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Hi, livejournal.
I just thought it appropriate to say hello to whoever visits my page. I plan on posting a zombie story but I may also post other stuff. I guess we'll just have to see where I go with this. :)
The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes...
- Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Hound of the Baskervilles"
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?
- W.B. Yeats, "Among School Children"
We live, we die
We steal, we kill, we lie
- Marina and The Diamonds, "Savages"
-Glorified Minerva
- Current Mood:artistic
- Current Music:Me & Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse
Valerie Irons blinked at the dark space above her. Even in the dim, she could picture the room's contents precisely: a twin sized bed near a nightstand with a purple, twisted lamp, a rug made of rabbit fur tucked beneath a wardrobe, and an antique chair pushed into a small desk devoid of any papers or utensils. The limited belongings that actually belonged to her called for an easy getaway, a reward too precious for the redhead to lose.
Icy fingers of a crisp gust tickled the house of Morton Getchow, rattling the bells against the front door into an spirited dance. Valerie's attention sparked to life like a flame stoked with wind and she turned to the door, where a light was shining. Her eyes narrowed into slits, following a dark shadow as it shuffled past her door.
Valerie pulled her pajamas closer to her person, blindly reaching for the robe hanging from her chair. Anxiously, she tucked her feet into her slippers and tip-toed to the door.
She pressed her ear against the door to listen for any sounds. At the silence that met her, she inched her hand to the door knob ever so slowly. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the door open with colossal force and squinted into the light.
There was a grunt from the shuffling figure who dumped his weight into a chair. His small eyes held a wisdom the girl had yet to interpret and as they studied her, they saw through to the small girl cocooned in a mix of chains and wrought iron.
"Stop slamming doors!" he groused. "What do you have against sleep?!"
The redhead's apologetic smile failed to reach her eyes as she pulled the door shut behind her and moved to sit down across from Morton. He slowly shook out the remaining six cigarettes snuggled in their case and lit one, prompting Valerie to cover her nose with her hand.
With his empty hand, Morton waved in the general direction of the fridge. "Make me something."
Valerie pushed herself from the table and fetched out a pot and a carton a milk. As she poured the milk, Morton made a loud sound of objection which stopped Valerie in her actions. "What?"
The shriveled man frowned deeply, drawing out deep lines in his face. "What are you doing?"
"Making you food. That's what you asked--"
"No! No! What? What are you making, stupid child!"
Valerie paused, lips in a firm line. "Oatmeal."
"Oatmeal?" Morton leaned forward in his seat, deliberately narrowing his eyes. "I don't eat oatmeal!"
She quietly tapped her fingers on the countertop as the peeved side of him simmered down.
After a long silence, Valerie closed the milk carton and returned it to the fridge. She turned on the stove and placed the pot of milk on top and then calmly stated, "You always eat oatmeal."
Morton shook his head many times in response. "No, no, no," he chanted with a voice that cracked as if it shared the irritation coursing through his mind. "I don't pay you for this! I don't pay you to forget everything! This isn't school, stupid child! This is my life! Get it right, child!" He shifted his gaze to Valerie stirring away at a pot of boiling milk, then sucked his teeth with all the spit he could fill it with. "What are you still doing?"
"I'm hungry, too."
He set his lips into a thin line and faced his still-burning cigarette bud. Tell-tale ash was strewn about the surface of the table in a hurried, fiery fashion. "And I'm still hungry. Go make me something...sweet. And quickly. Before I lose my appetite."
"Yeah, okay." Valerie dumped her oatmeal into a bowl and placed the pot into the sink under a stream of running water. She wasted no more time and swiftly moved to the fridge again, pulling the door open and leaning her weight on her left leg. "What do you want?"
"Strawberries."
"There isn't any."
"Blueberries."
"Hm...nope."
"No strawberries, no blueberries! Fucking Christ, what is this? Are there no types of berries in my fridge?"
"No, there are no 'no types of berries' in your fridge." Valerie turned to Morton with a sour-looking face, matching his perfectly. "Do you want anything else?"
"A-anything else, you say? Of course there is nothing else! I wanted something sweet! Nothing else is sweet!" He stared her down with a blinking eye and a chewing mouth.
Calmly, she retorted, "Ice cream is sweet--"
"No, it's not! Ice cream is cold...cold, cold, cold, cold, cold! Oooh, my gosh, it's so damn cold in here!" Morton wrapped a frail pair of arms around his midsection and curled his head into his chest, fighting a cold breeze.
"Did you open any windows?"
"No, heavens no! But maybe you did. You did eat my berries, after all."
Valerie rolled her eyes but otherwise didn't reply as she made her way to the window. The window was closed and when she put her hand to its cold exterior, the softest puff of air hit her palm.
Reaching for a nearby cloth, she pressed it into any visible cracks. Like Morton, the windows grew weary and proved to not even close properly.
"Christ, it's cold," came the shivering whisper of the old man in his chair.
"Okay, we're putting you to bed." Valerie turned back to him with a look so serious. "Finally."
"You can't force an old man to sleep," he mumbled yet rose from his seat anyway. With sluggish limbs, he shuffled over to her waiting arm.
Icy fingers of a crisp gust tickled the house of Morton Getchow, rattling the bells against the front door into an spirited dance. Valerie's attention sparked to life like a flame stoked with wind and she turned to the door, where a light was shining. Her eyes narrowed into slits, following a dark shadow as it shuffled past her door.
Valerie pulled her pajamas closer to her person, blindly reaching for the robe hanging from her chair. Anxiously, she tucked her feet into her slippers and tip-toed to the door.
She pressed her ear against the door to listen for any sounds. At the silence that met her, she inched her hand to the door knob ever so slowly. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the door open with colossal force and squinted into the light.
There was a grunt from the shuffling figure who dumped his weight into a chair. His small eyes held a wisdom the girl had yet to interpret and as they studied her, they saw through to the small girl cocooned in a mix of chains and wrought iron.
"Stop slamming doors!" he groused. "What do you have against sleep?!"
The redhead's apologetic smile failed to reach her eyes as she pulled the door shut behind her and moved to sit down across from Morton. He slowly shook out the remaining six cigarettes snuggled in their case and lit one, prompting Valerie to cover her nose with her hand.
With his empty hand, Morton waved in the general direction of the fridge. "Make me something."
Valerie pushed herself from the table and fetched out a pot and a carton a milk. As she poured the milk, Morton made a loud sound of objection which stopped Valerie in her actions. "What?"
The shriveled man frowned deeply, drawing out deep lines in his face. "What are you doing?"
"Making you food. That's what you asked--"
"No! No! What? What are you making, stupid child!"
Valerie paused, lips in a firm line. "Oatmeal."
"Oatmeal?" Morton leaned forward in his seat, deliberately narrowing his eyes. "I don't eat oatmeal!"
She quietly tapped her fingers on the countertop as the peeved side of him simmered down.
After a long silence, Valerie closed the milk carton and returned it to the fridge. She turned on the stove and placed the pot of milk on top and then calmly stated, "You always eat oatmeal."
Morton shook his head many times in response. "No, no, no," he chanted with a voice that cracked as if it shared the irritation coursing through his mind. "I don't pay you for this! I don't pay you to forget everything! This isn't school, stupid child! This is my life! Get it right, child!" He shifted his gaze to Valerie stirring away at a pot of boiling milk, then sucked his teeth with all the spit he could fill it with. "What are you still doing?"
"I'm hungry, too."
He set his lips into a thin line and faced his still-burning cigarette bud. Tell-tale ash was strewn about the surface of the table in a hurried, fiery fashion. "And I'm still hungry. Go make me something...sweet. And quickly. Before I lose my appetite."
"Yeah, okay." Valerie dumped her oatmeal into a bowl and placed the pot into the sink under a stream of running water. She wasted no more time and swiftly moved to the fridge again, pulling the door open and leaning her weight on her left leg. "What do you want?"
"Strawberries."
"There isn't any."
"Blueberries."
"Hm...nope."
"No strawberries, no blueberries! Fucking Christ, what is this? Are there no types of berries in my fridge?"
"No, there are no 'no types of berries' in your fridge." Valerie turned to Morton with a sour-looking face, matching his perfectly. "Do you want anything else?"
"A-anything else, you say? Of course there is nothing else! I wanted something sweet! Nothing else is sweet!" He stared her down with a blinking eye and a chewing mouth.
Calmly, she retorted, "Ice cream is sweet--"
"No, it's not! Ice cream is cold...cold, cold, cold, cold, cold! Oooh, my gosh, it's so damn cold in here!" Morton wrapped a frail pair of arms around his midsection and curled his head into his chest, fighting a cold breeze.
"Did you open any windows?"
"No, heavens no! But maybe you did. You did eat my berries, after all."
Valerie rolled her eyes but otherwise didn't reply as she made her way to the window. The window was closed and when she put her hand to its cold exterior, the softest puff of air hit her palm.
Reaching for a nearby cloth, she pressed it into any visible cracks. Like Morton, the windows grew weary and proved to not even close properly.
"Christ, it's cold," came the shivering whisper of the old man in his chair.
"Okay, we're putting you to bed." Valerie turned back to him with a look so serious. "Finally."
"You can't force an old man to sleep," he mumbled yet rose from his seat anyway. With sluggish limbs, he shuffled over to her waiting arm.
Title: The Hunted
Chapter: 1, No Reverse
Copyright: ©2013 Anna/Ania Mikolajczak. All the characters belong to me. Please do not duplicate this or share it without my permission.
Rating: M for language and gore
Summary: As the world takes a head-first dip into calamity, humanity struggles to fit into a new world full of scientific impossibilities.
Notes: Everybody is writing zombie stories or making post-apocalyptic movies and I thought, "WHY NOT?!" The following is my take on what I hope will never happen on Earth. Pleasant reading.
11:40 PM.
Quinn Van Gieson picked up a nickel from a rut in the street, enjoying the sound of crickets in the background. Even though it was so late, her father wasn't looking for her. He was probably downing a bottle of apple juice to counter the putrid smell of alcohol from his mouth—not that it ever worked.
She placed the nickel on her thumb and flicked it into the air, her eyes already adjusted to the moonlit night. Heads, she told herself. She let out a grunt when the nickel landed on the ground, tails side up.
"Fucking fuck," she hissed.
Behind her, the sound of a cat broke the cricket's song. She backpedaled onto the sidewalk and pulled her phone out of her pocket, examining the time.
11:41 PM.
Quinn threw the nickel into the streets, where it would mold to the concrete and burn against every passing tire. She turned away and picked up her baseball bat, rubbing at the scratchy, wooden surface. She let her hold slip to the rough handle at the bottom and in a three-sixty spin, slapped the air with her wooden bat.
Can't touch this, she sang in her mind. Break it down. Stop. Adhering to her words, she paused, letting out a short whistle between her lips. "Hammer time!" She hit the concrete with all her force, adding another dent to her bat. "Fuck, my bad."
11:46 PM.
"Gosh, won't something entertaining happen?" she whispered from her spot against a pole.
Shadows moved in the dark around her. Gulping audibly, she picked up her bat again, straightening her back as she clenched the handle. She tightened her hold some more and let out a shriek at a nearby mew. She turned to the orange cat with wide, frightened eyes.
"Oh, just a kitty. Pss, pss, pss, pss, pss." She held out her hand and rubbed three fingers together. The cat turned to her and then hopped away. "No, don't go! Dammit," she softly cried.
She stood, stuffing her phone into her back pocket, and followed the cat. It skipped from the sidewalk to the street, around a car and then sat under it. Quinn bent on the damp concrete in push-up position, making sure not to mess up her baseball uniform.
"Why are you hiding from me?" she asked.
( Read more...Collapse )
Chapter: 1, No Reverse
Copyright: ©2013 Anna/Ania Mikolajczak. All the characters belong to me. Please do not duplicate this or share it without my permission.
Rating: M for language and gore
Summary: As the world takes a head-first dip into calamity, humanity struggles to fit into a new world full of scientific impossibilities.
Notes: Everybody is writing zombie stories or making post-apocalyptic movies and I thought, "WHY NOT?!" The following is my take on what I hope will never happen on Earth. Pleasant reading.
11:40 PM.
Quinn Van Gieson picked up a nickel from a rut in the street, enjoying the sound of crickets in the background. Even though it was so late, her father wasn't looking for her. He was probably downing a bottle of apple juice to counter the putrid smell of alcohol from his mouth—not that it ever worked.
She placed the nickel on her thumb and flicked it into the air, her eyes already adjusted to the moonlit night. Heads, she told herself. She let out a grunt when the nickel landed on the ground, tails side up.
"Fucking fuck," she hissed.
Behind her, the sound of a cat broke the cricket's song. She backpedaled onto the sidewalk and pulled her phone out of her pocket, examining the time.
11:41 PM.
Quinn threw the nickel into the streets, where it would mold to the concrete and burn against every passing tire. She turned away and picked up her baseball bat, rubbing at the scratchy, wooden surface. She let her hold slip to the rough handle at the bottom and in a three-sixty spin, slapped the air with her wooden bat.
Can't touch this, she sang in her mind. Break it down. Stop. Adhering to her words, she paused, letting out a short whistle between her lips. "Hammer time!" She hit the concrete with all her force, adding another dent to her bat. "Fuck, my bad."
11:46 PM.
"Gosh, won't something entertaining happen?" she whispered from her spot against a pole.
Shadows moved in the dark around her. Gulping audibly, she picked up her bat again, straightening her back as she clenched the handle. She tightened her hold some more and let out a shriek at a nearby mew. She turned to the orange cat with wide, frightened eyes.
"Oh, just a kitty. Pss, pss, pss, pss, pss." She held out her hand and rubbed three fingers together. The cat turned to her and then hopped away. "No, don't go! Dammit," she softly cried.
She stood, stuffing her phone into her back pocket, and followed the cat. It skipped from the sidewalk to the street, around a car and then sat under it. Quinn bent on the damp concrete in push-up position, making sure not to mess up her baseball uniform.
"Why are you hiding from me?" she asked.
( Read more...Collapse )
