When he was ready, he swallowed hard and jumped in front of the door. The creature had made its exit and was gone. Paul’s slumped-over body was all that was in the room.
The character walked into the bathroom and knelt before his friend. He didn’t know the guy all that well, but he felt sorry for the loss. Paul seemed like a really nice guy. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t need to go out like this. The character closed Paul’s good eye, used the gun to stand, and decided it was time to get out of the house.
He made his way out into the hall, gun barrel pointed forward, looking for any kind of movement, clothes drying, clinging to him, smell starting to build. He went into the living room, where he was resting comfortably not an hour or so ago. How quickly things had changed.
King Diamond screamed out something in silence on the television screen as the light from the box showed movement beside the couch.
The character trained his gun, on that spot and there it was. The little creature was reared up like a snake, and it was hissing at him. It hadn’t started to grow yet because its birth cycle had been interrupted by Paul’s house shoes, which blocked its entrance into his body. It had to feed now or it would never grow forward.
The creature started to move, and it moved fast, faster than the character thought it would. He tried to get a shot off, but it misfired beside the monster so the monster kept coming, aiming directly for his left foot. The character was able to register what was about to happen, so he stepped out of the way; and the creature went sliding past him, just barely, mere inches. The creature stopped sliding, steadied itself, stunned by the character’s sudden shift. It really needed to eat, so it knew the next charge had to be the one that mattered.
The character had his chance. He lowered the gun, as the creature got ready to charge. This time he didn’t miss.
The creature charged, and the gun blasted. The monster disintegrated from the direct shot, and pieces of it went everywhere. Well, whatever pieces there could be from something so tiny.
The character dropped the gun on the floor, walked over to the couch, and sat down. Motley Crue was now going through some silent number on the screen.
A second later, the video cut out for Breaking News.
People were talking silently about what was happening in the world today. The character reached for the remote, and punched the mute button.
He listened for a moment, and he wondered if this story was the final straw. Was this the one that did him in? He wondered if the author could just erase him and go on to someone else. He was exhausted, covered in vomit and blood, and just plain old sick to death of all this tired. He knew his family was depending on him to pull them all back together; but if they were also suffering the horror he was suffering, maybe it would be best if all of them were erased. He sighed and pushed the thoughts away. That was crazy thinking, and he knew it. He had to see this through to the end even if it meant he would go insane doing it.
On the TV, the reporter on the scene at the local hospital was doing his best to stay focused, but it wasn’t an easy thing to do. The guy looked like he was fresh out of college, the person they probably send to places like this when the veterans know well enough to stay away.
The character watched as a man stumbled by the reporter, and the camera caught this guy’s face in a perfect frame. His right eye was completely swollen, about to burst.
“It is just lunacy. I have no idea what I am witnessing or seeing.” The reporter paused and turned towards a cop. The cop was short, stocky, big beard, no mustache. This cop was trying to guide a woman through the door and help with crowd control. “Do you guys have any idea what is going on around here?”
“We need you to step back. Let these people through,” the cop replied.
The reporter and his crew stepped back as a woman of about sixty dropped down to the ground. The thing in her eye socket was hanging about half way out, screeching mad. The camera crew zoomed in on the monster, and it ducked back inside like a turtle going into its shell. A second later the whole right side of this woman’s face exploded when the creature birthed itself. This face bomb covered the reporter and the people closest to her with all kinds of human stuff, blood, brains, bones, flesh and teeth.
The monster, of course, had to find a feeding host. The woman it had popped out of was wearing tennis shoes, but there were plenty of people around who weren’t, some in sandals, some in just bare feet. It had its choice, free range.
Panic ensued.
The character moved his finger towards the power button on the remote. He had seen too much. He was done with all this. Then something stopped him, stopped him with his finger just poised above the red button.
In the crowd he saw another cop; and this cop was carrying a small child, keeping him safe from the mass panic that was now taking place. Other people were now dropping down; parts of people were flying like confetti, covering everything as more monsters found their way out into this world.
The character strained his eyes onto the screen as the camera turned away from the cop holding the child. It was only a matter of seconds that the character saw this child, but he was sure it was his other son.
The character didn’t even bother to hit the power button. Instinct took over, and he was off the couch and heading towards the door.
He ran across the small house, reached the front door, and opened it.
He never saw the outside because he was tumbling again, out of this current story and back into the author’s mind.
TOGETHER 6
The character tumbled out of the Monster door, bounced hard against the wall, ricocheted off of it, and into a pile on the floor.
The door flashed out, now there were 5 to go.
I didn’t write anything on the wall right away for him to read because I knew he was filled with so much rage. I let him lie there and stew, hoping his anger would pass.
I could tell while he laid there (one shoe off, knocked free from the impact with the wall) that it was going to take some considerable convincing if he was to step back into another story. After putting him through all I had put him through, I had finally come to the conclusion that the Alien genre held some great importance. It was the one story he needed to go into. I’m not sure how I knew that, but I just knew.
The character stood up, grabbed the light, turned it on, and sat back against the wall. He put the light beside him, took off his other shoe, and threw it across the room.
I decided to help him out.
I thought of a boom box, with some soft music playing.
It appeared beside him as he sat there.
The character looked over at it, able to see it in the dark by the few lights the box held on its dashboard. He let Rocky Mountain High ease his soul, for a moment.
I thought I had him back with me, but nope, I didn’t.
He grabbed the boom box and tossed it across the room. It smashed into a thousand pieces. John Denver fell instantly silent.
“Fuck you.” He said to me as he sat there pissed.
I was unsure of what to do next. Everything I had put him through was essential for the lead up to this point in the story. I had to bring him back to my side, my way of thinking; or it might all be undone. The character would just sit in this room and die. His body would mold and fester, creating a negative impact on the creative part of my brain. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Did you hear me? Fuck you!” He had nothing to throw at me, so he just flipped the wall a bird.
Tick tock goes the clock.
I just wasn’t sure what to do next.
The character got up and moved around the room. He kicked the pieces of the boom box, threw some of them at nothing, and just muttered cuss words under his breath.
I decided to let him work out his anger, so I sat back and watched.
The cursor blinked as I waited.
“I had him.” The character was composing thoughts in his head. “He was right there in fucking front of me, and
then he wasn’t, my son.” The character walked and tried to find his composure. “Why Paul? Why do that to that story? It started out so peaceful, and then you had to put those things into it.”
I decided to speak to him, the words flashing on the wall as I typed. “It’s just the way the story had to be written. I had no control over it. When I write, I have to be true to what will work in a given situation. I’m sorry for Paul, but that’s the way the story had to conclude.”
The character read the words on the wall and said nothing. He walked and let the anger slowly die.
I decided to give him another break. “There’s a shower head in the corner, dials underneath it, towel on the towel rack, soap in the dispenser, and clean clothes. Go over and get your mind straight. I’ll wait.”
The character looked down at himself, still covered in what was left of Paul’s blood-vomit, not noticing the dry stickiness that covered him or the smell because of his anger. “Just answer me one thing, one thing only. Did my son make it out of there okay? I just need to know that those things didn’t get to him.”
“He’s fine. I know that much, but I can’t tell you if he made it home or not after that story. Take your shower. I’ll wait. We’ll talk once you’re done.”
The character walked over and looked the shower over. He turned the water on and then stripped down.
I let him have ten minutes. Enough time for me to grab some food, maybe a quick blog post.
When the time was up, I went back into my mind to talk to him some more. “Are you done?”
The character took a seat, completely clean, wearing jeans, warm winter boots, and a long sleeve shirt. “I’m done.” He paused, calmer now than when he fell into the room. “What about my other son or my wife? Do you have any thoughts on them?”
“No. Sorry, but I do know that the next story you go into they figure heavily.” I paused. “You’ll also need this to go over your clothes.”
The character looked down as a jacket appeared at his feet. He put it on and then looked up at the wall. “You know I’m tired. I’m tired of all this. I’m sure your audience is as well. Is there anyway this next story is the one?’
“I honestly don’t know, but I do know you have to go in if you want to get back to your wife and kids.”
“Which one is it?” In the dim light, the character looked up at the doors.
“It’s the one with Alien on the door.”
The character hung his head. He had been chased by all kinds of crazy things since he had stumbled out of his story, and now he was being asked to do it one more time. He just didn’t know if he had the heart for it or not.
“Look, I know it’s tough, but you got to push on,” I wrote, trying to give him some kind of reassurance.
“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been used like a puppet, now have you?”
The words stung, but I deserved them. My clumsy writing had gotten us both into this, and he had to suffer the most for it.
The character stood up and stretched. He still wasn’t sure he was ready for another adventure, but he so wanted to be home. He was at that point where we all get when we have to do something we don’t want to, but somehow we manage to do it.
The character walked over to the Alien door, opened it, and stepped through without saying anything else to me.
I had a feeling this would be the last time I would talk to him. The story he had just entered was the link to home.
“Good luck my friend.”
I watched the blinking cursor for a moment, wrote this last line, and concluded this section of the story.
HUNTER
The character heard noises, loons crying in the distance, crickets, owls hooting, felt cool air, sucked in clean oxygen. It was quiet here, wherever here was, probably in the mountains somewhere.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. It was night time, and it was dark – no moonlight. His head was resting on a soft feather pillow. The pillowcase smelled clean, and the sheets and blankets he was lying on and under felt like they had just been washed.
He looked across the room, and he could barely make out the image of a door.
He pushed himself off the bed and stood up.
He found the only light in the room, a small brass lamp with a statue of a monkey attached to it – hanging off the side like King Kong. He turned on the light and realized he was inside a cabin. It had wood floors and wood walls, and from the looks of it, it was hand-built. This room looked familiar to him, the sheets and colors of the bed, and the walls, reflecting a time and place from when he was a child.
He felt a wisp of cool air float into the room, ghost like, as the sounds of the forest seeped in. He looked over at the tiny window, which was partially open and again, it was a familiar image. He knew this window, but how, he wasn’t sure.
His eyes moved from the window to a nightstand beside the single bed. It, like the window, all gave him memory chills as he tried to think back to where he had seen them.
The closet-Bam!-that was a big one for him. He walked over, opened the door, and looked into it. There was nothing there, just bare hangers on an empty rod, but the smell was familiar. It was cedar. The tiny closet also reminded him of times gone by. Innocent childhood hide and seek games. After a moment or two, the character turned away, and left the room by way of the door he had seen moments before.
He walked out into a main room and found a couple more brass lamps. He turned them on and noticed that these lamps all had the monkey designs on them just like the one in the bedroom. As he looked around, he noticed that everything was familiar to him, like the room he had just left, from smells to design; it all reminded him of something distant, long ago lost with the passing of years.
He walked over and knelt before a handle sticking out of the floor. He pulled it up just a notch and smelt damp Earth. This was a door to a cellar, and he knew that if he went down there he would find a single light and shelves with tools on them. How did he know this? He wasn’t sure. He just knew.
He let the door fall back into place and scanned the room again. It was pretty sparse, all things considered. If anyone did live here or visit here, they didn’t need much just a couch and a couple of chairs and again, the designs and colors of these reflected a child hood long since gone. In a far corner of this room was a fire place and beside it a pile of wood. The room was cold, so the character decided to make a fire.
*
Outside in the night time sky there was a round silver disc, flying fast, in landing mode. Its destination was Earth, and it wouldn’t be long before it set down somewhere close to the cabin the character was now building a fire in.
*
The fire cracked and popped as the character warmed himself in front of it. He took off his coat and did another glance around the room. The familiarity with everything was just eerie. Had he been here before? Come to think of it, how did he get here? His brain was jumbled. Not only could he not remember this place, which he felt like he should, but he also couldn’t remember where he had come from. How had he come to stand in front of this fireplace enjoying this nice warm fire? He had no idea.
He took a seat on the couch and dropped his head into his hands. He heard a rustling from inside the bathroom (the one to the left of the fireplace), and then he heard a commode flush. He stood up, and looked at the door.
Someone was in there.
The character slipped back into the small kitchen with the humming fridge (which also reflected a decade long since past) and waited.
The door handle started to turn.
*
Deep in the forest the small silver ship landed hard. Dirt, dust, and tree debris went flying as the ship came to a sliding halt.
*
The character watched the bathroom handle for a moment, and then he heard a click. The door was starting to open. He slunk back against the wall, trying to hide, unsure of what was coming out of that door. Would it be the owner of this cabin? How would h
e approach his intrusion? How would he explain himself? He had no answer for those last two questions, so he just stood there, stood there, and waited.
The door opened and surprise, not fear, raced across the character’s face when he saw who was behind it.
*
Inside the cockpit, instruments slowly went dark as the alien shut off the machine. It unhooked itself from its seat and checked the air quality of this planet called Earth, a place it had never been to before, but had heard plenty about. It found that it could breathe outside without a suit, which was good because the suit limited visibility and mobility.
The alien stood up, and stretched. Long space flights cramped its muscles, but it was an explorer at heart, so journeys like this were necessary because it just had to know, had to know what lay beyond its own orange planet.
The alien stood on two legs like a man, dressed like one as well, with shiny pants, short sleeve shirt, and boots. It also had arms like a human, hands, feet, and a face as well. Its skin was white like its human teeth and its eyes the color of blue. It stood about six feet tall with soft brown hair. It had a forked tongue in its mouth and a long reptile tail, which swished as it stood there.
The alien opened the cockpit door and sucked in fresh air, stepped outside, and looked around. The machine on its arm told the alien what it was looking at, a forest full of trees, soft dirt, water inside the lake, and what animals it could hear and see. Once acclimated, it checked the ship and found no damage, just a rough landing. With the ship’s ability to take off from a levitating position, the journey off this planet would be a lot easier than the landing.
The alien stretched and checked the instrument on its arm again – sent it searching for anything human in the area.
The instrument found two of them, one big, and one small.
This alien was a meat eater; and it had eaten many exotic meats on its travels across the stars, but it had never had human, which was very expensive and very pricey back home. It could have one for dinner and then save the other one for selling once it was back.
AWOL: A Character Lost Page 11