Almost One Year

     It seems I'm closing in on one year since I've begun posting here. It's quite interesting, and sometimes scary, to look back at some of the stories I've posted so far. I feel like I could go back and rip them apart for grammar, streamlining and a few other problems. But I'm not going to. It's nice to have a reminder of where this all began, how it all began. Hopefully the next year will be equally as productive, if not more so!

Handshake

Handshake

     The man has been nice to me, to all of us. He is the same man we saw on the television that night. There had been scattered reports at first. Findings of lose earth around the graves of the deceased. In the beginning it was all attributed to pesky teenagers, or transient gypsies passing through. Nobody believed that it could actually happen. The dead have risen, and for no apparent reason. Many believe it is a sign of the end of days. Thus far only government officials and a few of us normal people have seen them; the dead that is. There have been no pictures, no recordings, nothing. They feel it is better that way, best to prevent a panic.

     You can count on one hand the number of corpses that have re-walked the earth. But the thought of millions more surfacing weighs heavy on the minds of all. One can never shake the feeling that the rest will rise up as one great army. The fear is palpable. The television is flooded with apocalyptic predictions night and day. And that is why I am here. Where here is though I could not tell you, even if I knew so myself. They came in large, dark forest green trucks, led us into the backs and covered our eyes with oft used blindfolds. Unwashed, putrid vial things they were, the memory of their stench still causes me to dry heave. It was a choice we made, for our country, for our world.

     They will study us here, in these large echoey bunkers. The lack of windows or any form of natural lighting leads me to believe that we are being kept underground.

     The man has been in five times today, twice more than the usual meal periods mandate. He knows, like we all do, that tomorrow is the day. He lets me call him by his first name, his real name; Mike. But only when the others are out of ear shot. If he is to enter my room with any sort of companion I am to address him as Sargent. I ask him how old he is, he will not answer. He is afraid to get close, so afraid. I can see it in his eyes. I'd guess him somewhere around thirty-five or so. His crisp pressed shirt, the same dark green as the trucks that carried us here, is adorned with an assortment of military medals. Symbols of valor and honor. The purple heart is the only one my civilian eyes can identify. I assume he has received it for whatever causes him his slight limp.

     He doesn't say much when he enters my room. Sometimes just a hello, other times he is more talkative. He always says goodbye however, always. He looks tired today, more so than usual. I tell him to get some sleep, that I will see him tomorrow. He shakes my hand; I can feel his rough calloused hand rub against the soft skin of my own. He has never done this before, it makes my stomach dance with nerves. He said his goodbye, then turned and left. That was the last I saw of him that evening.

     The next morning Mike enters with two items. A small wooden dinner stand, and an innocent looking razor blade. He stretches out the table's legs, places the razor upon its top, shakes my hand once more and then leaves for the final time. My hand shakes as I pick up the small slip of metal. I run its mirrored edge along my fingers tip to test its sharpness. As it dances across my skin I feel the burning begin, as it sinks deeper and deeper. I thought it would be easier than this. I thought that I had prepared myself, but I hadn't.

     They need an intact body to examine. It's easiest to study a body as a whole rather than in it's separated pieces. They say the most vital organ is the brain, there must be no harm to the brain. They hope to discover what makes us walk beyond the grave, what drives the dead. In the first few days they tried a number of methods. Gunshots were eliminated after the very first attempt, far too messy. That left me with only three choices. I chose the razor for several reasons. I do not trust the rope to make a clean break of my neck, and the thought of sitting idly by while waiting for the poison to course through my veins sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine. I knew with the razor that it was up to me, and me alone. If I am to slip and cause unneeded pain I can then blame only myself. I watch as the blood pools on the tip of my finger. I watch as it slowly oozes its way down , wraps itself like a snake around my wedding band. I miss her so much in this moment. Often times I thought it would be the sting from realizing she's gone that would have killed me. She was so understanding, so much stronger than I in the beginning. We made love the night before I left, three or four times, perhaps. I feel asleep with my head resting on her bare breasts, breathing us both in as I slowly drifted off. She never slept that night, she told me so the following morning. I haven't heard from her since. There are no letters allowed, no visits. They hold you for six months, hoping that you will forget that the outside world still lingers beyond these confines. Each night before I sleep I pray, to whomever may be listening, that I will forget. But I never do. Her face fills my mind when the dreams visit. She must be showing by now, close to the due date I'd imagine.

     The razor slides down my hand haphazardly, tracing my wrinkled palm like and old senile palm reader. On the final pass I push the metal into my flesh as deep and as hard as I can. The burning is more intense now. My vision recedes for a moment or two. When it focuses once more I see the world in bright, vibrant colors, unnatural colors. I watch as my blood, sunset orange, screams out of my veins. And before it all goes black again, I see her face.

     They shove us into another room. We are all gathered together now. Cramped so tightly together that, if need be, we couldn't even breath. They told us that once we completed our task we would not be conscious in our new state. Be we are, or at least I am. My mind is fully awake. It now resides within a shell that used to be me. We are prodded and mangled, beaten and battered. Our tortured bodies endure though, they must endure. We are the only hope. If even only one of us shows promising signs that could mean thousands of others spared.

     Hope is harder to come by now. Day by day a little piece of the people we were leaves with it. Tomorrow we move to a new facility.

     We were not treated as heroes, not this time. They packed us into the green trucks again. When our limbs refused to cooperate they would jab at us with long slender cattle prods. We have become some sort of macabre livestock to them. I am beginning to fear that this was a mistake. That I gave it all up for nothing, that my son will never know of his father, or worse, that he will think his father a fool. The men here are not as tolerant as Mike. No hellos, no goodbyes, just food. They feed us slops of swine intestines and festering rodents. When we are moved from room to room, cage to cage, we hear them speak. “They will do,” they say, or “perhaps this will work after all.”

     Four months since my swipe of the razor and I am still here. Most of the others have rotted away. Jaws and ears descending to the floor with an unsettling thud. We are now down to approximately one third of our original group size. They've begun some sort of programming. They hook us up to giant buzzing machines, wires protruding from them to our scalps. They started simple, involuntary muscle movements at first. They shortly followed with more and more complex procedures. I can tie my own shoes again, for example, or clean the latest military weaponry and reassemble it to their liking.

      Six months in. We are soldiers now. It never ceases to amaze me what has happened in so little time. Roughly one and a half years ago the general public was flooded with reports of empty graves. Now those reports are but a memory, a flash in the pan. Their televisions are now filled with the promises of war, of reusable soldiers. News breaks of a new branch of military, until recently classified. The idea is a simple one. A line of soldiers march into battle; if one is to fall on the field the rest are to pass it by. When battle is ceased, if at all possible, they are to burn their fallen comrades to ashes, to prevent the enemy from collecting them for study. Those who come back as walking wounded are stored separately from the healthy, kept only for their spare parts. It is estimated that nearly one million volunteered under the false pretenses of postmortem walkers. We hear the Generals laugh over their lavish meals. They find it humorous how the people trusted them so, believed that the dead could actually rise. They laugh while we watch silently, trapped in our own minds, waiting for deployment. We are scheduled for Sudan next week.

Writing Prep

     When I sit down to write there are usually a number of questions running through my mind before any ink is laid down. Number one is always what pen. Second, what color ink. Those are a given, you need those (at least I do) to write. But there is another question, less pertinent to writing, perhaps. Music. Before I ever decided to write a word outside of a high school paper I was obsessed with music. From the age of twelve or so I was playing guitar quite badly, and joining "bands" every other month, usually with the same people which is odd to think about now. Music is what brought my friends and I together, it has helped my travel to great places, usually with my sister(12 hour round trip for Wilco at Tanglewood, sure.) So, in my mind at least, it only makes sense to combine these two aspects of my life. I thought over the last year and noticed my music choices when writing. Here are my top 5 favorite albums/bands to have in the background when I have a pen in my hand.

1. Ink Spots- The Best of the Ink Spots
     Something about that old school romantic feel. It doesn't hurt that they are featured in the Fallout video game series either.

2.  Amanda Palmer- Who Killed Amanda Palmer
     A nice mix of crazy fast and frantic, and calm and chill. Nice for writer's block.

3. Wilco- A Ghost is Born
      Probably one of the last truly great pure rock bands there will ever be, if current trends continue. New age music with a rock, folk feeling.

4.  Bruno Coulais- The Coraline Film Soundtrack
Great for not getting too distracted by lyrics. Has an awesome creepy, warming quality to it. Gets the creative blood flowing.

5.Radiohead... just Radiohead.

  There ya have it!

A New Step in the Process

     One of the things I love most about writing is how it takes me away from so much of the hustle and bustle of modern day living. That is until I have to sit in front of my computer and try to translate what I have written by hand to something I can share online. Of all the steps of taking a story from my head to this page, typing is the worst of them all.
    So, I have decided to elevate the problem by inserting a middle man, or machine more appropriately. There is nothing worse than trying to edit while typing, which is what a computer almost forces me to do. All of those fancy delete buttons and highlighting. This is where Truman comes in, Truman is my new Smith Corona Silent typewriter dating back to the 1950's. It's the best way for me to type up a second draft without editing myself to death. In the long run this should, in theory, make typing on the computer less troublesome. Anyway, rant done.

Another Day, Another Post...

   The weather is really taking a turn around the city these last few days. Getting up at six makes sure I feel all the cold these next couple of seasons have to offer. But, being snowed in isn't so bad when you have pen and paper(and nexflix). Next month is National Novel Writing Month which is great motivation to keep this craziness going. Hopefully by then I will be editing the first draft.

   Hector Laureano

Short Update of Things

     Thursday night I finished up chapter ten. It's always a great feeling to end a chapter and an equally intimidating feeling to start the next. Each time I think I've planned out the story it seems to get longer. I noticed I've been writing seriously for just about a year now. This last year has also been the first time in a long while that I've lived in the same place for the duration. It's nice to have at least some sense of home. Did a bit more writing this after noon, both for the book and comic book series. Trying hard to think of a title for the book as well, looking forward to referring to it by a title once I do.

   Hector Laureano

A Writer's Tale

      Its been a while since I have shared anything. Its been quite a busy summer. I'm nine chapters into what I though was going be a ten chapter book, I have at least five more chapters planned as of now. I must have written this story about a five or six weeks ago. I finally typed it up(I hate typing) yesterday. It's an odd little story, and I'm not really sure where it came from.

A Writer's Tale

     It is the most peculiar thing. There was nothing special about that day, it was a Friday to be exact. My usual routine, a nine to five shift at the office, a few quick beers down the block, and then it was off to this cramped, humid apartment. I grabbed my pen and began, putting ink to paper, to tell my fantasies and fictions. You see, my dream has and will always be to be a published and well respected writer. The works of Bradbury,Gaiman and Hemingway burn deep within my soul. But living in the modern world has made this task all the more difficult, and has also limited time for practice. I have instead reserved myself to selling those who are well off, little cottages and condos that my yearly wages could not even place a downpayment on. So there I sat, writing, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from my brow or to take a gulp of spiked iced tea.

     I wrote of a man, and wife so poor they not even enough money to feed both of themselves and their children. Night after night the father would stare at the satiated children in disgust and contempt; but he always maintained his fatherly duties and feed the children and his wife nonetheless.

Well, a man can can only take so much hunger before he turns. One night, awakened by the rumbling of his empty belly,he found himself hovering above the shared bed of two of his boys. Knife in one hand, fork in the other he slits his youngest child’s throat from ear to ear, bleeds him out like a hog. A feast fit for a madman. I know. It is a morbid tale, but this is the way my minds works, I cannot help it. I myself could never hurt another living creature but have always found myself fascinated by those who could.

     So that was Friday, after work, and a few drinks, so roughly around nine thirty I'd say. The next day, being a Saturday, I'd slept enough to make up for the weeks grueling schedule. I awoke to the Saturday edition of The Robbin Times sitting at the bottom most part of my stoop. I descended the stairs, careful not to trip on my robe, and tucked the paper neatly beneath my arm and returned inside. It wasn't until after I had poured myself a cup of coffee that I bothered to look at the small town's daily news. The headline was as simple as ever, nothing special, “Dry, Hot Summer Causing Problems for Local Farmers”. The funnies were quite dreadful that week as well. No, nothing special in this edition at all.

     Except for one tiny corner panel piece stashed neatly away on the last page. The story was painfully short but all of the details were there. The previous evening in Ohio, between the hours of nine and ten, a call had been placed by a distressed wife for domestic abuse, at least that's what the dispatcher understood. She had locked herself in the closet, briefly forgetting about her children. When the police finally arrived they found the husband hunched over his six year old son's bed. He had simply eaten his face off. The stained oval tops of the child's teeth and one empty eye socket stared back at the horrified officers.

     Well, obviously they are not the only ones terrified; it just couldn't be! My story, of course the most gruesome I had written to date, had come to life! No. A coincidence, that was the only explanation. I must admit though that for a few uneasy following weeks I did not set pen to paper, unless of course it was to sell a condo or two. A week or three had passed since I conjured the nerve to write my fiction once more. I had however confided in several close friends what had happened only weeks prior. The general consensus was that of an amazing coincidence. Most were still in awe at the idea though, what an unlikely process of events. Possibly nothing like this has ever happened, or ever will again! They all agreed on one thing profoundly, that my idea of cause and effect was foolish to say the least.

     When next I picked up the pen it was to express the story of one Thomas Hawthorne. Mr. Hawthorne was not well off but he could afford the basics; rent, food, sometimes even a beer or two. He was as many described, a nasty soul; always wanting more, trying to cheat and lie his way through life.

     It was on the D-train that he met Mr. Cook. At first he had suspected the train's window to be playing a trick upon his eyes. For Mr. Cook did not look like Thomas. No, he looked exactly like Thomas. Right down to the signature freckles upon his left cheek. They, having noticed the uncanny resemblance, began to chat. Mr.Cook was a lawyer in the popular downtown firm. The firm, as he described to an eagerly listening Thomas, was soon to be his, and his alone. Or at least the assets. His Father in law had tragically recently passed away and, having acquired the firm in his own name, Mr.Cook had decided to sell it to the highest bidder. It sold quickly, for an amount undisclosed to the general public. Mr.Cook did however confide in Thomas and tell him the good news. He had made enough money on the deal that he need never work a day in his life ever again.

     Mr.Cook being a jolly fellow invited his new friend over for a shot or two of the best whiskey that money could buy. Victory shots. Thomas accepted.

     He had never seen such a beautiful house. It's large wooden riveted doors reminded him of an old victorian castle. In all honestly he would have expected to find Vlad the Impaler here, not Mr.Cook. Once inside Thomas was given what was promised, the most wonderful whiskey that had ever passed his lips. The burning sensation left in his throat and belly by the alcohol was extremely satisfying.

Hazy eyed and stumbling he returned home, via a barren D-train. It wasn't until much later, three am or so, that he returned to Mr.Cook's house. He placed the knife accurately above the heart, allowed it to hover hauntingly and then, slowly but persistently began pushing downward.

     The clean up went as smoothly as he could have hoped. Thomas spent the next week assuming the life of Mr.Cook, patiently awaiting the finalization of the sale, and the check.

     It wasn't until the actual Mr.Cook's lawyer came over to hand deliver the check that Thomas' cover was blown. It was the freckles that had sold him out; firmly planted on the right side of his face. Poor Thomas never could quite grasp his left from his right, a fatal mistake that day seeing Mr. Cooks reflection on that D-train window.

     Thomas was found not guilty by reason of insanity. He spent the rest of his days in an off white padded cell. He never did ever again admit to being Thomas Hawthorne. He simply only answered to Mr.Cook.

     The next day I found myself weak as I opened the paper, my hands shaking. It was in Oregon this time. A man had murdered his found doppelganger and assumed his place for several hours. It wasn't until his mother came to visit that he too was discovered to be less than genuine. He, however, had not done it for monetary gain. The only reason he ever gave was that he grew tired to being himself.

At this point it was a year, possibly more before I dared write another tale. But this time when I resumed doing so I wrote not of death and despair but of hope and joy. Long lost relatives finally found and reunited, the poorest of poor striking it rich on a found lottery ticket. I wrote of wonders and fantasies, trials and triumph. What I once feared I now loved and accepted. I learned, with much trial and error, over the next year or so, how to affect a specific target with my words. I obviously would never cause any harm, I find it not to be in my nature. But I, like every other man, woman, or child have wants and desires. Over the past few months alone I wrote my once divorced parents back into a full thriving, loving relationship; extended my terminal grandfathers life, and once even got myself a nice free cold beer.

     All I write now I do so in the name of good. Do not get me wrong, I love to give to others, to see that look of gratitude upon their smiling faces. But I believe it is now time to take care of myself. I wish not for fame or fortune. No, my wish is much more tame. I wish to possess the love of another. How shall I win another's heart? I have pondered that much myself. I could simply write a sentence or two. A name, date, a beautiful description and be done with it all in a single night.

But no self respecting writer would ever allow him or herself to do such a dreadful thing. I shall win the hand of my love with a grand gesture, bold enough to win a princess herself. So, let us begin.

 It was a Friday afternoon, same as any other Friday. Samuel went about his usual Friday ritual. At about four o'clock he cut work early and headed for the nearest pub for a beer or two. Afterwords he had plans to return home to begin writing his next great adventure. Deciding to use the extra time carefully he found himself respectfully asking for a third beer. The hot blistering weather and humidity made it an easy choice. The third went down much easier than its predecessors. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was time to head for home.

     He made his way to the nearest bus stop, then it all began. He first noticed her hair, blonde, natural of course. It was not picturesque, it flew in tangles and ringlets here and there. For you see she, having tripped and fell, was preparing to welcome the pavement with her perfect flushed face. Pavement that was clearly marked as a bus only zone. And on top of everything else the texting bus driver, who would later claim to have been sneezing, was paying precisely no attention. 

     So, being the nice young man that his mother had raised he found himself stepping down from the curb and reaching for the young ladies arm. Having a firm grasp on her limb he pushed at her with all his might, and returned her to safety upon the curb. As he himself turned to return to the curb he noticed time begin to slow and heard a low rumbling being to rise within his ears. It took him a moment, but he recognized that sound from somewhere. Ah yes! That sound, it belonged to a large automobile, a bus. The bus! He turned to see it growing larger in his gaze. Pushing down on one foot he began the jump to safety...

     Oh dear, I suppose I should have made sure I had enough paper when I began this little love story. Never the less, I shall acquire some tomorrow night after work and enjoy my weekend writing.