  The most powerful man in the Hub.  “Ah, Frans.  I was wondering when you’d arrive.  Please, come in.”  They shut the door behind them.  “What can I do for you?”
    Flashing eyes again.  “Th-this is Kent Andrews, s-sir.  He’s got some business f-for you.”
    Varden put the book down and leaned forward.  “Business, eh?  What kind of business?”  His voice was smooth, like honey bourbon and iced Coke.
    Kent withdrew a dark stained sack from his backpack and tossed it on the table.  The bag came open and a head rolled out, falling to the ground.  Frans gasped.  The head smelled like it had been basking in a backpack for a few days.  It didn’t look any better.  A slight smile appeared on Varden’s face.
    “You said the reward was good dead or alive.  Well.  He’s dead.”
    “Yes, Mr. Andrews, he most certainly is.”

Mockingjay, a Review (Spoiler Free)

WARNING: Do Not Read Unless You've Read The Hunger Games and Catching Fire. These two books will be used as source material and thus will contain spoilers. Nothing will be spoiled for Mockingjay.

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After somehow surviving the Hunger Games twice, Katniss Everdeen's life is in turmoil. Peeta is captured by the Capitol. District 12 is destroyed. War is all across Panem, following the bright, flickering wings of the Mockingjay. Can the rebels rise up and overthrow President Snow and his evil regime?

There was no doubt that I would be reading Mockingjay. Suzanne Collins' phenomenal YA series and its remarkable characters are strong and unforgettable and I had to find out how it all ended. And, lamely, I even cared about who Katniss would end up with: Peeta or Gale. Yes, I had my preference.

I went into Mockingjay expecting tragedy. I've read enough dystopic literature to know that people would likely die. Heck, I knew not to expect a happy ending. What I expected was for the rebels to overthrow the Capitol and society somehow manage to eke out its existence for another few years.  I expected more brutality, more evil machinations, more social commentary, more tough choices, and more fast-paced action for Katniss.

Did the book live up to my expectations? Were my expectations even relevant? I'm not saying. I will say that after finishing the book I had a few minor issues, but I can't see any better way for it all to have ended. There were certain choices that seemed irrational and certain actions that left a bitter taste in my mouth, that's for sure.

The story is heavy and brutal. Not as graphic as the previous books (Remember the muttations from Catching Fire? Or the tracker jacker venom dream Katniss had?), Mockingjay still carries a massive weight to the story. It's not an easy read; there's too much dytopia for that, but it is a quick and entertaining read. Still, the mindset for reading is so heavy that reading a lot in one sitting is sometimes taxing.

I can't imagine anyone reading this without reading the previous two books, nor would I recommend it. Likewise, I can't imagine anyone not reading this after reading the first two books. If you've invested time in the life of Katniss Everdeen, then Mockingjay is a book you'll read to get closure. I was satisfied with the end, and I think Collins did an amazing job at portraying her world. There's plenty of things to think about on the series as a whole, like our current societies love for reality tv or our never-ending desire to be beautiful. But more than that, there's a teenage girl that goes through unimaginable difficulties and she is a character to remember.

Mockingjay is a suitable end to Collins' trilogy.  It has its flaws and certainly doesn't live up to The Hunger Games, but it has enough excitement in it to easily make it worth the read.  

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.2

 This is the third post in this story.  You can follow the labels at the bottom (or here) to read back posts.  Thanks for reading!

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Sienne
October 9, 2019

     Sienne’s arm hurt.  She’d been pricked and stuck with so many needles that, if her flesh wasn’t already dead, it would’ve been swollen and purple.  She didn’t know where she was, only that she was trapped and there was no escape.  It had been so long since she’d feasted that the pain in her stomach was now a constant companion, never leaving, always complaining.  Funny how pain never really disappears.
     The room was dark, cold, and void.  She’d grown used to it.  It was almost as if she existed in the deep blackness of space, far from all sources of light.  Or perhaps she was sleeping, mind tumbling through the infinite darkness within, forever.  But she no longer slept.  Not willingly.  A dead body needs no rest, no rejuvenation.  Only blood.  And flesh.
     She had neither.
     A loud bang hit the cell door and she jumped.  As much as she didn’t like the darkness, she hated the outside more.  The bright lights, blinding her sensitive eyes.  The raucous din of life and its ever present smell of human flesh.  The tests.
     She still didn’t understand why she could feel pain again.  She’d gone from a lethal hunter to a weakened animal in seconds, rendered incapacitated by a gut shot.  Since then her body had slowly been changing, almost as if nerves were trying to return to life.  But that was impossible.  Whatever had caused her transformation ruined her body, inside and out.
     The door began unlocking.  She crouched, ready to attack, lightly growling.  When it opened she jumped.  A man yelled.  Light spilled into the room.  The air grew charged and Sienne grabbed her ears.  She fell to her knees as the sonic blast sounded.  Her hands did little to protect her from the noise.
     The next thing she knew she was shackled and being led down the hall.  All around her she could smell them.  Succulent skin.  A hint of flowers and the richness of blood.  Some were heavily armored, like the ones that held her bound.  Others wore simple clothes that would offer no resistance to her teeth.  She only needed a moment of freedom and she’d be satisfied.  Just one taste.
     She tugged and thrashed against the ties, but it was no good.  No one even screamed.  The prey no longer recoiled in fear.  Instead they watched or ignored her, going about their normal business.  Did that even make them prey anymore?  If not, then what was she?
     Sienne was still trying to figure it out when she was led into a holding room.  Gone were the smells of perfumes and exposed bodies, replaced with the sterile odor of nothing.  The cables shackled to her arms were hooked to bolts on the floor and she was abandoned again.  Unable to move, panic poured through her.  She knew what was coming.  Tests.  More senseless babble she couldn’t begin to fathom.  More needle sticks and blade cuts.
     A soft hiss sounded above and the room suddenly smelled of honey.  The panic instantly calmed and the tension in her shoulders lessened.  She felt weary.  Numb.  Even her heightened senses relaxed and she felt her eyes droop.
     “S-33c for batch number 971n.  Doctor Couric and Doctor Andrews reporting.” 
     Sienne opened her eyes to two blurred figures moving about the room.  Everything was hazy, as if a fog had settled. 
     “Subject is responding as expected to gas.  No hostility.  Little movement.”
     Sienne’s vision sharpened.  She saw there were several wires running from her body.  A clear fluid was pumping cold into her left arm, just below the elbow.  Fingers were prodding her, poking and squeezing.  A muzzle was strapped tight around her face.  A metal rod touched her skin and she jerked.  The rod moved away for a second and then pressed hard into her upper leg.  It felt like thousands of squirming maggots were biting her, writhing in a frenzied circle, feasting inside.  She snarled.
     “Do you feel that?” One of the humans.  Male.  Middle-aged.  Hungry eyes.  The man poked again, this time harder, and Sienne whimpered.  The worms spread, gnashing, tickling.  “Subject responding to exploration in the adductor longus, adductor brevis, tensor fasciae latae, and seemingly all other thigh muscles on both legs.  This appears to stop at the knee.”  The human stepped back and eyed her. 
     She wanted to thrash and shake, but her body was heavy.  Lethargic.  She had no control of herself.  The other human stepped into view.  Female.  Similar age.  A smell of sweetened meat.  Fire haired.  The woman looked at her with unflinching weak eyes.
     “Do you hear me?”  The human sounded soft.  Delicate.  “Can you reason?”
     Sienne heard its sounds but she did not understand.  No more than one understands what a dog is saying when it barks.  The tingling in her legs was distracting her.
     “I think she hears me, but she doesn’t comprehend.  See how her eyes try to focus?”  The human stepped closer.  A bright light flashed across her eyes.  “There is some level of cognition, but whatever is causing the infection is inhibiting the human psyche.”
     Sienne faded in and out of consciousness.  Sometimes the room was brightly lit and she was surrounded by humans.  Once she even thought the muzzle was off and something was moving around in her mouth, but she had no energy to bite.  After a while, the lights and sounds and smells faded.  The tests were over.  At least for now.
     She sat up.  She was back in her cell, locked away again in the freezing room.  Her legs felt raw.  New pains blossomed when she moved from the chair, sharp enough that she stumbled and fell.  Spread out on the floor, unable to rise from suffering, she put her head to ground and mewled.  She was pathetic.  She was no hunter.  She was an animal, weak and helpless.  She longed for true death and its cold hands.
     She was still laying there when she heard it.  In the quiet, a soft, slow drumbeat.  Bum.  Bum.  It was familiar.  Bum.  Bum.  Her throat was throbbing.  Bum.  Bum.  Her chest was beating.